3WW (Hidden, Roam, Noble): Miss You

I am driving to a destination somewhere on the east coast. From the west coast. I went west as a young man. Now, I’m returning as an older one. I left on a whim, but am returning on less of one. I wonder what less than a whim might be called. The Thesaurus gives the antonym of whim to be ‘plan’. That makes sense, except I don’t have a plan. I only have punches to roll with.

The dog and I stop in a small town in Nebraska. Grand Forks or Grand Plate or Grand Spoon or something like that. There’s a Kum & Go gas station and market; when I hand my credit card to the cashier, I joke about the name. She doesn’t understand my attempts at sarcasm, so I drop it. I roam the immediate thoroughfares a bit to see if I can find a hotel. I have my choice between an inn that looks like a converted barn or a Motel 6. I choose the latter out of what I think is familiarity. Except I’ve never been in a Motel 6, which makes me realize that brand has struck again.

In the lobby is a woman who greets me with an eerie smile. After a moment watching her deal with the customer in front of me, I realize she isn’t actually smiling at all. Her mouth simply hangs open to reveal an empty un-dentured mouth with a pink wagging tongue. I feel badly about being disgusted by her appearance. I turn my attention to the rest of the lobby. A vending machine that sells Doritos, Ruffles, and M&Ms [Their ‘restaurant’]. A coffee pot on a small table in the corner [Complimentary breakfast]. A stack of flyers on the same table for a nearby museum that looks a lot like the inn I passed [Tourist destination]. Hidden behind the coffee pot, I see a lone half bar of Ivory Soap [Amenities].

I return my attention to the gummy woman. She isn’t interested in interacting. She simply wants to give me a room key and be rid of me. I have no qualms with the approach. I give her the credit card, sign where needed, take the room key, and leave the office.

The room smells. A cross between shit and vinegar. In other words, not a good smell. The dog is reluctant, but more because he’s tired of all the new places or because he doesn’t like the smell, I can’t tell. It’s probably both. We’re two days out from the house we shared, the life we spent. I send him a text letting him know I’ve arrived safely. I receive a text almost immediately saying ‘k’. Never a person of many words was he.

The bed is hard, the sheets yellow. At least the television works; it muffles the conversation a young and rather ignorant woman is having in an adjacent room. The dog starts to dance around a bit. A lot of water and so much uncertainty make me want to piss too. I know I can hold it longer so I leash the dog and take him outside. We walk to the ‘pet area’ which consists of gravel and mud. The dog lifts his leg. At that moment, I realize I’ve underestimated my own urge. I unzip and pee with the dog. I feel a weird kind of bond with the dog; we’re emitting waste together.

I return to the room only to discover the key doesn’t work. I go to the lobby with the dog. Of course, dogs aren’t allowed in the lobby, so I tie him to a tree outside. Gummy lady is talking to what I can only describe as a redneck. A Nebraskan noble. He’s the spitting image of that cable guy comedian. Harry, is it? Gary? They pay me no attention when I walk in. I notice he’s spitting in a cup about a quarter full of the most disgusting liquid I’ve seen this side of diarrhea. I finally interrupt. Neither of them look too pleased. I tell gummy that my key isn’t working. She asks if I’ve had it next to a credit card in my wallet. I say yes. She tells me not to do it, scans it again, and send me on my way.

I enter the room and unhook the dog. I hit the bed fully dressed; I have no desire to rummage through the suitcase. And I feel more comfortable fully clothed in any case. The dog jumps up next to me and nuzzles. I turn on the television and watch the local news. There’s a story about cow tipping. Honestly. I switch to ESPN and see the Yanks have lost.

My mind wanders. I wonder if I’ve made the right move. No job in a bad economy. No home. Just me and the dog. Wasn’t I supposed to work through this? People in much more difficult situations had endured. Why couldn’t I? Was I not strong enough? Impatient? Or am I right?

My cell phone vibrates on the table. I dislodge the dog from his slumber to see the text message. After a few clicks, I see ‘miss you’.