After missing my connection in Dallas, I am told by Greyhound staff that sleeping in the station is not permitted. So, I book a room at a motel that is relatively close to the station and reasonably priced. Half hour later, my Lyft driver pulls into the parking lot of the motel, looks into the rearview mirror.
Young lady, you really want me to drop you off here?
I understand what he is saying. We had made a swift left, then a right, another swift left into a sharp right. The streets that lead to the motel are filled with abandoned wooden houses with blown out windows, dead cars with sun-faded exterior paint, deflated tires lying on their sides and overgrown, weedy yards. I counted four stray dogs rummaging for food and water. Streets like those always make me forlorn.
Eh, I’ll be alright. I’ve slept in worse.
The driver eyes me in the mirror again, clears his throat.
As I enter the office, the first thing I notice is a plexiglass window with a speaking hole and a rectangular slot for documents, cash, pens, credit card slips to slide between owner and guest.
How can I help you?
Damn, she looks mean, I thought.
I tell the woman I booked a room online and as always, ramble unnecessary information.
Yeah, I missed my bus in Dallas… blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…
This is a longtime, awkward habit of mine where nervously, trying to relate to people, I lack an edit button. It is never because I believe what I have to say is important. It’s because for some reason I feel as if the very fact that I breathe is on trial.
Name?
Embarrassed, I tell her my name and shut up. She asks me to spell it.
V-A-L-E-N-T-I-N-E.
While she pulls up my reservation, I notice on the far right-hand side of the plexiglass window, a black and white xerox copy of a photo of an older gentleman. He is wearing a striped, button down, collared shirt and his smile is relaxed. A corner of his chin rests on his closed fist. This man’s toothy grin is the kind of smile that connects mouth to eyes with a full set of teeth that shine bright. Staring at the photo, I can almost imagine his playful laughter but written in all capital, block letters, the 8×10 poster reads:
MISSING SINCE AUGUST 4TH, 2018. HIS NAME IS FRED. HAS DEMENTIA. LAST SEEN NOT WEARING SHOES. IF YOU SEE HIM, PLEASE CALL THE POLICE.
The woman passes the magnetic key card to me through the narrow slot.
What’s your name?
Angela.
When I say my friends call me Chachee, Angela says nothing, throws me a look, and grunts.
As I enter room 101, my feet land on a nicely stained, dark wooden floor. Admittedly, I feel surprised. So surprised, I ramble “wow” under my breath. The bed is large and fluffy, the bathroom sparkles and a faint whiff of the shower curtain reminds me of the smell of a new doll. After I settle in, I remember that I had seen a gas station at the nearby corner. At dusk, I head back into the office and ask Angela if it’s safe for me to walk.
Her voice drops into a deep tone, Just be back before dark.
The way she says it, I know this lady isn’t screwing around.
My search for a can of beer fails. Weary, I walk back to the motel. As I approach my room, Angela is walking across the parking lot.
Everything OK?
She’s frowning. I tell myself to keep my mouth shut, but of course I blurt out my disappointment in the gas station not carrying beer. Angela grunts. Barely a minute back in my room, the phone rings.
Hello?
You wanna beer?
It’s Angela. In my head I’m like,
Yaaaaas, gurl.
But what I say is,
Nah, that’s OK, but thank you.
Angela tells me her husband does “beer runs” all the time for guests who are on foot. Again, in my head I think,
Is this for real? Why do I feel like I would be taking advantage of their generosity if I accept their offer?
Hearing a man’s deep voice in the background, Angela interrupts my thoughts and tells me to make up my mind.
Yeah?
She asks me what kind and how many.
Anything.
We hang up. Quickly, I step outside to give her husband beer money.
I’ll bring a receipt and you can pay me then.
While Angela’s husband is gone, my mind races with all sorts of thoughts. I wonder if the man is actually going to a legit store, or if he is just going to a friend’s house to grab a few beers to make a few bucks off of me. And I wonder why they would do this for me. Or anyone. Angela steps back out and her manner feels a bit softer.
He’s on his way back.
I’m sitting on the stoop in front of my door as her husband backs in his pick-up truck. I ask Angela her husband’s name as we walk over to him.
Baby.
Sorry?
His name is David.
Ooooooooh.
Carefully, I tell Angela I thought she said her husband’s name is Baby. Angela grabs her side, bends over, laughs out loud like I’ve never heard anyone howl. I think to myself that Angela is pretty and her husband, David, is handsome. That they seem to make a great team. I also remember that it’s been a long time since I laughed this hard. Do I even remember how to laugh hard? I try to let go and laugh like Angela but end up feeling like I must look like someone who is trying to look natural while laughing.
Here ya go, 101.
David hands me a bag with two ice-cold cans of beer. The receipt is from a gas station up the road, and the total for the beers is five dollars and change. I feel like the biggest asshole for my earlier thoughts, so I give David a twenty and thank him for driving to get me beer.
You sure, 101?
Yeah, I’m sure. Thank you, David.
Next morning, I have time to spare until I catch my bus to Pueblo, Colorado. Like, eight hours. When I open my room door, I see Angela entering the room next to mine. As I wish her a good morning and peek in, I see a bunch of trash on the floor in the motel room, bath towels thrown everywhere. I recall seeing a young, white couple check in to that room last night while I smoked a cigarette and drank a beer. Angela’s eyes catch mine.
Whatchu need?
Once more, I am tongue-tied, avoid eye contact, and tell Angela my story about how yesterday I missed my bus. As Angela walks toward me, I feel her defenses go down. I ask if I can leave my two rolly cases in the room for the day for a fee while I go into town and get a bite to eat.
No problem.
We meet back in the office and repeat the process of doing business through the plexiglass speaking hole and narrow slot for paperwork. The man with the toothy grin in the photo smiles at me.
Uh… who… is he?
Delicately, I tap on the window with the tip of my pointer finger. Angela looks up and her mood softens again as she tells me the man in the photo is her father, Fred.
Oh. I’m sorry.
Angela goes on to tell me basically what I’ve read in the flyer – that her father, Fred, has been missing for twelve days, that he has dementia, that he was last seen without wearing shoes, that she and David are losing hope. Not only do I let Angela tell me Fred’s story, I want her to tell me Fred’s story because it is also her story.
As Angela shares Fred with me, her eyes water, as do mine. We smile at each other that kind of crooked smile that says,
I’m trying to be strong and confident.
Later, I find myself walking around downtown Dallas staring at men’s feet and faces, looking for Fred.
That evening, I did not see Angela when I checked out, but did see David.
Hey, 101! You leavin’ us?
We shake hands. I tell David I’ve enjoyed my stay, that I loved the room, that the bed was super comfortable, that I hope to one day make another stop in Dallas because I will most definitely book a room at Trinity Suites.
Safe travels, 101.
It’s only been twenty-four hours, but I will miss being called 101.
Back at the Greyhound station, I’m already checked in and ready to board since I missed my bus yesterday. With time to spare, I think of Angela and how shitty it feels to leave Dallas without saying goodbye.
Trinity Suites, how can I help you?
Hey, Angela, hope you remember me, this is 101.
She smiles through the phone.
Hey, 101! Of course, I remember you, what’s up?
I begin to tell her that I just checked out and she cuts me off.
We gotchu, we gotchu. You’re good.
I’ve always had a difficult time feeling vulnerable. Not just for the emo stuff, even for the good stuff between two people that can happen when a connection is made.
No, I… wanted to call you… to thank you… and to say I hope they… I hope Fred comes home.
There is a long, intimate, comfortable pause where we both listen to each other’s breath. You come back now, 101, ya here?
*****
Chachee Valentine’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in the following publications: Words & Images, InSite Magazine, Stolen Island Review, Lullwater Review, Fugue, Prairie Margins (2010 & 2022), Askew Poetry Journal, Alchemy Literary Magazine, The Polishing Cloth, Eunoia Review, The Parliament Literary Journal, Creative License, 11 Mag Berlin, The Bitchin’ Kitsch (2021 &2022), IAIA Anthology, Cajun Mutt Publishing, New Mexico Review, Botticelli Magazine, Sheepshead Review, Bottecelli Magazine, LandLocked Magazine, and Talon Review.
