I’m asleep when it starts; the revving engine, full headlights raking across the motel window, slamming and re-slamming of truck doors, yelling voices. Then there's a “Wooooo” at the throat-catching volume normally used in sports bars and the obligatory TV. It drags me back to reality with all the subtlety of a mallet to the head.
For fifteen minutes I’m listening to commercials, sports commentary and channel-surfed segments of Hollywood blockbusters with plenty of explosions, only slightly muffled by their passage through the wall. After a while I try a polite knock, which has no effect, then a louder thump. Suddenly, such a pounding comes from the other side that I recoil in shock. Did my heart just stop?
What now? Physical confrontation? I’m not three hundred pounds of muscle and I'm no Chuck Norris, so I think not.
I call the front desk and the clerk asks whether I have spoken to them. He's quite mad, of course, but then he says he’ll deal with it and, within moments, the phone rings next door.
How diplomatic will he be? Can he deal with people who are toasted and wanting to party? What happens if he says the neighbor in 129 complained? I doubt that Motel 6 put their desk clerks through diplomacy classes.
What will my neighbors do when they hear they're being asked to forgo their own pleasure in the interests of everyone? Will they turn off the TV and quieten down for the good of all or will they come around to beat on my door, kick ass and take names?
I guess it depends on whether they’re Democrats or Republicans.
A part of me remembers a time when I might have been one of them.
It’s a memory that sets me drifting back towards dreamland because…
Suddenly…
All is quiet.
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