registration & the room at the end

the arts of existence — Part 3

. . . continued from traveling absolutes — the arts of existence — Part 2 . . .

	The desk clerk welcomed me like he knew me & laid out a 3x5 registration card to fill out.

I remembered the online page where I originally stumbled onto the motel. It began with a photo of two middle-agers — one bearded, the other stubbled, captioned with same last names — siblings or cousins — standing behind the motel counter — this motel counter — then a post: “Regrouted #3 shower, if your in the area, your welcome to stop by and see it!” 

There was also a homemade music video scored live, but off-camera, by acoustic guitars strumming Beatles’ Yellow Submarine chords with lyrics changed to rhyme the motel amenities instead, sung campfire-singalong style from a small chorus sounding under the influence. 

It was one of the determiners that led to my reservation.

The camerawork was shaky & grainy, like the Zapruder film, though it appeared to’ve been captured by a nineties video camera aimed at a portable seventies television flashing eighties Atari-era graphics & text listing perks like truck plug-ins, cigarettes & six-packs.

Lobby footage showed a felt letter board advertising COLD BEER & WINE AT LOWEST STATE PRICES 5AM to 1AM 7 DAYS, then a recommendation for eye exams from a doctor named Jeff noting ALL INSURANCE AND WELFARE ACCEPTED. 

After the music ended, the bearded one appeared on-camera alone & dramatically pulled from a cig & recited the motel amenities again, but this time in an over-theatrical unscripted monologue, then paused to exhale, looking away in profile as if reflecting, while the still-unseen drunken chorus from before chuckled in response like a warped laugh track. He ends the performance reminding the viewer that if there’s a problem with their room, to please let them know. 

	I’d just put the pen to the registration card when the office door opened. My bearded clerk asked someone, “Everything alright with your room?” 

I didn’t look up from the card, but my pen stopped moving.

A voice said “Someone’s wet towel was in my bed when I pulled the sheet back.” 

The clerk apologized & asked if they wanted a different room.

They said “Nah, that’s okay,” then just walked out.

	I started filling out the card again.

Before the office door could close all the way, it swung open again. I looked this time. 

It was an older figure resembling a daguerreotype of a nineteenth century trapper or miner-forty-niner just emerging from the wilderness. He stayed in the doorway as if hesitating to come in & said, “Hey there. Can I get a room?”

The clerk said “Don’t you remember? You caused all that trouble last time. We had to call the cops.” 

The figure smiled & said “Yeah, but come on. How ‘bout a room?”

The clerk told him to wait & he came all the way in, closed the door behind & waited at the other end of the counter near glass-doored beer fridges. 

I looked at the clerk & said, low, “It’s cool around here right? No problems?” 

The clerk smiled & replied, not low, “I put you in the room at the end. It’s quiet down there,” then pushed a plastic room number tag & said, “Okay, you’re all checked in. Go get yourself a free beer.”

I looked at the fridges. “Really? Any kind?” 

The clerk smiled. “Yep. Free beer with check-in. Any kind” 

I walked past the daguerreotype & opened a glass door for a familiar label. 

	I drove the minivan to where the room numbers ended with the building, which itself seemed to just stop — suddenly as if unfinished — like it simply gave up at an asphalt lot I imagined as a place where slurring scrappers swing & fall —  a supermarket cart leaning into one of the potholes, the area surrounded by a sickly hinterland. 

The room was furnished in an array of decades, its flatscreen being closest to present-day. 

I loaded in a few things from the minivan including a messenger bag assortment of books — some unfinished, some never opened. This portable library usually returns from trips about as unread as it was when it left, but I carry on with the ritual to convince myself of my commitment to not just click around for regional TV or news with the loose excuse of getting a read on the local rabble. 

As I was closing the door, I saw the daguerreotype walk across the lot, away from the motel, & disappear behind the abandoned truck stop. 

I pulled the bedspread back & found nothing unusual, then opened the beer & sat at a desk below the mounted flatscreen. On the wall next to the TV, a DIY toggle switch offered a choice of A-Free Adult / B-Cable. I couldn’t tell which it was set to & didn’t want to touch it. Tonight, I would be a reader. 

. . . maybe later, anyway . . . 

The book bag was still closed when I finished the beer & decided to wander out to the Ranch House. 

. . . read on & we’ll grab a bite in ranch house — the arts of existence — Part 4 . . .