THIRTY-FIVE

THE KOREAN family that had succeeded Gerald and Anita Foos as owners in 1995, and subsequently ran the place without knowing the history behind the rectangular-shaped six-by-fourteen-inch plaster-board patches that were centered in the ceilings of a dozen rooms, sold the Manor House during the winter of 2014 to a real estate partnership headed by a seventy-five-year-old Denver-based developer named Brooke Banbury.

Mr. Banbury envisioned replacing the motel with a multi-level apartment house, or a hotel, or perhaps a medical building with a bank on the ground floor. After he had acquired the motel, its contents, and the surrounding land for $770,000 in cash, the Korean occupants promptly vacated their office and living quarters and left behind clothes and shoes in the closets and food in the refrigerator and under the front counter. There was also a small suitcase secured with a padlock, and when Brooke Banbury opened it he discovered a submachine gun with three loaded magazines and extra bullets. The police were summoned and they did not return the rifle.

Most of the twenty-one rooms in the main building had fresh linen on the beds except for about a half dozen that had been used by guests just prior to the sale and after the departure of the chambermaids.

But a week or so after the sale, while Banbury was standing in the parking area talking to a couple of city officials, a Lexus SUV drove by and pulled into one of the parking spaces. A well-dressed Asian gentleman then stepped out of the vehicle and walked toward a door of one of the rooms, presumably having a key.

Interrupted by the loud voice of Banbury, who declared that the motel was now out of business, the man quietly returned to his car and left. A few minutes later, a second car arrived and parked in the same spot. This time two young Asian women stepped out and were about to knock on the door, but quickly retreated upon hearing Banbury calling to them and waving them away. After staring quizzically at Banbury for a moment, both women turned toward one another and laughed as they drove off.

It was the intention of Banbury’s wife, Mary Jo, to donate the motel’s contents—the beds, bureaus, lamps, linen, and every­thing else—to one of the local charities or welfare agencies; but all refused, explaining that they lacked the storage space for such a large volume of material or had insufficient numbers of personnel and vehicles to collect it. So her husband hired a demolition crew for about $30,000 to demolish everything and haul it away.

This was accomplished in about two weeks, after which the workmen left a plot of flat land, measuring 100 by 282 feet, that was covered with dirt and small chunks of rock and splinters of wood intermingled with weeds, vines, and strips of electric wiring, all enclosed in chain-link fencing—which was how the property still looked four months later when Gerald and Anita Foos visited it, near the end of the summer of 2015.

Since their home in the Denver suburbs is several miles from Aurora, and they had not recently driven past their old property on East Colfax Avenue, they were late in learning about the sale and demolition of the Manor House Motel.

There were tears in Anita’s eyes as she parked the couple’s car on a side street bordering the fence. For a few moments she and Gerald, who sat in the passenger seat, silently stared through the windows of their car out toward the extension of wire netting surrounding the more than half acre of empty space.

“Seems that everything is gone,” Gerald said finally, opening the car door, and, with the aid of his cane, stepped up to the curb. It was a hot Sunday afternoon and there were no pedestrians and very few motorists moving up and down East Colfax Avenue. After waiting for Anita to join him, the couple then headed arm in arm along the sidewalk toward the open front gate. There was no guard on duty, no warning signs posted, no security cameras in evidence, but before advancing beyond the gate Gerald looked to his left and right to be sure that there was no one in sight who might see him as trespassing.

“I hope we can find something to take home,” he said, as he and Anita entered the area and began walking around with their heads down, searching for a memento or two that might be added to Gerald’s collection in their basement—perhaps a doorknob, or a room number, or some other small identifiable item.

But the demolition crew had pulverized everything beyond recognition, except for a few chunks of green-painted stone that had lined the walkway along the parking area (Gerald had painted them himself, and he selected two pieces for the trunk of their car) and also a strip of electrical wiring that had been connected to the tall red sign that had spelled out the name of the motel.

“That’s where we met,” Gerald said, referring to an afternoon in 1983 when, while he was up on a ladder changing the lettering, he had called down words of greeting to Anita, who was then strolling along the sidewalk pulling a wagon bearing her young sons.

“You then also asked for my phone number,” she recalled.

“Yes,” he said, and added, “It’s too bad we didn’t get here earlier, when they began wrecking this place. We might have gotten a piece of that sign.”

They walked around slowly through the lot for another fifteen minutes, keeping their heads down but finding nothing more of interest.

They were both wearing dark clothes—Anita a black print dress with low-heeled shoes, he a black suit with a white shirt and gray silk tie. Neither was wearing a hat, and Gerald was perspiring and also complaining of fatigue.

“Let’s go home,” Anita said.

“Yes,” he agreed, turning, taking her by the arm and heading back toward the gate. “I’ve seen enough.”