It was close to five by the time we exhausted decent choices and found a vacancy in what could have been (with a few updates) the Bates Motel, convinced the drunk behind the counter to put her magazine aside and register us in hell, unloaded the trunk and hauled our belongings up the stairs and down the cracked walk to the last room on the street-side of the building, unpacked and repacked after finding bunny-sized roaches in the drawers, assured Sherry that she would survive a week without the eyelash curler she realized she had forgotten to pack, checked the beds for bugs, and finally collapsed on them. I woke again just before midnight, unsure whether to attribute that unfortunate event to my growling stomach, throbbing knuckles from the few punches I got in, or Rhonda’s sobbing conversation with someone on the telephone.
She ended her call when I shifted my sweaty body to a sitting position and sucked in a breath of dank air. “Mom,” she explained as she replaced the receiver to its cradle. “Worried sick because I didn’t call earlier. I made it worse by telling her about the fight, and that we didn’t have dinner.”
Knowing her mother would call mine and convince her we were close to death, I reached my good hand across the rickety nightstand between the beds to take the phone from her.
“We can’t make long distance calls from the room,” she said. “Have to call collect.”
I gave the operator my name and the number I wanted to call, and waited, wishing Rhonda would either stop crying or increase her volume to a level that would wake the others. Maybe they would decide to go out and eat. The connection rang through and my grandmother answered on the other end. I shouted her name when she questioned the operator but she did not accept the charges. It wasn’t her home. Mom would no doubt hear the exaggerated, hysterical version before I got to her.
I laughed, first at Grammy and then to release the rest of the stress my nap had somehow missed. Rhonda carried on with her sobbing. Karen and Sherry slept through both.
Braving the danger of what might have lived in the curtains covering our one small window, I pushed them aside and suffered the non-ocean view. Sans binoculars and Windex, I couldn’t determine what attracted the crowd of cars at the lofty end of the strip of hotels. Rhonda had no interest in walking with me to see if it might be an open restaurant. I ruled out both going alone and taking Karen’s car without permission.
I chose a banana and an individual bag of chips from my food stash - afraid roaches would find the uneaten donuts if I opened the bag and didn’t finish them - and washed my meal down with a warm Dr. Pepper. Rhonda stopped crying and ate a candy bar while she monitored my potential crumb dropping and warned repeatedly that food draws bugs. To ease her mind and to keep from choking her, I ate quickly and took my banana peel, empty chip bag, and soda can to the dumpster we had passed in the parking lot.
Rhonda had gone back to bed when I returned. Disappointed in my Saturday night on vacation, I did the same.
The bagged donuts excited me about as much as the gone to church – be back soon note I found on the nightstand the next morning. Soon had no meaning without a time stamp. What did I expect from people who slept in on Saturday night and looked forward to soap operas and dog races? My zero-balance savings and accrued vacation accounts demanded I do something.
Purse in hand, I set out to find real food, and to see what existed beyond the slimy window and pot-holed parking lot. I found a cafeteria a few blocks from the wannabe Bates, where I sat with a group of post-church, senior citizens to eat runny scrambled eggs and limp bacon. My new friends, livelier than the old, lifted my spirits and left me with instructions to get some sun.
I stopped in a drug store on the way back and bought suntan oil, a book, a tee-shirt in case I didn’t get out anywhere nicer to buy a souvenir, and an eyelash curler for Sherry. Still, I beat soon and my friends back. After a short battle with the desk clerk, she sent someone to open the door and let me in the room.
Not wanting to shrug good advice, I changed into my bathing suit, left a note on the nightstand, gathered my beach towel, suntan oil, book, and a warm Dr. Pepper, and walked around the building to the beach. Another girl might have considered having the whole beach to herself a chance in a lifetime. I didn’t. The spoiled brat in me came out, wanting music, a volleyball game, a friend to talk to, or at the very least, real sand. What covered our end of the beach was more like pebbles. I spread the towel, restrained the brat, and plopped down to apply the oil.
Sherry came out to thank me for the curler she had obviously used already. She didn’t bother sitting, since fifteen minutes in the sun was her limit on the first day and she had used part of it standing in line for an ice cream after church. Rhonda and Karen weren’t coming out until evening.
At first, I thought I imagined the sound of motorcycles. I felt sorry for myself and turned the page without stopping to investigate. As the sound neared, I looked up to make sure they weren’t going to run over me, and to see if our flat tire heroes had followed us.
I met my second set of rescuers. Once over the shock of vehicles on the beach, I left my book and oil behind and climbed on the back of a bike. We cruised the beach for hours, stopped a couple of times to swim, and once for lunch with their friends on the sandy, real hotel end of the strip.
Despite the dips in the ocean, I returned to the Bates with sand embe dded in every pore of my body. Since I feared it might be the only fun I would have on this trip, I decided it was worth every second of the pain.
Soon, I discovered that fun on this vacation did not come without pain.
