The Radio is playing a song by the Amazing Rhythm Aces. Something about a Low Rent Rendezvous. Your young friend is bored. She is unimpressed by the literary shrines of Key West, Florida. Who cares if Papa passed out here? You try again to convince her of the importance of your travels. You are writing a novel. "Why the camera?" Historical research. Nixon had his tape recorder. You have your Polaroid. You are searching for America. You don't have far to look. You find America in the first motel you check into. Family units. TV. A complete line of bait. (Yes, even that kind.) You study your companion. She could pass for the girl who stars in the X-rated version of Alice in Wonderland, Kristine De Bell. Lewis Carroll liked little girls, too. You suspect that the manager suspects. You continue to look for America and check into another motel, a few blocks down the road. The car is too hot for travel. The seat cover is mildly adhesive, dryly passionate. It clings to the thighs of your companion like a high school kiss. You invent a new alias. You cannot keep names straight. What is this motel called? The Come Right Inn? The Forbidden View Court? No. As a rule, you avoid a motel that calls itself court. The word makes you a bit nervous.
No. This motel is called the Bewitched Fishermen---for the dangling anglers who compare the sizes of their catches, wondering why they have to throw back those that are too small. Your companion reclines on the Magic Fingers vibrating bed and hums a tune. Later she seeks refuge in a cool, dark corner, barely illuminated by two reading lamps. There is nothing to read. She longs for a True Romance magazine. A Seventeen. A Silver Screen. A National Enquirer. Just what is Cher doing these days? Or Donny Osmond?
The click of the shutter attracts her attention, but only for a moment. She does not wonder what you see in her. She knows. She cools herself in front of the air conditioner. What was the name of that first motel? She is hungry. She plays with the louvred windows. Named for the museum in France. If she gets the angle right, she can get an all-over tan without leaving the room. She will not leave the room. Her clothes, in case you were wondering, are down at the coinoperated laundromat. They have been there for the past three days. Being cleaned. Sounds of traffic filter through the windows with the sunlight. Guests pause on their way to other rooms. Yes, she is old enough to be your daughter.
