The James Motel

I burst into the gas station covered in blood and fell into a display of disposable cameras. It wasn’t until I got off the floor that I noticed my hand had left an almost perfect red imprint on the door. It reminded me of a turkey I’d once traced in elementary school.

My friends weren’t far behind me.

“Bandages! Where are they?! Let’s go! He’s dying!”

* * *

Ten hours earlier, a friend and I had gotten into a Toyota Celica driven by another friend. He told us the destination was “upstate,” as if we were on horseback and instead of a specific town we’d just “head north a’ways ‘til it got dark.” So why had we agreed to such an ambiguous journey? Well, there WAS a keg involved.

We occupied our time on the drive up by devising a road game. The rules (which were complex) would be to spot the back of a car and try to determine if the person driving was a “hot girl.” If it was, you’d be awarded a maximum of five points, more if the car was cheap looking, less if her hotness was called into question. If the driver wasn’t hot, you’d receive no points and if she was very ugly, you’d lose five points and be shamed beyond belief.

It was considered a loss when the driver was a man, unless it was mentioned by someone in the car that he was a very good looking man, in which case several minutes of awkward silence followed.

Sounds fun, right? It was. However I don’t think the drivers of the selected car enjoyed it very much when three men slowed next to them and screamed, “Nooooo! Ewww!” Somewhere out there is a woman who now has very tinted windows.

Halfway into our trip we learned that “upstate” did not refer to Pennsylvania, but New York. Our friend, the driver, sensed our anger and assured us that the party we were headed to would be “epic,” mentioning that there were not only TWO kegs, but also a lake. And who doesn’t love to look at a lake at night? It’s like a parking lot you can drown in.

When we arrived at the lake house, the party was already underway and had about as much excitement as a Planned Parenthood waiting room. As we tried to find the kegs, we noticed that there was far too much decoration around the backyard. Normal keg parties had an overturned trashcan, a few bags of melted ice and maybe a dozen plastic cups. This had paper plates, napkins, available seating and edible food. It could only mean one thing.

Parents.

“Hey guys! Glad you could make it! We have two kegs: one is Budweiser and the other is Michelob Ultra.”

“What?”

“Michelob Ultra.”

“No, I heard you. Why the hell did you get that? Are you pregnant?”

“It’s my Mom’s favorite.”

We looked around for my friend and soon found him trying to hide behind a tree.

“Are you serious with this party, dude? There is parental supervision. One guy just asked me about my 401K.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad? I asked some dude how he thought the Eagles would do this season and he thought I was an environmentalist.”

“Calm down. Just drink the Budweiser.”

“Bud heavy? What am I, a Vietnam Vet? I’m not drinking that shit. We’re going to go raid the parent’s liquor cabinet, and if we can’t find anything, you’re going into the lake.”

As soon as my friend and I walked into the downstairs living room we were greeted by the mom, who let us know she had extra sleeping bags and was about to make some popcorn before they started the scary movie. We smiled and turned around to find the keg of Budweiser.

The keg was kicked after six beers a piece and we were ready to go.

“Go? Where to?”

“Anywhere. This place is like a retreat for virgins.”

“C’mon, just give it a chance.”

“We don’t need your permission. We’ll hotwire your car.”

“You don’t know how.”

“Crackheads can do it. Seriously man, either we leave, or I’m just going to start hunting people with these tiny plastic knives.”

“Okay, okay. We’ll sneak out in a bit.”

About an hour later, when most were engrossed in “Sleepy Hollow,” we crept out of the backyard and quietly piled into the car. We backed out with the headlights off to avoid detection and took off down a narrow dirt road. After a minute or so, we realized that the headlights were still off. The road snaked through the woods and was no more than seven feet wide with massive trees lining the sides.

“Turn on the lights, idiot.”

“Nah man, you guys wanted some fun. Let’s go.”

He accelerated to about sixty miles per hour and began swerving back and forth, fishtailing on the loose rocks. We all began screaming, the driver out of sheer lunacy, and me to scare off any deer that might be out for a late night stroll. Five minutes later and he skidded to an almost complete stop, sending me flying forwards onto the dashboard. On our right was a house with a ridiculously large mailbox that was an exact replica of the house itself.

We decided that we must have it as a souvenir.

My friend and I hopped out while the driver “kept watch,” meaning that if someone should emerge with a shotgun, he’d honk to warn us of the bullets that were about to hit our head. We began rocking the mailbox, trying to dislodge it from the ground, but it wouldn’t budge. After a few minutes, we came to our senses and jumped back in the car.

As we sped away, music blaring and lights still off, I grabbed the shoulders of my friend seated in front of me.

“Woohoo! Man, it would’ve been great to get that mailbox! How hilarious would that have been?! Best night ever!! Woohoo! Mailbox!!”

When we approached the highway, we decided it would be a good idea to turn the headlights back on.

That’s when we saw the blood.

I had unknowingly cut my hand on the mailbox and was not only bleeding, I had been grabbing my friend’s shoulders and flailing around so much that the entire interior was now covered in blood…including the other passengers.

We pulled into the gas station and I fell into the display of disposable cameras.

“Bandages! Where are they?! Let’s go! He’s dying!”

The cashier looked at the three men who had just burst through the front door covered in blood and pointed to the back with a quivering finger. Two of us went there while my other friend stayed in the front.

“I’m sorry! The gun just went off! Oh my God, did you see his head? It just exploded!”

“What are we gonna do now, huh? I can’t go to jail, I’m too pretty. There was so much blood! Oh God, they were so young! They were all so young!”

As we continued screaming from the back of the store, my friend in front smiled to reassure the cashier. He didn’t look reassured.

We joined our friend at the register a few minutes later and slammed down a case of beer, one box of band-aids, a canister of Pringles and a Fruit Punch Snapple. We slapped a bloody twenty dollar bill on the counter and stared into the man’s eyes.

“You say one word about this and we’ll fucking kill you too! Oh, and is there a hotel around here by any chance?”

A few minutes down the road and we considered that we might have been given some poor directions from the cashier. That is, until I saw a sign.

“Well? Where is it, Carney?”

“I dunno, but I saw a sign. It had a big ‘H’ on it. It must be nearby.”

“An ‘H’?”

“Yeah, ‘H.’ ‘H’ for hotel.”

“’H’ for hotel? Are you six years old? ‘H’ is for Hospital. Jesus.”

Just as he was saying Jesus, he made a U-turn on what we soon found out was a church’s front lawn. Then, as revenge on God’s part for the slight, we saw another sign…for the James Motel.

We pulled into the lot and parked across three spots in front of the office. Since the light was off (as it was 3 AM) we began pounding on the door until someone answered.

“How much?”

“$50 for the night.”

“We’ll give you $5. Cash.”

“Is that blood?”

“Okay, $20. But make it the honeymoon suite.”

“$25. And when you’re done in the morning, put the key in the little slot.”

“When we’re done what?”

Obviously the James Motel was for lovers.

Our room looked like something from a heroin addict’s dream, and the second floor location gave us a view of the dumpster where he was likely asleep. There was a funky smell as soon as we entered and the battered brown furniture combined with the peeling yellow walls added to the room’s overall impression of a toilet bowl.

It was perfect.

As there were only two beds, we immediately began fighting about who would get their own, eventually just deciding to push both of them together. Three guys sleeping together would be less gay than just sleeping with one guy, right?

The driver passed out first, and according to “guy law” was thus subject to having an entire beer poured onto his shorts as he “slept.” When he discovered the wetness, my other friend and I hid in the bathroom as he began destroying the room like a blind epileptic.

The next morning I woke up on the floor next to a broken mirror and noticed that I was spooning a trash can. My other friend was dozing in the bathroom tub holding a lamp, and the driver had both beds to himself, curled up happily with the canister of Pringles.

We didn’t inquire about a Continental Breakfast and left a twenty in the little slot before speeding off down the road in our blood-splattered car, yelling at tail lights and hoping that a hot girl was behind the wheel.

* * *

That was almost seven years ago, and this summer all three of us have decided to take a trip back to the James Motel, which is still standing in Monroe, New York.

Anyone want to come?