Motel. Pool. (6 page)

2014

“H
OW
MUCH
have you had to drink tonight, sir?”

Tag Manning blinked blearily as the cop directed the flashlight at his face. “None. Nothing. I haven’t touched alcohol in days.” That was true. His last beers had been—when? Six states ago. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Drugs?” asked the officer.

Tag pointed at the cup holder. “Just caffeine.”

The cop was silent as he directed the beam of light around the car’s interior. He illuminated the front seat detritus of a road trip: fast-food wrappers, empty cups and water bottles, badly refolded maps. The backseat was crammed with all the bags and boxes Tag hadn’t been able to jam into the trunk.

After a few moments, the flashlight focused on Tag’s license, registration, and insurance card, which the officer held in one hand. He read them carefully, as if they gave him important instructions on how to proceed, but Tag was pretty sure the guy’s shoulders had relaxed a little.

“Where are you heading, Mr. Manning?”

“Grand Canyon. Always wanted to see it, but I never have. Except once from a jet, but that’s really not the same thing, is it? Doesn’t really give you the full sense of the place, all the smells and sounds and little details.” Tag realized he was babbling and shut his mouth with an audible pop.

“Canyon’s still a couple of hours from here, and there’s not much to see in the dark anyway. You might as well wait until morning.”

“Uh, yeah. I mean, I was gonna watch the sun rise over the rim.”

The cop shook his head. “You were weaving all over the road, Mr. Manning. Maybe you don’t worry about dying in a wreck, but believe me, son, bleeding to death in the middle of the desert with a ton and a half of crumpled metal parked on your belly is not a nice way to go. Or maybe you’ll swerve into someone else and kill them instead. State of Arizona frowns on that.”

Tag didn’t want that on his conscience either. “Fine. I’ll stop for some coffee.”

“Nothing’s open for miles, not this time of night.” The cop bent and leaned his forearms on the open window frame. He was younger than Tag had first thought, maybe in his midthirties, and handsome enough that he would have stirred a few porno fantasies in the back of Tag’s brain if Tag hadn’t felt edgy. The trooper’s face was very tan, and he had deep crow’s-feet and a square jaw. He smelled of cigarettes. There was something odd about him, something Tag didn’t have the wits to identify. The darkness and the flashlight glare kept Tag from seeing him very well.

“Here’s what you’re gonna do, son. Take the next exit. It’s less than five minutes from here. Nice, quiet spot. Pull over and have yourself a couple hours’ worth of nap. That’ll still get you to the canyon by sunrise and without killing anyone on the way.”

With a noisy yawn stretching his jaw, Tag had to admit it sounded like a good idea. The road had become a blur and his eyes very heavy before the flashing lights had appeared behind him.

“Okay,” he said. “I will.”

“Good man.” The cop straightened up, returned Tag’s documents, and gave the door a few friendly pats, as he might give a horse. “Keep safe, Mr. Manning.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“It can be a really rough journey sometimes.”

Tag waited for the cop to walk away before he rolled up the window. He tucked away his license and papers, checked to make sure his seat belt was on properly, and started the engine. As he pulled back onto the freeway, the headlights of the cruiser were right behind him. Great. Officer Friendly was making sure Tag didn’t make a run for it. Tag kept the speedometer poised at exactly seventy-five the whole way.

The sign said nothing but EXIT. No name, no number. After Tag glided down the off-ramp and onto a bumpy road, he saw a few buildings hunkered in the dark, but no lights. For a moment he was tempted to get right back on the highway. But although the cop had disappeared into the night, Tag suspected the guy might be hovering close by, waiting to swoop in and pull Tag over again. A little rest really was a good idea.

The headlights shone on a large sign: MOTEL. POOL. The sign was unlit, the paint faded, the edges rusted and worn. As far as Tag could tell in the darkness, there was no building at all. Just a big, empty lot. But it was as good a place as any to stop. He turned off the rutted pavement that might have been part of the original Route 66, rolled to a stop after a few yards, and cut the engine. When he turned off the headlights, the night seemed huge. He made sure the doors were locked before he reclined his seat fully. After grabbing his denim jacket from the back footwell, he draped it over himself like a blanket. The desert got cold at night.

“Just a short nap,” he said as he closed his eyes and fell asleep almost at once.

T
HE
CRICK
in his neck woke him just as the sun was tinting the sky a delicate peach. His Camry made a fine vehicle but a crappy bed. And he was missing sunrise at the canyon. He disengaged the locks, opened the door, and nearly tumbled out of the car. He had to lean against the frame for balance while his legs regained feeling.

One of the plastic bottles contained a few ounces of water. He swished a mouthful around before spitting it onto the sandy gravel, then ran fingers through his tangled brown curls. He had a comb and toothbrush and razor somewhere but didn’t have the energy to dig for them. Instead, he took a short walk around, his footsteps crunching on the ground. When he pissed against a small boulder, the noise of urine hitting the rock seemed to echo.

He’d been right the night before—the motel was long gone, not even the imprint of its foundation visible any longer. A few buildings remained, but they were in terrible shape. The pastel-colored Bluebird Café was missing windows and doors and was covered in graffiti. The roof of Bob’s Chevron had caved in. A couple other structures were in such ruins that he couldn’t tell what they had once been.

Although the rutted old pavement of Route 66 ran alongside the ghost town, the freeway was maybe a quarter mile away, hidden by a low ridge. Maybe there was a good reason the freeway engineers had decided
that
stretch of desert was so much more desirable for road building than this one, but they had murdered this little settlement. It was sad. Maybe there’d been nothing special about this nameless collection of businesses, nothing to interest anyone aside from travelers wanting a night’s sleep, a meal, a fresh tank of gas. But people had lived here, people with hopes and dreams. Where had they gone when the town died? Did they find jobs elsewhere—Flagstaff, Williams—or did they simply retire? “Where do Arizonans go when they retire?” Tag asked out loud.

Nobody answered him, of course. But he regretted speaking, because now he had an odd feeling that someone was
listening
. Watching him. But aside from him and some scrubby plants, there was not a single living thing in sight.

He rubbed his arms against the cold and walked back to the car, then sat in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, not yet starting the engine. He felt empty inside, as dead and barren as the desert. “Just hungry,” he muttered, knowing it was a lie. But he reached into the paper grocery sack beside him and pulled out a granola bar and an apple. A noisy breakfast, which was welcome in the otherwise silent environment. After a few more mouthfuls of water and a vehement but vain wish for a Starbucks to apparate beside the old motel sign, he buckled up and turned the ignition.

He fiddled with the radio as the car bumped over the road. The only station he’d been able to pick up the night before had been playing sea chanteys—he had no idea why—so he’d given up and turned off the radio. This morning he couldn’t find anything but oldies. “Rock Around the Clock.” “Sixteen Tons.” And then all the stations seemed to be playing “Heartbreak Hotel,” the same song, all at once, which was weird and annoying.
Tag switched the radio off and drove in silence. He regretted tossing away his phone because now he missed his playlist. Not because he missed talking and texting with his friends. And certainly not because he missed mooning over old selfies he’d taken with Jason.

Traffic was light on the freeway, and the scenery was pretty—dramatic storm clouds poised over rugged buttes and steep canyons. Nothing like the monotonous plains where he’d been living these past couple of years. He should have enjoyed the drive, but the landscape did nothing for him. He might as well have been looking at cornfields, at subdivisions, at strip malls. “It’ll be different when I get to the Grand Canyon,” he said. Surely he’d find views to take his breath away, to make his heart start beating.

Fat raindrops pattered on his windshield by the time he stopped for coffee in Flagstaff. “Be careful,” said the unusually friendly woman at the drive-through window as she handed him his change. “We get flash floods during monsoon season.”

He nodded his thanks, but he wasn’t worried. He’d spent enough years in the Midwest to see plenty of storms. He’d once been caught out driving on an afternoon when nearly seven inches of rain fell; he’d seen hail the size of golf balls; and he’d done his time sitting in the basement, waiting for a tornado warning to expire. He’d motored his way through sleet and blizzards and across sheet ice. A little weather didn’t faze him.

The coffee burned his tongue and wasn’t very good, but there was plenty of it. As he headed north, he felt as though he was finally waking up. He tried the radio again, and among the Christian stations and the ones in Spanish, he was relieved to find Bruno Mars and Katy Perry. Jason had been an NPR-in-the-car kind of guy, which Tag liked to tease him about. “Nobody’s allowed to enjoy
All Things Considered
until they’re at least thirty-five, Jase. You’ve got another four years.” But Jason listened anyway. Maybe he was tuned in right now.

Tag was surprised by all the green along the desert highway. But it was raining, after all, and some of the flat areas were deeply puddled. Traffic had picked up too—SUVs and motorhomes with out-of-state plates. He imagined the other vehicles stuffed with whiny kids who’d rather spend time on Tumblr than traipsing around national parks, but maybe he was mistaken. It wasn’t like his family ever went on vacation.

The rain continued on and off for the next hour, the clouds finally disappearing right before he rolled into the park. He peeled a couple bills from his thick bundle and handed them to the cute ranger at the gate. The ranger gave him a professional smile. “Your entrance fee’s good for seven days. Just keep your receipt.” He handed Tag a brochure. “Enjoy your stay.”

Tag wasn’t going to stay for seven days. He didn’t have reservations at any of the park lodges and he didn’t possess any camping gear. He’d never been camping in his life, actually, although Jason used to suggest it. “C’mon,” he’d say, lips curved in an easy grin. “We can head out to the Rockies, do a little hiking, see some wildlife. You ever made love under the stars? We can make s’mores after. Or, you know, before. Then we can lick off the sticky marshmallow and melty chocolate.” He’d waggle his pale eyebrows suggestively.

But Tag always refused. Too busy. Too hot. Too cold. Too many bugs. Jason had taken it well, shrugging good-naturedly and changing the subject. But Tag was always left feeling slightly guilty, as if he were depriving his boyfriend of something.

Well, no worries about that now. Jason could camp to his heart’s content.

The signage inside the park was a little confusing, but Tag didn’t bother to glance at the map inside the brochure. He didn’t really have a specific destination anyway. He just wanted to see the damn hole in the ground.

He passed deer along the way, a doe with her twins. The fawns nibbled at greenery while the mother watched the car carefully. He didn’t feel touched by the scene, and although the animals were undeniably cute, he wasn’t affected. “Just deer,” he muttered. “Not exactly an endangered species.”

Eventually he found a parking spot between a lodge and an adobe building. The lot was nearly full, with people in bright-colored T-shirts carrying cameras as they walked to the canyon rim and hikers unloading backpacks and other gear from their trunks. Tag parked his car, slipped into his jacket, and ventured outside.

It was only a short stroll to an overlook. A dozen people stood near the edge, pointing excitedly at a sheep perched atop an impossibly steep crag. Tag thought the animal looked slightly confused, perhaps wondering how the hell it got there and how the hell it was going to get down. Behind the sheep, the canyon gaped. The chasm was painted in red, brown, gray, and yellow stripes teetering at crazy angles, a reminder of cataclysms that happened long before the first human walked the earth. A big bird soared overhead, and a middle-aged couple near Tag squabbled over whether it was a condor or just a turkey vulture. Tag didn’t care. He found a smooth stone and sat.

He sat for a very long time. Tourists came and went. They chatted with each other in English, German, Spanish, Japanese, French, Russian, and other languages he couldn’t identify. They took pictures with their cameras, phones, and iPads. Little kids chased squirrels and were warned not to go too close to the precipice. Teenagers moaned about the lack of cell phone coverage. Couples smooched. Almost everyone oohed and aahed and exclaimed over the stunning beauty in front of them.