The Motor Lodge -- Part II

This post will be as nonsensical as Moby Dick if you haven't read Part I of my story. On second thought, that's not true. It will definitely make more sense than Moby Dick. Everything ever written does, including the infamous novel banged out by a monkey on a word processor. Nevertheless, if you haven’t read Part I,
I suggest you scroll down to the blog entry for Jan. 7 and read that first.

“Yer wearin' a wadin’ rang,” the desk clerk replied with a smile that revealed the single tooth dangling from her upper gum. “Ya’ll sleep tight. Don’t late the baid bugs bite.”

I don’t know what compelled me to ask – could have been a hunch, could have been dumb luck, could have been the palmetto bug the size of a Schnauzer that chose that precise moment to scamper across the counter – but I'm glad I did. “This hotel has bed bugs?”

“Not no more. The boss man, he called an icks terma nighter from Charleston who got rid of ‘em. Cost a hunnert fifty dollars a room.”

“When was this?”

“Last week. People wuz complainin'.”

“I’m sure they were. I want my money back.”

“Cain’t do that,” she replied, pointing to the "No Refunds" sign taped to the wall.

“Look,” I said gently but firmly, placing the key on the counter. “I’m not going to stay in a place that’s ever had one bedbug, much less an infestation."

“Ever hotel’s got baidbugs. Even the fancy ones like Ramada.”

“I want a refund.”

“I done told you,” she replied, indicating the sign with a shrug.

“Fine, I’ll call Visa, explain that the clerk at the hotel I just checked into says it has bed bugs and they’ll reverse the charges.”

“But we ain’t got ‘em no more.”

“I ain’t – I am not – staying in this hotel.”

“Suit yer say elf.  There ain’t another mo tell for 50 miles.”

I turned from the counter, walked across the lobby, through the front door and got into the car.

“What took you so long?” my wife asked.

“I was talking with the desk clerk.”

“I didn’t see any desk clerk through the window. It looked like you were standing there having a conversation with yourself.”

“You couldn’t have seen her. She’s shorter than the counter. A midget.”

"That's not PC. They're called 'little people' now. Did you get a room?”

“No.”

“Good,” she replied. “This place gives me the creeps. Let’s press on.”

“Yes, let’s,” I replied wearily, pressing the car’s “Start” button. I drive one of those cars that doesn’t need a key to start. It’s from Japan. Leave it to the Japanese to come up with a technology people neither need or want. I’d much prefer a good old-fashioned key. I worry, for instance, what might happen if the battery on the fob I have to carry in my pocket died. If I was outside the car and the door was locked, how could I get in? Would I have to call roadside assistance? I might not be able to because, with my luck, my cell phone would be locked inside. I don’t even know if you can buy a car with a key these days. Probably not.  

We were halfway to Savannah when I remembered and smacked myself upside the head, like the guy in the commercial the moment he realizes he could have had a V-8.

I don’t have a wedding ring. I lost it the week after we got married.

TO BE CONTINUED