Pulling back the bed cover I saw that there was pink sheets on the bed.
Perfect, I thought, with not a little sarcasm.
Earlier that day I’d passed up a fuck date in exchange for some time.
So here I was, alone with the reminder of what I missed, and what I gained.
Was the exchange worth it.
I was in a crappy 40 dollar hotel in the florida panhandle. I was on one of my ‘quests for inner self awareness.’
Find yourself, after losing yourself! Something that I did often, with limited sucess.
The room was in one of those really old highway motels that are one storey with a front and back window a small rust stained bathroom and a musty damp smell.
It was raining outside and cold inside inspite of the 70 degree day. The AC loud and sonorous, had one setting off or on, and it failed to pull the damp out, but did put the temp at a cold 65 degrees.
The cold with the thin pink sheets and almost as thin coverlet on the impossibly hard king size bed made a nearly it a nearly unsleepable night.
Sleep was the last thing I needed anyway, in a zombie like state since I left home, I’d stopped at a ‘sometimes’ (yes you may assume she was a Florida booty call) girlfriend’s house while making my way south. Not sure why I called her, chalk it up to sins of the flesh, but I opted to move on and stayed here instead of her bed.
Dumb decision, In horny hindsight, but it would’ve been no good, too distracted by the thought of my inner journey I would’ve been a disappointment to her and me. This journey of self discovery was one that I needed, so I eskewed the offer. (Keep telling yourself that if it helps).
I was on a journey of letting go, letting go of the past, seeking a path forward; shit, maybe even trying to find the path! So, since as a male I can’t do two things at once, not with my brain and body, I opted out and gave my apologies and hit the road.
Which brings me to right here, stopping when I could no longer drive seeing a roadside motel and waking the nice Indian lady at 1am to get this room.
40 dollars. A deal! They still had the old fashioned key on the plastic tab, for which I had to put down a 5 dollar deposit returnable when the key was returned.
Inside the room was clean though stained with life, the bed completely filling the room, a small bath with a frosted back window, not often you stay in a place where there is an easy escape out back, note to self-make a beeline for here next time I’m on the lamb from the law! At least I would be prepared in case things went south, like in the movies.
Dropping my duffel on the bed, I put my cooler down on the floor and pulled out my bottle of vodka, and my trusty tumbler. I never go anywhere with out glass, cut-rate motels never have glass and my vodka eats right through paper cups.
Scooping out some unmelted cubes from the water, I poured a large drink, taking it into the bath to get a shower.
Slipping into the pink sheets, a poor substitute for the pink I’d passed up earlier that evening, I contemplated the next day. Beach, sand, and thought, I needed to look out into the oceans waves and wait for inspiration, the mother of all life, the ocean was my friend. As I drifted off, my thought was I needed a shit-ton of booze.
Considering my life up to now, fucking to fill the empty parts of my life, I was happy, life outside of life, that was where I was, simple easy and soothing. A balm that Gilead didn’t hold a candle. Booze sand and sun.
(Note to readers, this story was started a few years ago but I never finished it. I’ve always loved the irony of pink sheets as a counterpoint to carnal knowledge of wonderful sexual release, so I kept editing it over and over, the trajectory of time space not withstanding, and I’ve had way toooo much rye whiskey tonight, so I’ve let my child go, to make it’s way in the blosisphere (is that still a thing?) , so be kind and know it’s still all typed with thumbs on my semi smart phone. Love and kisses, Mr. P)
©The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2016