Visiting family in Coeur d'Alene, where all the motels are full for no apparent reason, I drive past the jail, then the bail bondsman and pawn shop to the Rodeway Inn, which sends me to its annex across the street, a matching building, recently repainted, but still crowned by the utilitarian "MOTEL" sign on the roof that indicates its vintage (old) and quality in the past. In the parking lot, a hairy man with the glow of someone a week or two into detox leans into the window of a beat-up car. The bespectacled, young man in the driver's seat keeps the motor running. The hairy man delivers a monotonous but earnest stream of words as I try to check in too early. When I return later, nothing has changed. The man drones on. He continues in the room next door all night. An overpowering wave of years upon years of cigarette smoke overwhelms me when I enter my room. The stovetop is scratched and ruined from years of scrubbing it with overly aggressive cleaning products. There's a black scar that looks like a burn in the porcelain of the sink, and some of the white on the toilet seat has been scratched off in ragged strips, revealing the material underneath. At first, I am depressed and afraid to touch anything, but then I look closer. The light yellow paint on the walls is lovely and fresh, the towels are clean and soft, the floors are a newish and clean vinyl in a light-colored wood pattern. It has good furniture and all the basics. Now I kind of love this room. It reminds me of something ... or someone ...
