Last year my friend Terry moved back to Nashville to take care of his ailing mother. Last month, when she passed away, I packed my kids, 11 and 14, in the car and drove an unplanned 820 miles in 15 hours to be with him. We left on a Thursday at 5 a.m. I worried about keeping two kids in the car like that, like veal, but we had to rocket if we wanted to make the memorial service. I had $100 in my pocket and no cash in my cash card until Friday. No fast food, no amusement parks.
The kids got into the spirit of the trip—after all, three days off school is three days off school. We ate PBJ’s and hard-boiled eggs out of the cooler in the back like an America’s Most Wanted family. After a period of silence, somewhere before Kentucky, I heard from the backseat. “Mom, make Isaac stop touching me.” My spine froze. I looked in my rearview mirror to find two dust-covered faces with puffy, punch-drunk eyes and dry, angry mouths.
I pulled off at the next station to fill up the tank. After paying, I had 60 bucks left. I looked at the kids, who were tussling by the diesel pump, whisper-fighting through clenched teeth. They’d hit the wall. Getting back in the car would be a big mistake. In the distance, just off the highway I saw a motel sign that read “Rooms $39.95. Cable, Indoor Pool.”
The Budget Inn was two stucco buildings, the main two stories, the other a long strip of rooms facing a swampy field, a “they’ll never find your bones” field. We parked in the deserted lot, walked to the front desk, and rang the bell. A narrow-eyed old troll wearing a Peterbilt cap sprang forth and asked me what I wanted.
“I’d like one of your $39.95 rooms, please.” I said. He sized us up. Single woman traveling with two homicidal kids. Easy pickings.
“Don’t got no rooms for $39.95. That’s last month’s special. Ain’t changed the sign yet. Room for you plus two gonna run $45.” “Fine,” I lied. “I’ll take it. I’d like a room in the main building, by the pool.” I dug in my pocket. I’ve been a woman traveling alone before. You always have to stay in the main building. It’s where people can hear you scream. It’s also where the free “coffee” is in the morning. “That costs extra,” smiled the Troll. “You want budget rate, can’t be by the pool. Gonna have to be in the strip.”
“How much for a room by the pool?”
“$75.”
I looked out the window into the empty parking lot and laid my money down.
“I only have $60. We’ve been on the road all day and we’re tired.” The troll snatched up the small pile of bills on his counter. “S’okay,” he smiled magnanimously. “We getcha by the pool. You the only folks here tonight.”
The kids swam. I took a tepid shower, and we tumbled into bed. I woke up at 3 a.m. to hear puking in the bathroom. My daughter had too many hard-boiled eggs. I stayed awake till 5 a.m., then roused the kids to get back on the road. I turned to my son, still snoring face down next to me, and nudged him.
“Honey. We have to get moving. You can sleep in the car.” In response, he lifted his sweet, sleepy head, and spray-vomited all over the bed. The kid was set on mist. He sputtered an apology, and I cleaned him up. We got our stuff together to make a hasty retreat. I glanced around the room to make sure we hadn’t left anything behind. I walked to the bed, and pulled the covers over the mess like covering a corpse at a crime scene. Our gift to Rumplestiltskin. Under normal circumstances, I’d have rinsed the sheets in the sink, but 60 bucks is 60 bucks, and you get what you pay for.
Colleen Kruse is a Twin Cities actress and comedian, mscolleenkruse@hotmail.com
Leave a Reply Cancel reply