Motel Metamorphia

It's the motel sign that's the trigger.

It isn't late and I had been assuming that I was going to be driving through the night, but somehow the knowledge that I could stop if I wanted suddenly released all the exhaustion I'd been feeling for the past three hundred miles of desert.

I'd been bottling it up. Rather I'd been letting Joni Mitchell sing it all out through the 8-track, humming along while trying not to pay any actual attention to her emotions.

But I was far enough away from home now that when my fight or flight reaction just collapsed, it was suddenly imperative that I stop, take a look around, and get a grip on myself.

As I pull into the motel, I nearly drive the Pontiac GTO straight back onto the highway. I'm not expecting luxury. Hell, I can't afford luxury, but the place is clearly a dive. It's a running joke about motels that one of the letters are always on the fritz. On the sign in front of me, the M has fallen off completely, the O, T, and E are unlit and only the L is even partially working. Two of the windows facing the road are boarded up and a third is simply broken. Odds are the whole place is deserted.

Still, I need a rest and this is as good a place as any. Instead of going to the rear car park, I stop out front under some welcome shade. If the motel isn't open, I'll take an hour's snooze here before continuing. I look around. The door to the reception seems to be ajar. I get out and wander in.

It is possible, just about, that the place is open for business. It is more possible that the whole place has just been looted. A hatstand half-stands drunkenly against a wall. There is a small fold-out table, where perhaps a radio has stood until very recently. There are three faded squares on the wall which must once have held pictures and one picture, still in its frame, fallen on the floor.

There is certainly no one on duty.

Against the back wall is a large vending machine. While it advertises Coke, nearly two-thirds of its selections were out of stock. What is left is beer. With a long road ahead, alcohol isn't a great idea, but then neither is dehydration. One bottle will be okay if I sleep. I fish a few coins out of my pocket and feed them into the machine. Nothing happens. It figures.

I raise my hands to beat them against the glass then think better of it. I merely wander outside again. Looking left to the motel rooms, arranged on two floors, I can see several are missing doors completely. At the edge of the car park, there is a Ford pick-up which even from a distance I could tell has seen better days.

As I am strolling over to investigate, a voice calls out to me.

"Hey-ya, over here!"

I look around. When I fail to locate anyone, the voice cries out again. "By the swimming pool."

The pool is on the other side of the car park. Next to it, stands the remains of a great pillar, fallen like Ozymandias. Its burden, which has proven too heavy, now rises from the pool, a billboard of a blonde, her face half-washed away by the water, rising like Venus from the water. Whatever product she was advertising is lost completely to history. The pool is still half-full, but a green scum sits on the water. Around it, there are a series of sun-loungers and I can now make out a distant figure on one of them.

I'm still not really close enough for the conversation to start when the voice calls out again. "What kind of room you after?"

I can't place the accent - Southern, for sure, but nothing more than that. It's deep and husky and smokes too much.

"Are even you open?" I ask.

"Gov'ment says no. I say yes. What'd you think?" the voice replies and then the figure sits up.

It'd be polite to say I have some doubt. I don't. There is a lot about the owner that was extremely feminine. The hair, for example, is long, wavy, and dark, reaching down to below the shoulders. The legs are shapely and end in toes with bright red nail polish. The face is made up with thick eyelashes, blushers around the cheeks, and blood red lipstick. Most of all, there was the chest, full and round and unavoidably the focus of my attention for far longer than was polite.

Yet, and for all that, the owner is clearly a man.

See, this is what my Mama always had warned me about heading west. Oh, not specifically, never specifically, but Mama had always been clear that there were those parts of the country that were good and there were those parts of the country which had fallen into sin and how it was important to know one from the other. There were levels of depravity though and the worst that could happen in our own town was the kissing of an unwed girl with a little too much fervor and the wandering of hands where they didn't belong. Nothing a fast wedding couldn't put to rights. Head west, though, and, well, LA was Sodom and Frisco was Gomorrah, and no right-thinking American would want to be caught in either when God finally notices what is going on down there.

When I was fifteen, she'd burnt my Jefferson Airplane album after I accidentally played them within her earshot. She'd then gone through every LP in my collection that had the bad sense to print the lyrics on the inner sleeve. Lou Reed was another of the martyrs, but not before he'd given me the only clue as to what the hell was going on here.Then he was a she. I found myself turning the lyric over in my mind.

Hewas a she, I decide.

And she is beautiful, though like the motel she'd is also something of a wreck. There are lines of age around her face, a couple of grey streaks in her hair, and holes in her blue jeans. Her clothes, though fashionable, have been slung on. She sits on the lounger, regarding me as I regard her.

"Three dollars for a room for the night," she says finally.

I pull out my wallet. As I reach in for the notes, I hesitate.

"You can't," she says.

"Pardon me?" I reply.

"You're trying to work out if you can take the room and still buy enough gas to get you to San Francisco. You can't. Not even close. Less so L.A."

"Oh," I said. The truth was, I'd left home in a hurry, and thought I had more cash on me than I did. Images of my largess at last Friday night's gathering flashed before my eyes, drinks brought and food shared. If only I'd known then that every cent would count now. But then only a few days ago, I thought I'd be in Rockwell forever and spending was a way of making life more tolerable.

"Do you mind if I park up and rest for an hour before moving on?" I ask.

"Free country," she answers.

"Oh, and I put a couple of coins into the vending machine, only it didn't give me the drink," I say, slightly bolder now.

"Yeah, it'll do that," she replies.

With that matter resolved to her satisfaction, I head back to the car. I put the seat back and try to make the best of a bad bed. A couple of cars go past on the road as I nap. None pull into the motel.

About an hour into my sleep, I hear a rap at my window. I wind it down.

"I been thinking," she says. "We're not busy. If I give you a room for two dollars, you'll be able to get enough gas to get you...well, not to the city, but to some kind of civilization. Somewhere you can earn a dollar honestly."

"Thanks, but I'm good. I'm going to head on out in just a moment," I reply. It's no longer a matter of cost. My barometer has moved from rest to safety. The place was giving me the creeps.

She disappears, but no sooner have I closed my eyes again and she is back. She hands me a cold beer.

"You see, technically, that machine is owned and operated by the Budweiser corporation, but I can't have you leaving unhappy, so this is out of my own pocket."

No sooner have I cracked open the beer than she's speaking again. "One dollar," she says. "Final offer. We're not at full occupancy, so..."

Yeah, you don't say.

It still wasn't a great offer compared with me getting the hell out of there, but I decide to take it. I needed to clear my head before making my next move. Keep going and, even if I got to LA, I'd have nothing left to live on. I could sell the car, but not for what it was worth. I don't have the paperwork. Besides, that would break my brother's heart. I don't want that, even if odds are I'm never going to see him again. I need somewhere to make a plan.

"Okay," I say.

"Great," she replies. "Take whichever one you fancy. Most of them are open. We can settle up later."

I get out of the car and head to the rooms. She follows me. "No luggage?" she asks.

"I'm traveling light," I answer. She peels off and as she starts to head back to her sun-lounger, she says, "Why don't you come and join me once you've settled in? It's so much nicer outside,"

I don't want to say no, so I just say, "Thanks."

I check the rooms. The best one is still disgusting. Many of them don't have bedding. The ones that do have unspeakable horrors on the bedding. Stains of alcohol, semen and blood. There's no way I can use any of the showers. I settle for one where it looks like I can use the sink. This one has the door shut but not locked. Closer examination shows the lock is broken, but there's a chest of drawers I can probably haul in front of the door. There's a musk that hangs over everything. I leave the door open to air out the room. If I want some rest, well, she's right again - it will have to be outside.

I join her on the sun loungers. She barely looks up at me as I lay down on the bed next to hers.

If I close my eyes, the place is so unpleasant. The sun is just thinking of setting and there is a calm coming over the desert with just a hint of a breeze.

"So, what's your story?" she asked. I'm not sure if I've been lying there five minutes or fifty.

"What do you mean?" I reply.

"Everyone who stays here has a story. No money, no suitcase. Nice enough car. Not exactly a vagrant, at least not yet."

I tell her simply, "I'm running away from home."

"Of course you are, sweetheart, but why?"

I give a deep sigh.

"Oh, sure, it's not the sort of thing you share with strangers. I'm Miranda. See, now, we're not strangers anymore."

"I'm Mark," I told her. My name isn't Mark, but since I don't have any ID on me it's moot anyway. There was no reason to be unfriendly.

"So...," she prompts

"It's just..." I try to explain. "I'm sick of it. It got too much. I left, or I got thrown out, or I left to avoid being thrown out."

"How old are you?" Miranda asks suddenly.

"Nineteen," I said. She relaxes a little.

"And you've been a bad boy?"

"No!" I resent that. "It's dumb. It's just...I was on this date. With a girl. And we have a curfew."

"I see where this going." Miranda smiles.

"No, you don't. It wasn't like that. We didn't do anything. It's just, we kind of fell asleep."

Miranda laughs. "I've heard this song. The movie wasn't so hot, right? Didn't have much of a plot."

"No!" This is the first time I've told this story. I'm going to have to work on making myself sound like less of a total idiot. "There was no movie. We just drove out to the hill and sat and chatted. And, yes, we made out a bit."

"Yeah," said Miranda. "That's bullshit. It was bullshit in the song and it's bullshit in your story. What actually happened, Little Suzy?"

"My brother lent me the car," I told her. "He'd gone off to college in New York and didn't need it. So I had the use of it. And when we were looking through the glove compartment, we found his stash."

"Okay, so I'm starting to see where this might not be bullshit. So, second verse?"

"We just thought, since it was there, we'd try it and, well, we didn't realize it'd make us lose track of time quite so much. It was three a.m. when we got back and her parents had already called the police."

"So, lie about legal sex or tell the truth about illegal substances, and with the cops already involved...she sell you down the river?"

"I don't know. It was all going to be bullshit. Whichever way it landed. I just decided then and there that this was the excuse I needed to get out. I just left. Didn't even go home after dropping her off."

"I'd tell you that it was a bit of an overreaction, but I don't know your life."

I sigh again. "I'm going to take a leak."

"Knock yourself out. The can is behind the front office."

On my way in, I see the Ladies has an 'out of order' sign on the door. In the Gents one out of three of the urinals is completely missing and the other two are barely fit for purpose.

I'm just about to start, when Miranda enters. She must have covered that distance in a hurry, but she's not rushing when she comes in. She stands at the urinal next to me.

You don't ever look at a urinal. Ever.

I look.

She looks back.

She finishes before I'd even got my stream properly started. "See you back at the pool, Little Suzy," she says with a laugh.

I don't think I'm that little. At least, I didn't.

When I return, there's a period where we're both just lying there saying nothing. Miranda breaks the silence first.

"Suzy?"

"Hmmm," I say half-asleep.

"I don't suppose you've got any of that weed left?"

To be honest, I'm not even sure. Yesterday was still a haze. But it's not a bad idea to go look, right?

"I'll check the car," I say. It turned out that there wasn't a lot left, but we managed to eke out two spliffs for the bottom of the bag.

Miranda takes a toke. "Ah, shit. I can see where your problem came from. This stuff is not for amateurs."

"Yeah," I reply. I've only ever been stoned twice as of now and on successive days, so I don't really know what I'm talking about, but I can definitely feel the stuff working its magic.

"So, what's your story?" I ask about halfway down the joint.

"Which one?" she replies, "I've got a hundred."

I think about asking her about how she started to wear women's clothing. Or how she started to become a woman or however the hell I should phrase it to sound polite. But even with our mellow on, I don't want to risk offending her. We've not acknowledged that particular issue and maybe it's better if we don't.

"How'd you end up here," I ask. "In this...dump?"

I could have tried searching for a better word, but what would be the point?

"Mostly I just hang around here waiting for evening," she says. "This place really comes alive then."

"That a fact," I reply doubtfully.

"So, what you going to do in LA?" she asks. "Acting?"

"Nah," I replied.

"Musician?"

"Nah, none of that sort of thing," I say. "I just want to get a job. Somewhere better than home."

"Ah." She gets up out of the chair, quite the endeavor in her intoxicated state, and looks me up and down. "How long you been wearing those clothes?"

It's been nearly forty hours. She has an unspoken point. I probably stink.

"You want me to put them in the machine for you?"

"I don't have anything to change into," I say.

"Wait here." She goes into the office and returns a minute later. She's carrying a square blue suitcase.

"This was left here," she say. "There might be something you can use."

"What if the guest comes back for it one day?" I say.

"Nah," says Miranda finally. "She's not coming back."

I open the suitcase and root through. "This is all women's stuff."

"Yeah," replies Miranda, joint still in her mouth. "You see anyone in a ten-mile radius likely to give a shit?"

I'm not happy. But, if there's a difference between being down on your luck and straight out becoming a hobo, it has to be maintaining a certain standard of laundry. Getting a place to stay and a job will be a whole lot easier if I'm not actively unpleasant to be around. I pulled out a loose blue dress.

I don't go back to my room. Modesty seemed like a false virtue here. I pull off my shirt, slip the dress over the top, and then pull off my pants and underwear. I hand them over to Miranda. She disappears to the office again.

As I lie on the sun lounger again, I'm aware of my naked lower half rubbing against the fabric of the dress and the way that breeze, recently so calming, is now blowing up and in and making me feel exposed. I shift position to try and block it.

The dress is a good fit, but then I've never been a particularly large guy. It's a little short, ending at my shins, but it works nonetheless. I find myself wondering about the woman who wore it. Everyone has a story.

When Miranda returns, she brings another two bottles of beer with her. She adjusts her lounger so she's sitting up. I accept the drink and move my lounger to match hers.

"So, Suzy," she says. "This girl...you really didn't...you know?"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," I reply.

"Why not?"

"It's not the done thing," I say.

"That's not a why," she replies. "Everyone does not the done thing eventually. You too chicken to put the moves on her? Or perhaps you did and got slapped down, even after she was suitably medicated?"

I think for a second. "Helen is just a friend." I feel Miranda's gaze piercing me. "Yeah, we went for a date, but, I don't know, just because it's what you're supposed to do. We just like hanging out. But, yeah, it was really uncomfortable knowing that it was supposed to be romantic, and then, when we lit up, it wasn't so bad. We were just friends hanging out again."

"So, you never...with her or with anyone else?"

"No, I guess not. I'm not...," I'm about to saylike you. Instead, I finish, "I'm from a small town. You're supposed to wait until marriage and I'm fine with that."

Miranda obviously thinks this is hooey, but she just takes a sip of her beer.

"You're not in a small town anymore," she said. "Whatcha going to do when you hit L.A.?"

"When in Rome...I guess,"

She gives me a wicked grin. "You know the Romans did a lot of fucked up stuff."

"Yeah," I say. Maybe I should be driving east to St. Louis.

Suddenly a car comes round into the lot. It stops across a parking bay and a man and woman get out. He's semi-respectable. At least, he has a suit on, though his tie is crooked. She is decided less so. She is wearing a mini-skirt that was just that bit too mini and a blouse that wasn't even trying to protect her modesty. She is not exactly young, but the ages and appearances make it pretty clear that this is not the wife. Regardless, she's hanging off his shoulder as he approaches the pool.

I lay perfectly still, hoping that if I didn't move they wouldn't notice me. It works. Or at least, they don't acknowledge me. Probably I'm not actually that unusual around here.

"Miranda," says the man as a greeting. He slaps a single dollar bill down on the table and the couple head off to one of the rooms.

I look pointedly at the note.

"What?" says Miranda. "Hourly rate."

I guess that makes sense.

"And her hourly rate?" I ask when I'm sure the couple are far enough away.

"Surprisingly reasonable," replies Miranda. There's that grin again.

Reasonable or not, they don't use the full hour. Twenty minutes later, they come down and drive straight off. We are both getting the bottom of our drinks again. Miranda goes off, gets my clothes from the machine, and hangs them up from a horizontal pipe just outside the office. I'm hoping against hope for maybe a third beer, now that we have broken the ice and all, but I don't get one.

When she returns though, she starts to talk with purpose.

"You're a traveler," she tells me.

"I guess," I reply.

"On a journey."

"Yeah, sure, why not?" I say.

"Heading to who knows where," she says.

"Los Angeles," I reply firmly, then waver. "Or San Fran."

"Yeah, you know nothing about your future," she counters.

"I guess not," I say. "Just going to see what happens."

She opens her hand. There are two little pills in her palm. "You want to take one of these and see what happens?"

"What are those?" I ask.

"A journey," she tells me.

I was buzzed and I was tipsy at that point. I was also badly in need of some direction. I'd spent the whole day trying to escape and I had to trust those pills could send me clean off the face of the planet. I figured a birds-eye view of the world might help.