The Ocean Beach Motel

I am the spirit of the Ocean Beach Motel off Route 66. My office is run by a witchy clairvoyant name of Madeline Williams. In exchange for her labor, I allow her unlimited use of several rooms for her personal business, no questions asked. We have an excellent working relationship. Between the two of us, we know the score on what goes on inside my rooms.

Room #5: Winning the Lottery had brought her more grief than joy by far. Dorothy Ann Thomas wasn’t expecting company. She rented this room for a month, told no one, not even her sister and certainly not her son, David. He was a liar and a thief and had disgraced himself beyond forgiveness in her eyes. She’d given most of the money to the local animal shelter. Somehow, David found out she’d won, and showed up at her door. She let him in, explaining how she didn’t have the money anymore. He snarled and shoved her. She fell, cracking her head against the corner of a dresser. He saw something was wrong with her neck. He didn’t stay.

Room #11: Rodrick Pierce set the bottle of Jim Beam on the bedside table with a glass from the kitchen. “Nice little kitchen, I could stay here until I rot,” he laughed. “Nobody would notice.” His wife had left him on his birthday last year. That was bad, but not as bad as being fired that morning, two months short of retirement. He cleared out his office, got in his car and drove until nearly dark. Stopped at a liquor store, and then found my place. He’s lucky my rooms provide stout rods on the bathtubs, strong enough to hold a man dangling by his neck. Rodrick will use his belt if he can’t find any rope around here. Probably won’t even finish that bottle before he decides to get the job done.

Room #19: She’d been a little drunk when Robert checked them in. She wasn’t “that kind of girl”, she’d told him that repeatedly, plus he had to promise over and over how it wasn’t going to be a one-night stand. “No, Sherry, I promise. Being with you is all I want. You want me too, right?” And so on, but he had to get another drink down her before she’d let him unhook her bra. After it was over, she fell asleep, or so he thought. He was sneaking out the door at the crack of dawn when he heard “Robert Botts, that better not be you going out that door!” He turned, surprised, to see his silly little Sherry holding a Glock. Where it came from, he couldn’t imagine. “One night stand,” that’s what this was all along!” she cried. Robert didn’t have a chance.

Indeed, there are more like this on any given day. As motels go, I do a pretty interesting business. Another example, if you like naughty, the extraordinary things that go on in my hot tub never disappoint either. Stop in, sometime!

∼ Marge Simon