I consider how I can spruce-up the cheap motel room on my way to the shower. Deciding that not even a vase of fresh roses, assuming I could find any in this dirty town at ten on a Saturday night, would do anything other than create another layer of pretention, I turn up the electric heat.
I think about Sandy as the sprays of hot water massage my tired neck and aching shoulders. Her smile, her walk, her voice. The image is abruptly cut short as the thought that she won’t show enters my mind, turning the hot water icy cold. What an idiot, there is no way a beautiful young girl working in a fish shop is going to take that tired bait and risk meeting a total stranger, a potential psychopath, in a grungy motel room after her shift. Not no way and not no how.
But she did give plenty of indications that she might. So I try to focus on the primary directive and go about my business of re-charging batteries, plotting the mornings shoot location, cleaning camera lenses and all the other tedious stuff I am so accustomed to doing when on the road.
The medium sized TV is pre-set to Spanish. I take a few minutes to reset it in order to find MSNBC and complete my standard routine. I make a pot of coffee prepping for my well-before-sunrise check out, rearrange my gear and stretch out on the Queen sized bed, the one furthest from the door.
My phone, charging on the nightstand, tells me it is 2210. Lawrence O’Donnell tells me the president is a Russian tool. My back tells me I need rest.
And three knocks tells me there is someone at the door. I can’t believe it.
I cover the ten feet in two steps, unhasp the cheap gold chain and open the door slightly to take a peak.
‘Are you the pizza delivery girl?’
She laughs and I open the door.
Softly, like a cat, she spins a chair from the desk around to face the bed and sits.
I sit on the edge of the bed and look deeply in her eyes. They are amazing. I know that if I don’t look away I will be forever lost in the feminine vitality they hold.
She takes off her jacket and floppy cap placing them carefully on the bed. And then gently snaps the top button on her cotton blouse open.
“Wait’, I surprise myself in saying, ‘first tell me something about yourself, I sense you have a story that I might, I dunno, appreciate.’
She looks at me like a doe in the headlights, a real-time situational awareness course correction. Finally she relaxes and asks innocently if I have any beer.
I grab one of the IPAs left in the mini bar, open it with my bicycle bottle opener and hand it to her with the apology that I don’t have a chilled glass to pour it into. She smiles an OK and takes a sip. I grab one for myself and sit back on the bed.
She starts her story.
Her Dad, Captain Robert, built up his fleet of fishing boats to a dozen before sinking in a winter storm near Astoria. He was abusive and she left home immediately after high school to attend city college in Portland. She studied dance, art and music hoping one day to become a producer of environmental documentaries. She returned to Westport when her Mom began breast cancer treatment. An on-going struggle, one that has emptied their savings and devastated the lives of her younger brother who is currently in the Navy deployed overseas and of course, her Mom and herself. Her Mom owns the restaurant. They are barely above water. She was married for five years while in Portland, now divorced, no kids. She says she is happy and vows to remain so. She also says that this is the first time she has ever done anything like this and that she was nervous, but no longer.
Her story takes considerably longer that the fifteen minutes initially and informally agreed to. On the muted TV the cable news cycle has started anew with Chris Hays also telling us that the POTUS is a crook. It is late.
We share a few details of our dreams, another beer and bond over the paradox and humor in all of this and I say, ‘Thanks for coming.’
She looks at me questioningly. Getting her answer she puts her half-full beer on the desk and stands to wrap up in her jacket and cap. She reaches into the pocket of her jacket for what I think will be gloves but instead she removes the hundred dollar bill I left earlier at the diner.
She moves closer and tucking the bill in the front pocket of my Levis, softly presses her lips to mine with a tender kiss of absolute honesty and beauty.
’Thanks.’
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