show me the world

right off the highway {1}

If you exit on Exit 56 right off Highway 91, you will find us. The World's Biggest Motel 6, right in the heart of God knows where. The sign, rain or shine, without fail, in big, red letters, will always say, 

"Welcome to the World's Biggest Motel 6, Home To Your Next Stay."

It's pathetic. As if that will somehow attract more people, more than us current regulars, us current, sad, losers. We, who have lost everything and everyone.

As you enter the dingy check-in area of the motel, you will notice that aside from the bar with the fancy bartender dudes, there is nothing else to notice. That is because there is precisely nothing else to notice, except for the hallway spiraling deeper into the motel. And the permanent air of staleness. I would hardly call the day drinkers nursing their hangovers and liver failures any particular state of attraction, but you do you, I suppose.

I call it the One-Way Road to Hell. It is precisely what you think it is.

Sometimes, there will be a car or so that will stop by. An exhausted-looking man will step out. Enter the motel. Look around. Wrinkle his nose. Perhaps, he'll save a word for the decor. Leave, and never to be seen again. Some of them come with families, some alone on their grand journies. The barely visible heads, poking out of the car. An exhausted family, too prideful to step into a dingy motel.

The ones who do stay, become regulars.

Their bodies get used to the staleness, the permeating smell of beer. The emptiness, bringing out the emptiness in them. Truly, a perfect match. If only God reserved all matches in life to be like this.

They all inevitably get drawn here. They book a room, just for them. For some of them, they are in the last portions of their lives. Most inevitably stay here. They will never leave this dingy motel room for the rest of their lives.

And when another one down a bottle of pills, the housekeeper would look at me. Shake her head. Silently telling me the truth.

But I know. The clues have always been there.

It's always the stragglers. They are too exhausted to keep going. I can tell at the first glance who these people are. Sunken, hollow cheeks. The hollow voice asking for a beer or two or three. They want stability, but life threw too many wrenches in their way. The beer, taking them to places far away from reality.

They will ask for a room. Stay there for a day or two. Some make it out, out of this stale air and never come back. 

Some never wake up again.

Doesn't that sound morbid? Don't worry, the stale air and thoughts gnawing at them at the back of their minds don't make this place any less interesting. 

The best nights will end with a fight. A good, old-fashioned, drunken bar brawl. And a crowd will form, because who doesn't love a good, old-fashioned, drunken bar brawl? Perhaps it'll begin with a screaming match about past partners. An insult about leaving children and wives behind. A good brawl that very loosely resembles a WWE match. For some, it's one of their last steps toward insanity. Those... well, let's not talk about them now, shall we?

As for the worst nights, perhaps I am wise to say that it could always be worse.

I watch from the sidelines. Sometimes, I wish I could step in. Perhaps a good shot to the head will knock some sense into me. Knock me out of this nightmare and I'll run back into the beat-down camper with you and I'll face the spindly world again.

My boss says I am far too young for such thoughts. I think she is far too old for this bar. 

I am 27 years old. In my humble opinion, there is no greater sadness in this world than this place.

___________

My boss, Mary, is an interesting assortment of an old woman. She is a self-proclaimed therapist and expert bar-fight stopper. The last part is true, I have seen her in action, and the regulars look like little children being grounded by their grandmas. Rumors swirled around (much like the beer) that said she had lived for 500 years and was older than Queen Elizabeth. Mary says she's only 57.

Mary used to give everyone a tour of these rooms. Now, she claims her knees are bad ("Living for 57 years does a number on a person!") and I am to take over.

The newbies get their first dose of reality at the sight of the hallways. Soon, for most of them, the walls will fade into the background. After all, nobody has time to pay attention to shitty wall decor when their next biggest problem is inevitably liver failure.

The hallway is a garbled mess of everything. Different wallpapers plastered together that make me feel like a drunkard.

Mary once said it creates a cohesive environment for the drunks. I said it looks like a donkey took a shit on a pile of paper and proceeded to paint across the walls with it. 

At selected increments, there are handhold bars for the poor, depressed drunks. And maybe every 2 and a half bars, there will be a room. A room, with a door precariously put into place and a disgustingly bright room number. My boss says it's for the drunks. She says everything is for the drunks.

The rooms are not better off either. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but that would be a lie. A dingy room, with 3 lightbulbs. A bed in the middle. Your average hotel room, except much, much worse. 

I have stayed in these rooms for the past three years.

--

And so, that leads me to my conclusion for tonight.

Nobody with any dignity would ever, step foot into this motel. But you came and left and took away the last shred of light in this place.