Old Fart, Prissy Bitch

It was 3:30 pm, time to get off the Interstate, gas the car and find lodging for the night. The town was a small dot on the Texas map but the gas and lodging signs lured me with promises of a place to rest and close my eyes, to prepare for tomorrow’s leg of the journey. I drove off the freeway, onto the off ramp which led to what appeared to be a longer part of the off ramp toward a set of lights. It soon was becoming apparent that I was driving down the wrong side of the road. How many people driving from the opposite direction turned onto the freeway and drove west in the east bound lane? Not a safe traffic configuration but I was wrong and quickly moved into the correct lane. Turning left at the light my car briefly went under the freeway. A sign directed me immediately to turn right. Amazingly a right turn put me on another road that was shared with the west bound off ramp. At the end of this road a sign advised me to yield to off ramp traffic before turning left into the hotel parking lot. As I again moved gingerly, stiffly from my car, I saw on the hotel entrance door a picture of a dog with a line through it. No dogs allowed in the lobby? An immaculate older woman greeted me. She appraised me in my worn jeans and tee shirt and old shoes, “Do you have a reservation?” She seemed officious, pompous and a snob. That was my quick appraisal of her. We were in the middle of nowhere USA. This wasn’t HOTEL PARIS and there weren’t exactly hoards of wealthy people crowding her desk. I said no. I inquired about a room for my dog and I. I wish I could remember the entire conversation but she was again, with her voice and look, letting me know only complete snobs and idiots knew the obvious. “Didn’t you see the sign on the door? We don’t take dogs”. The way she said D.O.G.S was similar to the way some people say words like poor or poop or retarded. Her immaculate appearance told me enough about her to realize the only animal fur that touched her was via a dead animal cape around here matronly shoulders.
I turned around and walked out, muttering obscenities when I got into the car. That woman was so clean she probably put a baggie over her hand to touch here husband’s willy, assuming of course, there was a husband, which I seriously doubted. There still remained the predicament of being low on gas. I pulled up to a nearby gas station. Walking around to the self serve pumps I saw the debit/credit slot was broken and covered with duct tape. I looked at the station’s office. It was dirty and dark. There was no way I was leaving my credit card with someone while I pumped gas. I closed the gas tank cover and got back into my car. Moving the car out of any customer’s path at the station I pulled over and checked my phone’s navigation program to inquire about other hotels and gas stations. “No GPS service.” Even the GPS network agreed this was nowhere, a Twilight Zone. Reservation? You bet-I reserve the right never to set foot in this town again. Driving again down I10, now tired, irked and seriously low on gas, the sun setting behind me, I contemplated sleeping in the car.

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