The Registration Office was Cesar’s domain; I worked out of my own office, Room Fourteen. It adjoined my room, and while I tried to keep all my personal stuff in Room Thirteen and all my business stuff in the office, it was a losing battle. Tough to shoehorn thirty-one years of accumulated junk in a single motel room. As it was, I stowed a bunch of boxes in my parents’ summer house, in my sister’s house, and in a storage unit I rented a couple miles away.
I really did try to keep my office halfway presentable, in case I had to conduct a business meeting of some sort. That didn’t happen too often. Most of the established suppliers and advertising sales guys conducted their business over the phone, while the new ones usually pestered Cesar in his office. But every once in a while, I’d meet with somebody from the Chamber of Commerce or some local service organization who’d want to pitch me on something—something that allowed me to display the enormous civic pride the Fairfax Manor Inn exhibited for the City of Fairfax. Of course, that something always cost more money than it was worth, by a significant margin.
The Room Fourteen office was about as fancy as the rest of the place, but it had the distinction of being my creation—it post-dated my father’s involvement. I’d set up an old cherry desk toward the back of the room, surrounded by a few of what an old boss used to call “visitor” chairs. Closer to the door, I’d arranged an informal seating area: two love seats—matching—and a coffee table topped with three stacks of glossy magazines.
Off to one side, I’d squeezed in a huge old-fashioned novelty gumball machine that took half dollars. Next to that, a hot/cold water dispenser. On the walls, I hung a few business-y things: A commendation from the city for participating in a July 4th Parade. A picture of a Little League team we’d sponsored years ago—when business was much better. An official proclamation we’d gotten for assisting Fairfax’s finest in some kind of Neighborhood Watch thing—I never did know what that meant exactly, but the framed certificate looked impressive, so I hung it up with the rest.
Now, Lia Katsaros, a reporter from a local paper called the Fairfax Observer, sat in one of my visitor’s chairs. I pegged her for mid-twenties, and a big tousle of curly black hair framed a friendly face. Two huge brown eyes drew me in. A moon-shaped scar decorated one side of her chin, and I wondered how she got it. If I had a chance to slide that question into the interview, I would.
I wasn’t sure why, but I’d felt a connection with Lia the moment she glided through the door.
She’d called last week eager to do a feature story on some of the City’s long-time businesses, and she found our motel to be charming. From her comment, I could only assume she’d never actually been inside any of the rooms.
Until now.
“Thanks for agreeing to this, uh, Mess,” she said. “Are you sure that’s what you’d like to be called in the article?”
“Sure.” I got some variation of that question all the time. At first, I used to feign offense, but that got old quickly. Now I just said sure.
Lia pulled out her phone and placed it on the desk between us. “I was planning to record the interview. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all. I’ll try not to say anything controversial that might come back to ruin my chance at an elected government position.”
She smiled, showing off two rows of perfect white teeth, and for a second, I forgot all about the interview.
“Ready?”
“Uh, sure.”
She referred to a printout she’d placed on the desk in front of her. “Okay, first question. This motel was built back in the forties, right? When did your family take over?”
“My father bought it in the nineties, and he—and my mother—ran it themselves for about fifteen years. Then he acquired a few more motels in the area, and a couple of car washes, and a few other local businesses along the way, most of which he subsequently sold. So we’ve always owned it, but in the later years, he wasn’t always around. He brought in a first-rate manager, Cesar Ruiz, to take over the day-to-day operations. He’s still here, by the way, if you’d like to talk to him, too.”
“Thanks, that’s a good idea. Get another perspective.” She shifted in her chair while consulting her list of questions. “Next. How long have you, personally, been associated with the motel?”
“Well, I kinda grew up here. My mom would bring me here after school, and I’d do homework in the office. Sometimes, I’d watch TV or read in one of the unoccupied rooms. I did a bunch of chores, too. Hauling trash. Making sure all the rooms had Bibles and that the TVs worked. You know, stuff like that. Looking back, I guess it’s unusual for a kid to hang around a motel, but I didn’t know any different. When I was older—and certainly after I got my driver’s license—I wasn’t around here very much.”
“And now you’re back. The prodigal son.”
She looked at me expectantly, but I wasn’t sure how to respond. It wasn’t exactly a question, and me saying simply, “Yep,” seemed dismissive. I cleared my throat.
“Yes, I’m back, and…” I paused. I couldn’t very well tell her I ran a haven for people in trouble trying to escape from bad situations—not without jeopardizing the whole enchilada. It wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted reported in the press, not when so many of my guests wanted to fly under the radar. “…And it’s sorta like I never left.”
Lia nodded slowly. “In what respects?”
“Well, Cesar still works here, for one. And…I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a familiar feeling I get.”
“Okay. Moving on. What’s the biggest change over the years?”
“Beside me actually living here?”
“You live here?”
I jerked my head to the side. “Right next door. I have a very short commute to work.”
“Lucky. About the commute, I mean. I’m not sure I could live in a motel, myself.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I just…” She shook her head, and something sparked in her eyes. “Nope. I’m interviewing you. How about the general area? What are the biggest changes you’ve seen with regard to the community?”
I answered this question—more people, more business, more traffic—and the next question and the next twenty questions. In every answer, I tried to be as forthcoming as I could without divulging what really drove me to work here and what truly inspired me to keep this place afloat.
After about forty-five minutes, she exhaled deeply and turned the recorder app off. “That’s it for the questions. Now, if I could just get a few pictures.”
“Uh, sure.” I smoothed my hair and sat up straight.
“Not of you,” she said. “Sorry. Pictures of the motel. And the old mini-golf course next door. That belongs to you, too, right?”
“Yes. Yes, it does. Come on, I’ll show you around.”
I showed Lia around the motel, stopping here and there to let her take some pictures. Of the front façade, of the old-style neon sign, of the distinctive Registration Office. When we were finished with the motel, we headed to the mini-golf course in the adjacent lot.
My father had bought it a year after he got the motel from an aging owner eager to sell. We’d kept it going for years, but eventually, it cost more to maintain than we were earning, and my father made the difficult decision to shut the place down. Although it now was a definite eyesore after years of neglect, it sat on top of some pretty valuable real estate, so my family was determined to hang on to it until they sold the whole parcel of land.
The entire course was enclosed with a chain-link fence, but there was a gate around the back. When we got there, I removed the padlock—it wasn’t actually locked, I kept forgetting the combination—and swung the door open.
“Nice security,” Lia said.
“Believe me, if someone wants to steal something from here, they’re welcome to it.” We walked onto the course, and Lia pulled out her phone. I held my arms out. “This is it, straight out of the past. Take all the pictures your heart desires, and if you want a live model, just holler.”
“Thanks, but I think I’m good.” She flashed a quick smile, then drifted off, phone outstretched as she started taking photos.
I leaned against the side of the starter’s hut and gazed out over the familiar course. It had been built in the sixties and, like most mini-golf courses worth a darn, hewed to a theme. Ours featured landmarks from around the world and came with its own tagline: See the World in 18 Holes!
Large fiberglass figures, whose bases were affixed directly to the course’s concrete foundation, attracted customers and gave the course its international character. Looking back on it now, I realized how cheesy it had really been. But for kids and for families with kids, it was kitschy entertainment at its most suburban.
A six-foot Eiffel Tower overlooked the first hole. An African lion guarded the fourth. The Statue of Liberty welcomed visitors to hole nine, and a family of kangaroos frolicked alongside the twelfth hole. A large Dutch windmill dominated the fourteenth. Now, the out-of-scale figures seemed tired and lifeless, their bright colors faded by the years, along with my memories.
One thing hadn’t changed—the amount of trash that seemed to collect there. While I cleaned up the motel grounds frequently, I wasn’t as diligent with the mini-golf course, lucky to get to it once a month, although I didn’t remember doing it in April.
Or in March.
Or in February.
Past due.
When I was nine or ten years old, during the course’s good years, cleaning up the place had been my main chore. A few times a day, I’d scour the grounds for litter—cups and napkins, old scorecards, miscellaneous stuff people would be too lazy to throw into the trashcans. I felt a sense of pride after I finished when I’d look around and not see any trash anywhere. I guessed the bar was set low for ten-year-olds.
Lia circled the course, taking pictures, and every once in a while, I could catch a glimpse of her or hear her laugh out loud. Finally, she met me back at the hut. “What a great course! It must have been really cool to be a kid and have your family own this place, huh?”
“I guess. Not sure I thought that then, though.” I shrugged.
She looked at me for a moment, as if I were about to say something really profound. When I didn’t, she just smiled. “Well, thanks so much for the local history lesson, Mess. That was great. I never knew so much about this area.”
“Not from around here?”
She shook her head. “Grew up outside of Boston. Moved here after college.”
“You don’t have a New England accent.”
“I kinda used to have a wicked strong one.” She said it with a very pronounced accent, then laughed. As she did, her moon-shaped scar smiled at me, practically begging me to ask its origination story.
I obliged. “Not trying to get personal, and I realize this might come across as unprofessional, but how did you get that scar on your chin?”
She stared at me, and I realized I’d crossed some sort of line. I hit the backspace key, hard. “Hey, I’m sorry. Please, forget I asked, okay? It was so nice of you to take the time to interview me, and here I am just intruding on your—”
She held up a hand. “Relax. I take no offense.”
The scar kept smiling at me. “Look, how about letting me thank you for the interview. If you don’t have anywhere to be right now, how about drinks?”
“Well…sure. Why not? And I can tell you the entire harrowing story of how I got my scar.” She laughed, and the scar danced. “If you think you’re strong enough.”
I thought I was, but I wasn’t always right about stuff like that.
Early drinks segued into an early dinner at a seafood dive, the Krab Shack, down Route 50. Good crabs and killer cornbread, and the rolls of butcher paper covering the tables gave the place a beachy flavor.
After a few minutes of conversation, I learned that Lia’s scar was the result of a childhood accident: a pick-up hockey game on a frozen pond, a pile-up, and a sharp skate blade. The harrowing part consisted of a lot of blood, which actually didn’t bother me, but Lia got queasy at the sight of it, so even as she was retelling the story, a wave of dizziness passed over her.
I held her hand until the feeling passed. Least I could do. It had been a while since I’d felt an attraction like the one forming in my gut, and I was a little nervous I’d screw this one up, too. My mind kept whispering, go slow. I took a deep breath and tried not to hyperventilate.
We enjoyed our food and chatted until about nine o’clock when she said she needed her beauty sleep—and had to get up for an early morning appointment. I drove her back to the motel so she could pick up her car. We said goodbye, and I pecked her on the cheek and promised to call her.
I had an unfortunate tendency to forget many of the promises I made, but this was one I fully intended to keep.
Back in my office, I caught up on emails for about an hour, reviewed a proposal from Cesar about installing new shower rods and curtains, then I moved into my room to watch SportsCenter. At about 11:15, I went outside to stretch my legs. I walked around the motel, picking up trash—the wind always seemed to be blowing flotsam and jetsam onto the property where it would accumulate—thinking about how nice the dinner conversation had been with Lia.
As I came around the back corner of the building, I bumped into one of our guests.