The Wyatt Inn

Maybe I was crazy, I thought, standing outside the rundown roadside motel. I leaned against the side of my Ford pickup truck, taking a drag from my cigarette. The heat from the sun-baked metal frame soaked into my skin through my shirt and the blistering asphalt cooked my feet through the soles of my shoes as I stared down the sign. The Wyatt Inn, it proclaimed in some font that I presumed the founder somehow thought was southwestern and original. Which might be the case if I didn’t know from experience that there were three hotels in a row, fifty miles out, with the same font. They also probably thought that “Inn” sounded professional, but I saw it for what it really was: a shithole with a bed and a price tag. It was convenient—the only place to stay for miles on this stretch of highway. Of course, I wouldn’t be staying.

The embers of my cigarette glowed once more before they dimmed. End of the line. I flicked the butt out from between my fingers, letting it land on the ground a few feet away.

View this story's 1 comments.