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battle-scarred cashier's desk complete with a montage of cigarette burns. An antique Emerson fan struggled valiantly to circulate the stale air. Outside of the hum of the fan, you could have heard a pin drop. One thing for sure, sullen boy was nowhere in sight. |
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The whole setting was an invitation for a little exploring. I slipped behind the counter, pulled back the makeshift drape from the doorway and peered into the darkness. It revealed nothing more than another dingy corridor lined with a series of doors, all closed. At the far end of the hallway, a single 40-watt bulb was charged with an impossible mission. It hung right next to a faded, crudely lettered sign that informed the occupants that this was the exit. I tried to picture the tiny hall, full of choking smoke, and some poor soul trying to find the obligatory exit sign. If they were dependent on that sign, they were doomed. |
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I worked my way down the dimly lit hallway and inched the back door open. The small, tree-sheltered parking lot behind the motel was unlit. The only activity was confined to a dark car parked on a small strip of land jutting out from an adjacent drive into the shallows of the bay. A young couple were entertaining themselves with a journey into the ugly world of crack. The bittersweet smell of their little experiment had drifted all the way up to the back door of the motel. With nothing else to record, |
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