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Under the Black Light

Some walls tell a better story than others

By Tina D'AngeloPublished about a year ago 3 min read
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   Under the Black Light
Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash

If walls could talk I would be the talk of the town. I've supported the flimsy roof of this tiny motel on the rundown side of town for sixty-plus years. This motel has seen many guests come and go. Mostly come. Then, again, most didn't stick around too long after.

My favorite guests were the seventeen and eighteen-year-old high school seniors who celebrated their prom night beneath my broad, battle-scarred structure. The youngsters, so full of excitement, cheap booze, and hormones, their slippery fingers wrestling with condom wrappers, then finally deciding they weren't worth the wait. Fumbling with zippers, buttons, hooks, and snaps, while breathlessly awaiting the last kiss of innocence.

By Tai's Captures on Unsplash

The tears shed by the girls who woke up in a puddle of vomit only to realize their virginity had fled during the night. The triumphant looks on the boys' faces, after snagging the most sought-after prize in high school. Clumsy attempts at consolation with promises as phony as their IDs.

The hookers, a veritable pageant of different ages and degrees of deterioration. The young girls, unsure of themselves, waited for the john to make the first move, not sure if they should ask for the cash out loud, or if the men would know enough to leave it on the dresser, so no cash exchanged hands. The older, sadder hookers, hardened and deadened by exchanges with their customers would simply gesture to the dresser and mechanically undress, getting down to the business at hand, or at the mouth, or at another orifice. Wasting no time, so they could go back out on the hunt.

On occasion, I got to watch a polished pro in action. A clean, elegantly dressed lady doing a slow strip-tease and making love to her john all night long, as if it meant something to her. I counted five one-hundred dollar bills on the dresser and I'd say, from my vantage point, the man got what he paid for and then some, as the stains on my paint will attest to.

Secret lovers sneaking into the room separately, watching out the window for witnesses to their sordid love. The hurried scramble to remove clothing, the panting, groaning, and crying of people out of their elements, out of their minds, giving in to the lust they believed was love. Sometimes lust was more fulfilling than what they had waiting for them at home. It would carry them through another week of existence until we meet again in my room.

By Kenny Eliason on Unsplash

Then, there were the couples down on their luck, simply needing a cheap place for shelter, while they sorted out their lives. A bathroom to clean up in, a sink to wash out clothing, and a bed to sleep in before they hit the road again in search of a better life. I patiently listened to the arguments about how they came to that point. The cries of despair over their plight and the begging of one partner or the other to give in, ask for help, or go home. Nothing resolved, I watched as they loaded their beat-up car and drove away as wretched as when they arrived. My tears for them ran down my painted surface in steamy rivers after their showers ran cold.

Saddest of all were the inconsolable. The men and women who were brought to their knees by failure and loneliness. Men with their bottles and their bullets, women with their pills. On their knees and didn't know enough to pray. So close to reaching out to God, but not knowing the way. On their knees and wrecked by life's wicked pains. No end in sight but the shot they would never hear. No end in sight but the pills that stayed down.

By Mickael Gresset on Unsplash

The record of their demise is written on the paint on my face. Evident now only in black light. At this motel, we get no happy travelers heading to Fun Town. At this motel, we only get the unhappy stragglers of life traveling down the road to nowhere good. All their struggles, all their pain, all their ecstasy I watched from my stained and pitted surface.

Humanity
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About the Creator

Tina D'Angelo

G-Is for String is now available in Ebook, paperback and audiobook by Audible!

https://a.co/d/iRG3xQi

G-Is for String: Oh, Canada! and Save One Bullet are also available on Amazon in Ebook and Paperback.

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Outstanding

Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

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    Creative use of language & vocab

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    Well-structured & engaging content

  3. Excellent storytelling

    Original narrative & well developed characters

  1. Eye opening

    Niche topic & fresh perspectives

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    The story invoked strong personal emotions

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    Zero grammar & spelling mistakes

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    Writing reflected the title & theme

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Comments (2)

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  • Mark Gagnonabout a year ago

    Wow Tina, what a great story! My competition hopes just got trashed. Well done!

  • Donna Fox (HKB)about a year ago

    Such a great story! Love the direction and perspective you chose with this one!

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