Fiction: Luxury Inn
By Michael Foley
arttimesjournal June 16, 2020
Half an hour south of Memphis, right off the Hernando exit from US 51, lays the best lodging deal this side of the Gulf. Old L-shaped building, white paint going yellow. Fresh coat of moss on the shutters. Door to each room painted coral, matching the plastic lawn chairs outside. Cheap black-on-white sign in the gravel parking lot proudly declaring this establishment roach-free. Blinking neon sign screaming “Vacancies” in a window on the aluminum-sided trailer serving as the office. Thirty-eight dollars for a queen, forty-eight for a king.
There’s a 90’s model Ford pickup in front of Room 9. Half a million miles on it, probably. Belongs to the kid in the room, Keith Redmond. He’s a roofer, works anywhere from Hernando to Marion. He’s sitting on the edge of the king, bottle of Ancient Age hanging from his meaty fingertips, bag of pork rinds in his lap, strands of his long blonde hair hanging in his face. TV’s on, but he isn’t watching. He’s thinking, but he’s not sure what about.
Every room in the building has a mini-fridge, microwave, drip brew, TV set with all the local channels. Started offering free Wi-Fi just last year.
Jazmin Johnson’s taking advantage of the Wi-Fi in Room 10. She’s in her last year of law school at Ole Miss, here for a conference in Memphis. But she has a paper on housing laws due, so she’s sitting up Indian-style in her bed, frantically typing on her laptop, French braids tied up to stay out of her eyes.
There’s chips and candy bars for sale in the office. Coke machine humming at the joint of the L.
It’s February, but mild even by southern standards; and yet, Eric Oakley comes out of Room 4 pulling a beanie hat over his mop of hair. Goes over to buy a drink, catches the smell of cigarette smoke. Looks over, sees the big kid from Room 9 sitting outside with a whiskey bottle and a cigarette.
Eric shuffles over. “Hey, man, mind if I bum one?”
Keith squints at him for a second. “Know the first thing I did when I decided I wanna smoke?”
“Huh?”
“Bought a pack of Camels and a lighter.”
Eric scratches his neck. “Yeah, well, I quit. Just wanted to bum one.”
Keith taps a cigarette out of the pack, holds it up. “Then you didn’t quit.”
Eric takes it and accepts a light. “Thanks.”
“Guess you want a drink too, uh?”
Eric wrinkles his nose at the bourbon. “Nah, I’m good.”
Room 10 opens and Jazmin comes out, her braids untied, wearing jeans and a black oxford, leather satchel slung across her body.
Keith lets out a low whistle. “Where you going, honey?”
Jazmin strides to an Accord, not looking back. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Yeah, I would.”
“Coffee shop. Internet’s slow.”
“Java Jack’s is good,” Keith calls as she ignites the engine. He turns to Eric. “So what brings you to Memphis?”
“Come to see a band. Weeping Willow.”
“Never heard of it.”
“They’re really good. I’ve got all their stuff on vinyl.”
Keith grunts. “Vinyl, huh?”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Brings you to Memphis?”
Keith snickers. “I live here.”
“Here? The motel?”
Keith bobs his head.
“Why?”
Keith drags on his cigarette. “Broke up with my girl. She cheated. Talked to her on the phone. She said she was with Rebecca. Knew she was lying, because Rebecca was in bed with me.”
He smiles and stretches his arms out wide.
“So now I live the life of luxury.”
THE END