Stories We Tell

[ Friday Part Two ]

                                [   F R I D A Y   P A R T   T W O   ]

      Shefford was just as unsuspecting as the tacky, paint-peeled sign that welcomed us into it. Apart from a block of mall-esque department stores—boasting parking lots that could probably fit the entire towns population inside of them—and a McDonald's on the main street corner, any signs of life beyond a three block radius of Shefford fizzled out quicker than my middle school relationships. Nevertheless, it took us the better part of an hour to find a viable place to stay, finally settling on a nondescript motel with a blocked off pool and lime green lawn chairs by the entrance.

      As it turned out, The Starlight Inn had no vacancies; a product of the weather, apparently. Still, with a fair amount of searching and aggravated typing on a computer that was more than a little outdated, the clerk was able to find one open room in the far left wing of the building—through a maze of doors and hallways that seemed far too complicated for a motel that had a flat rate of thirty-five dollars.

      When we finally reach the door to Room 47, colored in a yellow that looks like something out of the 1980's, both of us were panting.

      "So this is it."

      I nod, exchanging glances with Trevor. "This is it."

      As he fumbles to pull the keys from his pocket, I take note of the gaping hole in the wall a few meters away, wallpaper peeling around its edges. I try to avoid the shudder.

      Clearly this place wasn't the Ritz.

      Inside, the room is just as small as the motel clerk—a plump lady named Julie who seemingly had an affinity for cat accessories—made it out to be. Apart from a double bed with shabby tropical bed sheets, a forest green couch faded in all the wrong places, and a desk that didn't seem reliable in holding anything, the room was barren. Even the television looked like it had been picked from another era, barely holding on to the wall that it'd been haphazardly drilled to. 

      Trevor lets out a long sigh, flopping his bag onto the worn out carpet. It lands with a resounding thud, and I swear I can almost see the dust dissipate. It's non-smoking, but every whiff of air I inhale smells more and more distinctly like cigarette butts. 

      I swing my arms around, gaze flickering through the confined space; there isn't much to look at. "She did say it was going to be small."

      "Yeah, she definitely warned us, didn't she." He chuckles halfheartedly, tugging at the loose strands of hair that flop over his forehead. "I guess I was too distracted by all the cat photography."

      "You noticed that too?"

      "It was practically a shrine."

      I laugh, bending down so I can pull the television remotes from the desk. "Did you see the obese tabby cat with the fedora?"

      "How could I miss it? It looked like Garfield."

      "It kind of did, didn't it?"

      "Definitely." He grins; goofy and lopsided on his cheeks. I watch his eyes linger on the window, watching the quickly dimming sunset over the tree line as I flick on the television. It fizzes, the picture grainy and faded in color.

      "Any preferences?" I ask, nodding towards the screen.

      He shrugs. "Anything but NCIS."