The distance home from an eastern states’ tour of Civil War battlefields
is too long for me to drive straight through. Besides, it is raining and the
conditions aren’t the greatest. Being unwise to continue on, I stop in a small
town in northeastern Ohio where I spend the night at a motel within sight of
the interstate.
This is one of those “drive-up-to-your-door” types of motels. I’m not
picky and don’t need much, just a place to lay my head, get some sleep, and
arise early to get on the road and head home. The place is pretty run down as
well as somewhat shady. The parking lot has some pavement here, some gravel over
there, and is full of pot holes and weeds. My door is damaged. It looks like it
was jimmied open at one point.
The room is decent and clean. The box on top of the TV is flipped over to
the channel “B” side. I watch the local news and weather. There would be good
conditions for the drive home tomorrow. Curious, I flip the switch over to the channel
“A” side. Whoa! Hard core porn. Free, too. A note indicates if I call the
office, they’d gladly change the selection to another porn channel if I wish.
I’ll stick with the news, thank you.
For only $50 a night, the place is good enough for me. I wonder if
motels get a one-star rating. But, I don’t think it would even qualify for
that. Do they give ½ star ratings?
I eat a decent dinner at a BBQ place closer to town. The husband and
wife next to me recently retired and are traveling across the country. There is
a pause in our conversation as they express anger. Another patron across from
us is served the dinner they have ordered. Some people just have that dishonest
look to them. This patron confirms my suspicion. He doesn’t bother to tell the
waitress that the pork chop dinner he was just served wasn't what he ordered. He
starts to eat it anyway. The bartender and the waitress catch on after the retired
couple alerts them. They take the meal away and head back into the kitchen. Moments
later, they reappear with a "fresh" plate of pork chops and a baked
potato and place it in front of the couple. They are assured that this is not
the same piece of meat cut into by the other patron.
An outdoor festival is underway in the downtown area. It is very lightly
attended. Rain has played a role. The closed off streets are populated by only
a few booths and tents. A band plays Neal Young music. A very large
twenty-something is wearing an Elvira of the Dark T-shirt covered by an opened Chicago
Bulls button-down jersey. His calves, thick as cast iron pipes, are covered in
colorful tattoos. He and his girlfriend start jamming to the music, which has
since shifted from the softer Neal Young to now a head banging heavy
metal.
The local Baptist church advertises that it is "A Place of Hope to
Call Home.” Church members staffing the booth offer free face painting and
balloon animals. Little girls are picking the flowers off of petunia plants and
floating them in a puddle leftover from the afternoon rains. A Civil War
monument in the town square overlooks it all with its plaque memorializing
"the Boys in Blue.” There are no beer tents nor are there bars or taverns
on Main Street. Where can one get a drink?!
I fill up the car at a combination gas station and convenience store.
The attendant tries to convince me that I should eat some of the hot dogs he
just placed on the rotating wire baskets inside one of those glass covered
warming boxes one often sees at such establishments. I politely decline.
Instead, I buy a diet soda and some cupcakes for tomorrow morning
since my fine motel doesn't have a breakfast and there doesn't appear to be any
places to have one nearby.
A gentlemen’s club is a couple of doors down from my motel. I hadn't
noticed it when I arrived earlier. The sign out front boasts that they have the
hottest girls on stage anywhere near here. Next door is The Interstate Saloon
(or should I say, The In ers ate S loon - the neon lights aren't fully
functioning). The parking lot is filling up with cars and large pick-up trucks.
They have cold beer and live music tonight. Or so says the sign.
Back at the motel, I sit outside on an old, used hard-backed office
chair that I have taken from the desk in my room. The covering is stained with
God knows what. I flick the ashes from my cigar onto the ground amongst the
dozens of spent cigarette butts strewn about. The parking lot is filling up
with semis. Most of them are those double-decker car-hauling types. I don't
know what is it about this place, but the car haulers sure seem to love it.
Three doors down from my room, a bunch of the drivers are gathered
around the back of a friend’s pick-up. They are listening to country music
while grilling meat on a small smoky-joe that is placed on the tailgate. They
belch loudly drinking their beer while watching their meat cook. Meanwhile,
several single women check into nearby rooms. They look as rough as the motel
itself. They're probably getting ready for the after hour activities once their
shift ends at the gentlemen’s club.
The sun is about to set. It’s time to go inside and watch some TV.
Should I flip the switch over to the Channel “A” side?
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