One thing you have to understand—the people who come here aren't looking for a vacation. The smiling women and the well-dressed men aren't here celebrating anniversaries, birthdays, or graduations. They aren’t visiting their grandparents or escaping for a weekend getaway with a loved one. They come here for the quick fuck, the empty smiles. The perfect anonymity that comes just twenty, thirty miles outside of city lines; where the endless, seductive curve of the highway is warped with looping exits into empty neighborhoods, vacant cheer, and a tired indifference.
Get far enough away from everything, and the whole world goes a little crazy.
~
Welcome to the Midtown California branch of Motel 9. I'm Cathy. Andy, that's your new manager, is having me show you the ropes.
Hope you know what you're getting into. Never let it be said that hospitality is a "safe and rewarding" job. You've picked a hell of a profession, what is it again, Carla? Whatever. Anyway, of course I can't say that I, at least, didn't know what I was getting into. Long days, long hours, long oily smiles—enough to make you want to slap off his grubbing hands—good old Randy Andy's always good for a quick grope and a nice bonus—pull off your starchy maid's uniform and just screw it all. All of this and still you're barely eking out enough to pay for a small piece of shit apartment in a shit neighborhood.
Again, I hope you know what you're getting into.
Get another job? Sure. Ten years working in here, no money, no degree, not even a fucking diploma—do you really think I’m going places?
So, the motel's not much—three floors, small athletic room, reception—just enough for me and now you to keep up; nothing interesting.
Our customers are something else. Run out of their big cities, people visit our small hotel to, ah, indulge themselves. Here, away from their country clubs and wine tasting parties they can be something else. They always blow out early the next morning shouting obscenities into their tiny cell phones, followed a couple hours later by their filmy women with muddy flowers crawling out from under their big sunglasses.
Most important part of our job here—no fucking questions. What you find out, keep to yourself. That's why I've had this job so long. I know how to keep my mouth shut.
Shame about the last few girls though. There's a reason this job has a high turnover rate.
Good example over there. Look at those two. The tall blonde in the austere Armani and the tipsy redhead draped across him in craggy folds of sweat and cheap green jersey, the ones at the door of 4B. All of us long-term staff here know him, the blonde.
See how Armani leads her—
nails biting the small of her back
pulling her, tottering, to the door,
glancing flatly over her head as the redhead presses her lips up his pale neck.
shutting the door with a hushed hiss.
He’s a regular.
~
See, in the end, people don’t really care if they hurt someone else. Most don’t even care about the coworker they see every morning going out for coffee or the old woman living alone in the dusty apartment down the hall who keeps her DNR papers in her freezer.
Here’s what actually happens: the next morning, the blonde leaves early, with a heavy bag. He leans his black rolling suitcase against the front desk and smiles at the tired clerk, who blushes and looks down before handing him his receipt.
He passes four people on her way to her car: two dark haired women staring vacantly out the grey windows over their morning coffee, a teenage boy whose cheekbones jut surreally from his gaunt face, and a young woman whose soft folds of fat press in thick rolls through her thin t-shirt and bulge out slightly from her tight, short skirt. All of them too wrapped up in their own shit to give a damn; none of them look up as he pulls out the door, the wheels of his suitcase clicking crisply on the yellow tile.
No one cares about justice here. We all have too many problems of our own.
~
The best part of our job? We're doing it. All these high-rollers running out of here so fast, no surprise most of them forget something. Cleaning out these rooms is sometimes the best paying part of my—or our now, I guess—new job. Not that it’s hard to beat our crap wage.
Yeah, this is the same room as the two from last night. Not important. But look at this! 24K, crystal inlay—I could get a couple hundred for this from Jed down at the pawn shop, maybe more if I get him after he’s started drinking.
Don't forget to change the towels too. The old ones? Too stained, toss 'em.
Yeah, I know that's blood.
Call someone? Um... No. Don't bother.
I'd say we both need all the extra money we can get.
~~~~~
Critiques appreciated.
. Now on to the review, I may warn you though, I'm pretty bad at reviewing. 
