The next morning, I darted into Hole Lotta Love for a blueberry muffin and coffee. On my way to the counter to order, I spotted two of my guests in a booth having breakfast. I detoured to their table.
“Good morning, ladies.” These two twenty-something women—sisters—had come to the motel earlier in the week, needing a place to stay. About a year ago, the younger sister, Rona, fell down some stairs, suffering a traumatic brain injury. Her older sister, Avia, had been taking care of her since—their father had died when they were little, and their mother was a raging alcoholic—but lately had to miss so much work that she’d gotten fired. Eviction followed, and, fortunately, they heard about me from someone at a shelter. I wouldn’t wish their troubles on my worst enemy.
“Good morning,” Avia said. Rona simply smiled.
“Getting by okay?”
“Better than okay. I’ve got a few job interviews lined up.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Fingers crossed.”
Rona repeated, “Fingers crossed.”
“Thanks, Mess,” Avia said. “I just paid Cesar for tonight’s room, but hopefully, we’ll be out of your hair soon.”
Some guests wouldn’t accept outright charity, so we had a very flexible sliding scale. I think we were charging them $12.50 a night. “Don’t worry about that. You just worry about nailing those interviews, okay?”
“I will,” Avia said.
“She will,” Rona said.
I said goodbye and went up to order. Sandy wasn’t in, so I gave her daughter Crystal a heads-up about Nicole opening a tab and grabbed my food to go.
I was already late for my monthly meeting with Uncle Phil.
I drove to the posh suburb of McLean, over hill and dale, past mansion after mansion, until I arrived at Uncle Phil’s. It wasn’t the largest castle in the neighborhood, and I bet that ate at Phil, although any normal person would be impressed by its neo-grandeur.
Whatever. Material riches didn’t impress me, although if someone tried to pay me off to be impressed, I’d listen.
I rang the bell, and some fancy chimes sounded within. A moment later, Uncle Phil himself answered the door, decked out in a designer polo shirt and spiffy yellow pants—which he probably called slacks. His outfit cost more than my entire wardrobe, if you excluded my leather bomber jacket. Maybe the butler had the day off.
“Late, as usual. Come in, Benjamin.”
Uncle Phil was the only person on earth who still called me by my given name. Even my parents had caved. I followed him into a highly decorated room off the opulent two-story foyer. A den. Or maybe he called it a sitting room or parlor or conservatory. What did I know about mansions? I lived in a motel room.
“Can I get you a drink?”
I held up my takeout cup of coffee. “No thanks. I’m good.”
“Very well, then.” He went to the bar and poured himself an inch of some extravagant gold liquid. It was five o’clock somewhere, just not in this hemisphere. Drink in hand, he lowered himself into a leather club chair and motioned for me to sit in one across from him.
He performed the same ritual every month, although sometimes the color of his slacks varied.
“How have you been?” He sipped his drink and made a little lip-smacking noise.
“Fine. You?”
“Can’t complain.” He leaned forward, smirked. “Actually, I could, but it wouldn’t do any good.”
“How’s Aunt Vera?”
“Wonderful. She’s visiting her sister in San Diego.”
“Nice.” It seemed Aunt Vera was always visiting one of her five sisters. I guessed if I were married to Phil, I’d find an excuse to get away, too, every chance I could.
Now came the awkward pause. Happened every time. Those few quiet moments after the small talk ended and before we started arguing about the motel.
I smiled at Uncle Phil, waiting him out. Finally, he burst, like always.
“I saw the numbers, and they’re worse than last month. That’s eight poor months in a row. What are you doing to that place, son? Have you no respect for what your father built?” His face darkened.
“We’ve had decent occupancy rates. But you know how the business goes, up and down.”
“I’ve been waiting for the up. Ever since your father left, in fact.”
“The up will come, Uncle Phil. There have always been cycles in this business.” I paused, solely for effect. “Even when my father was in charge.”
When my parents set out for parts unknown, they entrusted the motel to me. I made the mistake of thinking that meant I was in charge. Somehow, Uncle Phil got in my father’s ear—they’d always been very close—and persuaded my father to dictate that we meet monthly so Phil could provide his invaluable guidance. His support. His essential impartial oversight.
The only thing these meetings gave me was indigestion. Even from five thousand miles away, my father was trying to run my life. Or ruin my life, to be more exact.
“I had a long conversation with Cesar the other day.”
“And?” Cesar was in the unenviable position of being stuck in the middle, between the old guard and the new regime. He’d always been fiercely loyal to my father and, by extension, to Uncle Phil, but he also was smart enough to know who was running the show now. The motel owner is dead, long live the motel owner.
“And I got the impression that we are heavily discounting many rooms. Many, many rooms.”
Credit Cesar for not telling Phil that heavily discounting meant completely comping. “Not all of our guests can afford the rack rate.”
“You can’t give rooms away, Benjamin. That’s just not good business. Anybody with half a brain knows that. And the types of people you’re attracting….” His eyes bored into mine. “I’d hardly call them guests.”
My face felt warm. “What types are those? People who need a break? People who’ve stumbled onto hard times? What happened to your churchgoing attitude I always hear so much about? Helping your fellow man when he’s down? Ignoring the plight of the needy doesn’t sound so Christian.”
Uncle Phil clamped the lips of his starchy mouth together, but I swore I saw a smile in his eyes. He always knew how to press my buttons, and I’m sure he got off on it. I sucked in a deep breath, trying to regain some composure. If I lost it completely, he’d win.
“Look, it’s not like I’m turning away people because I’ve invited a few guests to stay with us, gratis.” I hit the word guests extra hard. “So we’re not losing any revenue. And the cost of cleaning the rooms is really negligible.”
“Those costs add up. Speaking of costs, I examined the numbers, and the ‘Other Expenses’ category is through the roof. But that isn’t all. My concerns go beyond the dollars and cents. We have our reputation to think about. We want to attract clientele who can afford to stay with us. Eventually, we can position ourselves as upscale, raise our rates. Become a classy establishment. Think, Benjamin, think.” He actually tapped the side of his head as he delivered his chastisement.
All his “we” business rankled me. I knew he thought he played an integral part in the operation, but from where I sat—in the motel’s driver’s seat—he was merely an annoyance. On the other hand, Uncle Phil could definitely cause trouble if pushed too far.
If I were on better terms with my father—and if I knew how to reach him during his exotic expedition—we could discuss the matter. Although I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out whose side he was on—his son’s or his brother’s.
“I don’t think going upscale is the direction we should—”
Uncle Phil interrupted me with a half cough, half snort. “Let’s back up a bit. Look at the big picture here.”
I nodded, bracing for more of his cockeyed life lectures.
“Do you really enjoy working at the Inn? Is that something you’ve always wanted to do? Because I remember when you were a teenager and you wanted nothing at all to do with it. You didn’t want to work there during the summers or during school breaks. You didn’t want to pitch in on the weekends. In fact, I often heard you mocking your father’s hard work. And now?”
“That was a long time ago.” Then why did I feel like a teenager again?
“You know, your parents wanted you to major in business. Get a degree. Go on to grad school.” He gave his head a wistful shake. “Even after you decided to get a psychology degree, they tried to steer you toward med school. Become a psychiatrist. That’s both a worthwhile and lucrative profession.”
At the time, I honestly considered their wishes. After all, I always had the desire to help those less fortunate. But I didn’t want to sit in a fancy leather chair in a well-appointed office, and I wanted to do something more concrete. Something immediate. And I wanted to help those in my community who were truly desperate. Opening up my motel to those who really needed a temporary sanctuary seemed like the perfect solution. If only I could get Uncle Phil off my back.
Uncle Phil barreled on. “Maybe it’s time you carved out your own place in this world. Pursue one of your passions.” He tilted his head sideways at me. “You do have some passions, don’t you?”
I had plenty of passions. One of them was helping others less fortunate, something foreign to my uncle, it seemed.
“One of these days, you’re going to have to stop living off your parents. You’re thirty years old, for chrissakes.”
“Actually, I’m thirty-one.”
He glared at me but didn’t interrupt his lecture. “When I was your age, I’d already forged a career for myself. Gotten married. Settled down. I wasn’t playing Mr. Charity with homeless people. Benjamin, you need to grow up, and soon.”
I felt like throwing up. But it was time to give up before I gave out. Sometimes, you had to go along to get along. “Uncle Phil, how about this? I’ll pay more attention to who I give rooms to. And I’ll try to keep a better handle on expenses. You’re right. If I’m going to run the motel, I should do it properly.”
Uncle Phil allowed his entire face to grin, now that I’d capitulated. Of course, words were cheap, and I could spew empty promises with the best of them. I’d had good role models growing up.
“Now you’re talking some sense.” He savored a long sip from his drink. “I’d hate to have to pull rank and step in for you. I wouldn’t want to explain that to your father, but you know, he did tell me to keep an eye on things. That’s all I’m trying to do, you know, ensure that what my brother built—from scratch, mind you—doesn’t go down the tubes. I’m sure you realize that, Benjamin.”
“Yes, I do, Uncle Phil. Yes, I do.” I realized a lot of things, you old gasbag.
I drove back to the motel, chugging along in my dumpy old Civic. I bought it from a friend for a pittance a few months ago after I’d bashed up my last beater. It was within spitting distance of 200,000 miles, and it looked much older. The seats were ripped. The ceiling was cracked. The armrests had gouges big enough to lose change in. The entire clunker smelled like a Popeye’s Cajun Feast. But it did a decent job of getting me where I wanted to go—most of the time. Truth was, I didn’t have enough disposable cash to buy anything better. And the way I treated my cars, it wouldn’t have been wise even if I had the money.
I pulled into the lot and parked in front of my room. Killed the engine. The Fairfax Manor Inn was built before security concerns all but dictated interior hallways, but I thought it fit in with the original intent of a motel. A motor hotel, where you could drive right up to the front door of your room, park the car, tote your bags ten yards, and step right inside. No bell boys, no elevators, no long hallways.
Something quaint about that efficiency, I thought.
A few other cars were in the lot, but some of the people staying with us didn’t own a vehicle. We were on a major bus route, and many of my invited guests just walked—or stumbled—right in.
I hopped out, scanning up and down the walkway that fronted the row of rooms.
All quiet, which wasn’t unusual for a Thursday mid-morning. I finally spotted life, way down at the other end of the motel, where Kevin sat at a picnic table Cesar had set out last year as part of a refurbishment and beautification project.
Like a strand of pearls around a baboon’s neck.
I strolled down the walkway, bending to pick up a few windblown snack food wrappers. When I passed Griff’s room, I caught part of a guitar solo from an old Yardbirds song. Griff might have been deficient in many things—probably most things—but his taste in music was top-notch, if a bit dated.
As I approached, Kevin glanced up from his phone and squinted into the sunlight. If he recognized me, he didn’t let on. When I reached him, he stayed hunched over, eyes glued to his screen. On the table next to him was a balled-up paper bag and a cup of soda from Hole Lotta Love.
“Good morning. Sleep well?”
“’K.”
I debated returning to my room and leaving Kevin alone to occupy himself with whatever was so fascinating on his phone. But I sat down across from him. “Did you and your mom get something to eat?”
His thumbs were busy, but he nodded at the bag on the picnic table. “Yep. Bagel sandwiches.”
“Good. I hope you told Sandy that I sent you.”
No response.
I observed him for a moment. Past puberty, but not quite grown into a man. Awkward movements, as if he hadn’t quite gotten used to his bigger body. A patch of fine wispy hair on the chin, some darker hair forming sketchy sideburns. Most evident: an overall teenage slacker attitude. I recognized the phase because I’d gone through it. Agonizing, as I recalled, and something every kid endures, yet thinks he or she is the only one experiencing it. A pang of sympathy hit me in the gut.
“How old are you, Kevin?”
A little tune rose from his phone. He smiled, then put the phone down and gave me his attention. I guessed he’d won whatever game he’d been playing.
“Huh?”
“I asked how old you were.”
He licked his lips. “Eighteen.”
If Kevin was eighteen, I was a grapefruit. Fifteen was more like it. “So, you’re in high school?”
An indeterminate shrug.
“That would make you, what, a senior?”
“School’s out for the summer.”
It was only May, but I didn’t argue. “Where’s your mom?”
Another lick of the lips. “She had something to do. Said she’d be back later today.”
I nodded. “You’re going through a tough time, huh?”
He eyed me, shrugged again. I wondered if his shoulders got sore from all the shrugging.
“Where are you guys from?”
“I don’t know. Different places.”
“Moved around, huh?” I spoke softly, as if Kevin were a wild animal that might get spooked if startled or confronted.
He nodded his head. Sort of.
“You know, sometimes people need someone to talk to. Someone who will listen without getting all judgy or preachy. Is there somebody like that you can unload on?”
Kevin stared off into the distance. I was pretty sure he’d heard me; I saw the faint hint of a smirk when I used the word judgy. He didn’t answer me, though, which struck me as a normal reaction of a kid who felt hounded—and misunderstood—by adults. Time to move on; I’d done enough wisdom-dispensing for the time being. You had to pace yourself on these types of things.
“Okay, then.” I pointed over my shoulder toward my room. “I’ve got a ton of stuff waiting for me. Is there anything I can do for you or your mom before I get busy? I know a lot of people in the area who can provide help—with whatever you need.”
He shrugged again and picked up his phone. Dismissed.
I couldn’t wait to have children of my own.