"Don't trash the place." That was all the manager had to say when I paid for three hours in his little roach trap motel. I pondered the name of the place; Casa Royale. I've always been curious why the owners of sleazy places like this gave them grandiose names, like it may fool the weary traveler, not with the flickering neon Vacancy sign and the rusted siding.
Out side the "lobby" there was a broken pay phone and a cigarette machine. I put a five in the machine, pressed the button for Marlboro Lights, hard pack. It clicked and clanked (it was probably rusted too) and finally ejected a single dented up pack of smokes. I quickly collected it and my change, noting a slight tremor to my hands, and then looked at the key in my hand. Did I really want to do this?
The key was a dirty bronze color with 34 engraved roughly on one side. It was almost faded away from so many grubby fingers using it.
I headed down the covered walkway, past an ice machine and six rooms, three of which had do not disturb signs and low sex sounds coming from the opening at the bottom of the door. After what seemed like 20 minutes, I arrived at room 34.
It definitely wasn't much to look at with orange-ish carpeting flecked with miscellaneous stains, some of which still looked moist, and a crookedly hung door leading into the closet that was what I was assuming was a restroom, though I had no intention of finding out.
The grand centerpiece of the room, the bed, sat swaybacked with use, in the center of the room a few inches from the wall. That was probably to prevent it banging on the adjoining room wall when whoever had rented the room was fucking or being fucked. The bedding was still disheveled as if it had just been used (which I am sure it had been.)
I hung my coat on the doorknob, kicked off my shoes, and opened the cigarettes. "Why do I keep coming back here?" I asked myself as I lit it and took a deep draw.
