The uneasy hinge-creak of the motel room door drained my soul right out of my body.
Alone in this room at a motel in a remote corner of a most-economically depressed corner of the state, my isolation shocked me. Within six seconds I knew that no one I love even knew what room I was in, when they'd hear from me next, or whether I'd overslept; that the deadbolt I'd carefully locked was no longer in place; that before my shower I had noticed that no other cars from last night's parking lot were still out there; that I had *not* been an idiot to ponder the Bates family while taking the aforementioned shower; that I hoped I had enough social skill to somehow talk my way out of whatever was about to happen because I was alone, and the uneasy hinge-creak of the motel room door was due to someone slowly and deliberately opening the door.
"Hello?"
Unable to imagine accidental entry into my room, but knowing that no one else had a key, maybe a "hello" would alert them to my presence--maybe merely a thief? please?
Voicelessly, the door opened a bit more as fingers wrapped around its edge, creating a barrier to any potential slamming-shut I might've moved toward.
"Um, EXCUSE ME?" (It was more statement of my presence than question of theirs.)
Wiry and wide eyed, the thin woman's face peered nervously into the room, eyes not adjusted after being in the morning sunlight outdoors.
Clearly displeased with me, she snapped through missing teeth, "You're a CheckOut, aintcha?"
A split-second's deliberation served well; "They sent me over here to clean this here room, and you're not supposed to be in it. You're a Check-Out, aintcha?"
I still couldn't tell if this was real.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well, you're not staying here another night. They sent me over. I'm s'posed to clean it up and all."
Neither of us moved.
"Look," I pointed out calmly, "There is a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the doorknob."
"Aw, people always puttin' those out and just leavin' 'em. I'm here to clean."
"Well, I'm still HERE," I pointed out (illustrating once again my children's contention that I love to state the obvious.) "I'm not supposed to check out for another hour."
Defensive, she listed every reason she could muster for being inside my room--my car wasn't directly outside the door; people put those signs out all the time; her job is cleaning; people don't usually stick around this place in the morning; she's supposed to clean the room now 'cause she starts at 9am; my brain about melted down taking it in.
She really DID seem to be there to clean, but DAMN: this place (a mid-range chain motel relatively near my daughter's college campus) had been a nightmare from square one--advertised minor amenties non-existent; damp towels in the towel racks; non-working television; a fridge whose decibel level rivaled that of a passing freight train; unhelpful staff; none of those useful little guides for getting help if there was something wrong with the room.......and now, dammit, an intruder had come creepishly into my room at 10:10am and was telling me that *I* am the jerk here.
Indignity heaped upon insult, frustration welled in my throat and hot tears flashed to my eyes. "Can you please just go? I'll sign out as soon as possible. Please leave me alone, please? Trust me, I *want* to get out of here: this has been the most awful motel experience I've ever had."
"Oh, I *know*!" she commiserated, reminiscent of Sweeney Todd's Mrs. Lovett. "I sure do know!"
She spun on her heel, leaving the door ajar on departure.
Taking a deep breath, I crossed the room, closed the door (deadbolt and all) and quickly gathered all my things. Laptop, purse, bags, book, cellphone, roomkey: check. Didn't wanna leave anything behind; didn't wanna have to come back to THIS crappy, stupid, miserable, dismaying place.
At the front desk, I would ask for a refund. What a stupid, wretched place; and what a rip off. How utterly unprofessional and unhospitable it ALL was--nothing, NOTHING had been handled well. I'm a pretty adaptable and patient girl; as long as you seem atleast sorta like you WANT to fix problems, I'm almost codependently willing to let you off the hook; but THIS place had done pretty much everything wrong and didn't even seem to KNOW it. The least they could do was not-charge me for this annoying, unfortunate experience.
The manager looked older than he could possibly have been, grizzled and worn out, clad in a white tank top while scooping food from a styrofoam bowl into his mouth and trying to sound cheerful as he asked if I were leaving now. Not "How was your stay," not "Is there anything else we can do for you," not "I hope you've enjoyed staying here, please fill out our survey," NOTHING.
Instead, just this: "You leavin' now?"
And it all came crashing down on me.
Yes, I was leaving now.
I had that option. I'd get into my car, and reimmerse in my life, my ridiculously good and rich and wonderful life. I'd text my college-student daughter and son from my own cell phone, letting them know that when they woke up they could meet me at the fair trade coffeeshop a couple of blocks from Sarah's campus apartment where they were sleeping in. I'd order an overpriced cup of coffee and crank up the laptop, tapping into the free wireless access to check in on all the messages, headlines, facebook updates and communication I'd missed overnight. I'd never have to stay at this crappy little motel again, and never see these incompetent people again and......well, that was the problem now.
I could leave. They could stay isolated and set apart; uneducated and unworthy of, say, dental insurance or education or even awareness of social graces like saying "I'm sorry!" when you've clearly intruded on another person's privacy. I could leave them behind, chained to unhappy jobs where they felt defensive; and I could take my money with them because, damnit, I was RIGHT.
Except that all of a sudden, I couldn't begin to live with taking even one more resource out of their lives.
The motel was awful, for sure. But the existence to which we've somehow damned this small cross-section of the local community is worse. I could leave. They could not.
Fifteen minutes earlier, my sense of isolation had frightened me. Suddenly, my sense of the isolation of these individuals shook me. Deeply.
Tryng to make ends meet, giving what they *do* have to provide a place for overprivileged (not a word I usually associate with myself, I suppose) people like me to stay, not knowing what to do when it doesn't work out well....and I was supposed to self-righteously ask for a REFUND?!?
"You leavin' now?"
Tears welled in my eyes again. "Yes. yes I am. Thank you, sir," I smiled.
He nodded, turning away to go back to his day.
