Sick Today

The air trembled with heat in the doorway of the motel. I shut the door quickly behind me, spinning on the carpet, synthetic red and orange fibers trampled shiny and slick from decades of pacers and vacuum cleaners and sad sad stories. It was the cheapest hotel I could find. I wasn't sure how long I would be there.

The odd musty smell never quite dispersed, and bothered the cats. They seldom emerged from beneath the beds anymore, except to sneak out at night, gobble down some food, user the litter box, and sneak back. I felt bad for the little guys. I drove my rental car to town every day, where I sat alone making shoes in a bright room above an abandoned church for hours before driving back and watching the results of paternity tests and surprise makeovers on one of the few stations the TV in the motel could pick up, on its heavy, outdated televisions with their analog receivers.

I poured some cherry cola flavored whiskey out of an aluminum bottle in the fridge into the single small plastic disposable cup that had come with the motel room on the day I checked in, sat down on the edge of the bed, and turned on the TV. The buzzing was intense. The air conditioner hummed tunelessly but diligently, happy to be of service in the half-abandoned old building. The maintenance man had told me many horror films were shot there. I believed him. Another tenant had warned me not to let the maintenance man into my room at night.

A loud pop and a puff of smoke relieved the pressure from the buzzing and the humming in the airless red orange brown room. The stench of burning electronics spread quickly-- I was already at the door, fanning it back and forth after pulling the plug out of the wall outlet. I carried the TV to the porch and set it down. The porch was a balcony, really, a from-a-distance still stately feature of the once-elegant facade of a neo-classical plantation-styled two-story building, remnants of some day when perhaps the motel was less seedy or perhaps there were still hopes that this street would become enveloped into more of a city than the huddled grouping of truck stops and hotels and diners off the highway which it remains. The two twirling spiral staircases, slippery eggshell from the many coats of high gloss paint that rendered them a bit perilous on wet days, glistened in the sunset, hazy peach and rose. My neighbors were, for once, nowhere to be seen.

I went back inside and shut the door. The air was heavy but the stench had dispersed. The air was always heavy. The lights were so yellow and the sunlight through the window was so red. It was like being in a box. Like being in a suitcase. A dead fly sat forlorn next to the sink on the far wall, where it had been for several days. No housekeeping at the Magnolia. I kept intending to clear it away myself, and then forgetting. I sighed at my reflection, and how old I looked. How much older I look now. How much younger I looked the previous year. The previous month. I raised a hand to turn on the water at the sink. The dead fly rattled back to life. The air was pure static. It buzzed and fluttered its wings and unfolded its legs, shaking them accusingly at me, before settling back down, inanimate, quiet. My ears roared, full of imaginary noises. Had the lights flickered? The cats were silent.