Hot Spurs Inn

I
Fish Back in the Water (a continuation of "On the Rocks" in Rusty's Lounge-I)
by Udhaya Kulandaivelu

We pull into Hot Spurs Inn next to Pumpin’ Jack’s Gas and Diesel in the Gallery Quarter. There are only two cars in the parking lot. She puts out the engine and walks up to the front desk without much fanfare. The dark-haired foreigner behind the counter doesn't care to ask too many questions, he pours out information about their policies, makes her sign on a register after she pays him in cash and hands her the key to a room on the first floor.

Motel rooms haven't changed much in the last two three years. The hospital-white sheets, huge bed, a color TV with cheap cable, a zillion white towels in every size in the bathroom, the itty-bitty soaps were all same as ever. I switch the light off but since the TV is connected to it, I switch it back on and take my shirt off to face her. She slowly takes her boots off and walks over to me. I swallow spit and think of kissing her, but she looks down at my waist-belt and releases it.

She brings my jeans down to my knees like an angry mother undressing her child, then kneels down. Her hands run up and down my legs, feeling them like they might break. My head feels light and I spread my feet to keep from loosing control. She rests her forehead on my right leg, warm tears trickle down my knee. I reach down to comfort her. My bulge is too big under my Fruit of the loom to ignore. I hear a weird noise. It comes from her. It's a beeper she pulls out from her back pocket. She wipes her tears and rushes to the bathroom taking the telephone with her.

I pull my pants up and turn to the wrestling match on TV. The black purse with a pack of Marlboro sticking out catches my eye so I pull one out and fish around her purse for matches. My hand comes up with her wallet. A few dollar bills and two major credit cards is all. She looks much prettier in her driver's license . . . lot more hair . . . a happy smile . . . Grace Quarter? That's right here in Aliento! . . . Connie Walker? She lied about her name, . . . I hear the door, and put it all back in.

"Everything okay?"

"I have to go." She sounds scared and hurt. She slips into her boots.

"What do you mean? What's wrong?"

"You can stay here till you want. It's paid for." She grabs her purse and leaves in a hurry

"That's it? You just leave, huh . . . just like that?" She's out the door walking fast towards the car. I can't believe what's happening.

"Wait. Who do you think . . . "

I can't say any more. There's something heavy blocking my words. This feels different. Not the same as just getting turned down, even getting dumped. I feel so much shame now, like I was caught doing something real low. Wait! She started it, then changed her mind. That's all, nothing more to it! Why am I racking my brains about it? No matter what I do I should get out of this motel now. Staying here only reminds me of her. I put on my shirt and find a cigarette in it, the one I got from her. But no matches. On second thought, the damn room is paid for I might as well turn my luck around. Gotta get some smokes and bourbon real quick.

* * *

I roll over in the motel bed and feel no left arm. Must've slept over it face down to get it so numb. The blood slowly rushes to it and it seems part of me again. Spreading my hands, I rattle the Jim Beam bottle lying on the floor next to me. There's almost nothing there but just a whiff of that stuff and I feel something rising up my stomach, so I run to the john. Washing up brings it all back to me, Marcy, no Connie something: her short hair, her boots, this motel, her beeper . . . my legs go weak and I gotta lie down. I gotta eat first thing. Then, then maybe I'll go to Grace Quarter. Yeah, hunt her down and show her she can't make a fool outta me.

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or conclude this story at Walkers' Residence