07 Horror Motel

The Oregon coast is lovely. So is a really good IPA but it loses something after the seventh pint. Waves crash, surf rolls. Rinse and repeat; and repeat; and repeat.

Signs tempting bored snowbirds to hand over cash for gawking at something proclaimed to be of interest litter Rt 101. I drive by.

Seal-shaped rocks don’t interest me. Giant redwoods with holes cut out for cars to drive through? Nah. Rugged coastline – yep. Lightning storms – yep. Sunsets or sunrises – yep. You can keep the other stuff. No one ever accused me of being a good tourist.

Oregon gives way to California. Rinse and repeat etc. Then comes Crescent City.

All I need is a clean room at a low price that’s safe for the electronics and the bikes – and Crescent City has a lot of options. The Townhouse Motel looks promising and there’s a bar within walking distance.

A bell sits on the office counter next to a giant box of donuts. Above it, a marker-written sign screams, “No Refunds – No Exceptions.” Danger signals.

The voice inside my head is yelling, “Run away,” when someone behind me says, “Need a room?” A man in a black Iron Maiden tee-shirt has followed me into the office so silently he could be a cat-burglar – except he doesn’t have the physique.

He hasn’t shaved for a while and I can smell that his attention to personal hygiene is somewhat cavalier. Although I don’t make a habit of staring at a man’s tongue, each time he opens his mouth to speak, I can’t help noticing his is the color of a fresh dog turd.

I’m trying to say “No,” but he starts talking about England and his friends that go there regularly and how the rate is only $40 – then he offers a chocolate donut. I don’t accept but, in the verbal confusion, I manage to hand over a credit card and get the key to room 23.

Regret waves through me instantly but it’s too late. What the fuck? It’s the same kind of self-loathing misery that comes when a potential new girlfriend is about to stay the night but I say the wrong thing and she goes home instead.

So I drive across the courtyard and open the door. First impressions count and that’s bleach, followed by the mold it’s trying to obscure.

A dented white microwave sits on the table and the curtain droops from a piece of wire nailed to the ceiling. The mismatched furniture looks like it’s done the rounds of various Goodwill stores and simply looking at the bed makes me feel dirty.

I go outside to see an audience. Folks from across the parking lot are standing outside their doors, watching. These people don’t look like usual motel guests – they look like the kind of folk who live here permanently but not on their own budget. Some of the cars appear to have seen better days too - and they're the best ones.

I can’t stay here. This is the kind of place horror movies are made of. I could wake up tomorrow morning dead – or worse. Fuck the refund sign.

I go back to the office but the manager bozo is nowhere to be seen. Hitting the bell a million times does nothing. Where is he? He knows, doesn’t he. Only down-and-outs stay in this shit-hole, or people who accidentally wandered in off the highway and got stuck. Bastard. Fucker. The asshole shitface is hiding.

Whatever. I have no clothes left so it’s laundry time and there’s a laundromat a mile back into town. This mess can wait.

The 90-minute laundry cycle gives time to reconsider my situation, ably assisted by two 16 oz cans of Colt-45. A sense of unease grows and festers as the washer does its business. There’s no way it’s safe to leave two bikes and a computer at the Townhouse and I feel physically sick at the prospect of walking into that room again.

The solution becomes obvious as I’m filling the drier. There’s no need to confront the bozo. Just walk away. That’s what credit cards are for. Dump the key on the office counter, get the hell out of there and call Visa. Brilliant! Sometimes I think I’m a god.

The sense of release is tangible. I could almost pick it out of the air like a fluff of cotton.

Intent on getting the escape plan in motion immediately, I push all the laundry into the 20 cent Safeway bag and drive far too enthusiastically back to the Townhouse.


The bozo is standing outside the office. “You’re not staying,” he says. It’s a statement. Not even a hint of question.

He doesn’t ask why and I offer no explanation. Perhaps this happens frequently.

Despite the warning sign above the bell, he initiates a refund. The three minutes it takes to go through is the longest one hundred and eighty seconds in the history of the universe.

Then I’m gone.

He didn’t even offer a donut.