The Short Straw Motel

The rhythmic lament of the wind-shield wipers drowned out the crashing of the rain outside but did nothing to mask the desperate laughter inside the car.

Patricia looked towards the rear-view mirror, at the reflection of the chauffer’s ever-so-slightly raised eyebrow as he periodically switched his forward gaze to unassumingly judge the goings-on in the passenger’s seat.

A stout, balding man—whose only agreeable attribute appeared to be his fine tailored suit—sat in the front. Atop him perched a synthetic blonde—seemingly xeroxed to life from a random page out of a magazine with most of its pages stuck together.

She intermittently whispered in his ear and then tittered away every time he opened his mouth to unleash another unimpressive comment or sordid chortle.

This carried on for the entirety of the journey.

The sound of the tip of the driver’s shoe on the brake pedal tapped in halftime with the indicator’s clicking until he could make the turning. The leather of his black gloves squeaked as he tightened his grip around the steering wheel. Then silence, although not for long.

‘Stop it!’ the woman called out in a shrill tone which indicated that the larger man—introduced to the ladies only as “Mr. Jones”—should in fact not stop what he was doing.

Patricia could not see what was happening from the back seat, but she could hazard a guess.

Whatever it was made the seat jiggle and then jolt even further backward, knocking against Patricia’s locked knees.

A nanosecond-long inner instinct made Patricia smile rather than scoff as she would have done under any other circumstance. Alas, her carefully honed skills could fool no one because there was no one watching. She looked in the mirror again and realized the exasperated driver was too busy gritting his teeth to notice her and, needless to say, Mr. and Mrs. Noise were too busy to notice anything.

Still, Patricia kept the numb simper on her face just as she kept her hands clasped on her lap, her shoulders back and her posture straight. There was an air of professionalism to be maintained after all, by her at least.

Patricia’s gallant knight slumped in the seat next to her; temporarily passed out due to a condition she could only refer to as “light-weight-itis” in her head. Not that she was complaining. And not that she could not identify. She rarely imbibed, if ever, and especially not on a job.

‘Here. Here will do,’ Mr. Jones said, slapping at the driver’s shoulder and gesturing to his left.

Then, he reached back to deliver a bumbling set of blows on the second man’s knee in an eager attempt to wake him up.

‘Hey, Johnno,’ he called to the back seat, ‘wake up, buddy. The night’s not over yet.’

“Great,” Patricia thought.

‘What do you reckon, Sally?’ Mr. Jones called.

The blonde beauty giggled. ‘Silly! I think it’s Patty.’

‘Yeah, Patty,’ he corrected himself, ‘a little nightcap?’

‘Great!’ Patricia called.

What kind of saloon, bar, club, or respectable establishment would be open this late, this far out in the sticks? Maybe that was the point, she thought. She would be foolish to expect them to stop at a respectable establishment.

Patricia peered through the window as the car came to a halt. She could see a resilient glow from a series of bright red bulbs surrounding a large sign she could not make out through the drenched glass.

The driver opened her door and offered his hand.

Patricia got out herself and looked up to see the drunken couple huddled together under a large umbrella, dashing to the entrance of something much worse than any of the bars or clubs they had been to that evening.

She slammed the door and made her way around the back of the car to its opposite side, slushing through puddles formed in the gravel parking lot which splattered murky water onto her heels and ankles as she slogged.

The driver promptly followed with his own umbrella, running like a dutiful puppy in a flat cap and overcoat.

Patricia opened the car door.

‘Hey, there,’ she said to the man in the back seat. She could not remember the man’s name, but in this state, she figured, he probably didn’t either. ‘Hey, come on now. Let’s go,’ she ordered, bumping into the driver as he tried to shield her from the elements.

Met with a slurred and muffled response from the gentleman she was supposed to be escorting, Patricia only became more determined.

Grunting, she pulled him to the edge of the seat. Then, she lifted his torso just outside the car and signaled for the driver to help her.

The man blinked himself into a more conscious state as a stream of cold droplets ran down his face. Then, he popped one foot outside the car, extended an arm over Patricia’s shoulder and the other over the driver’s as they propped him up.

‘Where are we?’ he mumbled.

‘The Short Straw Motel,’ Patricia stated.

***

The Short Straw Motel. An imposing structure, unlike the moniker denotes, with countless floors housing dozens of rooms and thrice as many windows. Built as though the sight of which would separate the sheep from the goats; it survived, just, rather like mutton dressed as lamb.

Gawking upwards, one would note more than a few passé chimneys and faux balconies concealing parts of its waning façade. Scrutinizing downwards, naught could be seen but a string of lifeless plants in forgotten flowerbeds and lone bricks scattered across its base along a veritable moat of sludge filled by cascading waterfalls of grim, regurgitated rainfall pouring from the blocked gutters.

Upon entering the building, however, one is greeted by a grand entrance under a high ceiling and broad archway facing a set of mahogany stairs with intricately designed railings. A sequence of golden wallchiere fixtures with dimly lit bulbs and monochrome photographs with gilded frames adorned the right wall. On the left, another archway formed the entrance to a lobby, home to a large reception desk and dispersed seating arrangements. Floral wallpapers, quatrefoil carpet, overstuffed jewel-toned armchairs, and floor-length velvet drapes. Tawdry yet cozy enough. The presumable core of the Short Straw Motel.

***

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