I HATE AMERICA
By Duncan
Back home again in Indiana.
The following series of stories chronicles my time on the road. I'm catching up here, so my travels took place from January 28 to February 13. Imagine that you (the reader) are my diary. What am I doing, and why am I doing it?
I want to relive the experience of meeting interesting people and enjoying Florida's sunny weather. Of course, as my audience, you should understand that not everything I write is strictly “truth.” I occasionally take creative liberties with my “Poetic License.” This will be a narrative of my trip rather than a news report.
As Mark Twain once said,
“Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.”
So, with that understanding, let’s begin at the beginning.
THE FACTS: I drove ‘Mean Yellow’ to Southwest Florida at the invitation of a friend.
My friend said, “You're coming down to see me, right Duncan?”
I have a dilemma: I don’t enjoy flying. I prefer to take my car, which I call 'Mean Yellow.' Driving one thousand (1,000) miles to Cape Coral takes me two days. Some of you who follow my journeys may recall the “Moose Story.”
Late at night, somewhere in Montana, on a dark two-lane country road, I hit a moose at 1:00 AM. Fortunately, the moose didn't come through my windshield, but it was a close call. I felt like I used one of my nine lives that night. That experience instilled in me a fear of driving at night. Instead of sharing this story, we could have all been preparing for my Celebration of Life event. So, I say to myself. “Let's avoid driving at night.”
THE DILEMMA: My friend and I have a “Three Day Rule.” It’s a good rule, and it has merit. That’s why we have been friends for twenty-five (25) years. However, when you factor in driving two days down and two days back, it doesn’t make sense to do all that driving for a three-day visit. So, do I have other places I can visit in the neighborhood? I made a few phone calls. And sure enough, I get the following …
“ME: I look forward to seeing you this year.”
“If you are in the area, stop by and say hello; you can stay with us!”
So, with two other places to visit, I can justify the four days of driving.
DAY ONE: I have a small fuel tank, and when the fuel gauge needle hits empty, I can usually travel about four hundred miles on a full tank. I decide to take I-65 south, driving from Fishers to Greenwood, past Columbus, and on to Seymour. I plan to stop and top off my tank in Seymour, Indiana. My goal for the first day is to get past Atlanta, Georgia. However, there is always Nashville. I hate the traffic in Nashville as much as I hate Atlanta traffic.
I get past Nashville and Atlanta, and it’s getting dark. It's time to pull over and find a place to stay. My odometer says I have traveled 640 miles so far today. But where am I? I don’t remember. I think I passed Macon. Just the same, I’m tired, and it’s getting dark. I see a Motel 6 sign at the next exit. I look at the Motel 6 parking lot. It doesn’t have many cars, I’m assured of a room, I’m thinking. I pull up to the entrance. I get out and walk to the lobby. After dark, they close the lobby; after all, the little old grandma-type desk clerk needs the assurance of safety behind lots of thick glass. I’m standing in a little vestibule and talking to the short woman. She is either Spanish or Indian.
She holds up her hand with one finger. I assume she wants to know if it’s just me. I nod to her request. It’s just me; I offer one finger back. She uses her fingers again; she wants to know if I smoke. I shake my head from side to side. No, I don’t smoke. She points to a small sign at the bottom left of the thick glass window. The sign has two letters, ID. I pull out my driver's license and slide it through the small tray at the bottom of the window. She begins typing the information into a computer. She brings me two sheets of paper. She makes a sign with her fingers: “Sign it.” She then pointed to the second paper that told me my room number and gave me an electronic room key card. The price? I looked at the receipt—room 123, WIFI password, “Welcome1.” $80.01.
I head to the left side of the building. I’m the only vehicle in the parking lot. This must be the No Smoking side of Motel 6. I find room 123. I park and approach the door. I slide my card into the door slot, and a small green light comes on. I open the door, and there is my room for the night—twelve (12) full hours of luxurious bliss in my Motel 6.
Here is where people are rupturing their oculomotor nerve as they roll their eyes at my choice of a motel. Hey, it’s just me. All I need is a place to lie down for eight (8) and a shower in the morning. I asked for a non-smoking room. So, there are no cigarette burns on the nightstand, bedspread, or table. This is a utilitarian motel room. Everything is fastened to the Walls. There are no lamps on the nightstand; they have lights attached to the walls. The TV is on the wall, there is no carpet. And don’t we just love the “unit” under the window that controls the heat and air conditioning? The hum might bother me if I kept my hearing aids in my head. But I take them out at night and place them in a charger, ready to go the next day.
Now it’s time to examine the bath. This is where the rubber meets the road. This is where we decide if I have a good one or if we have amateurs running a motel. I have been told there is no such thing as a good Motel 6. You need to understand this was a woman with very high standards. Or she had a hell of a lot more money than I have. In the past, I had a shower/bathtub where water came above my ankles during my shower. In that room, the drain was, how do I say it? The drain was clogged, with an accumulation of thick, wet matter. And who knows what living in that long, dark tunnel of dense, damp matter? No, I was not happy. No, I didn’t enjoy my stay at that motel. And yes, I walked away from that place saying, “Never again.” I know a few people who want to see the room before placing the charge card on the counter. I’m not sure how many people do that. I just asked Google how many travelers check a motel room before renting it. Apparently, almost no one checks the room first unless they find a problem when they enter the room. I assume the “Brand” is the key to expectations. Buying a brand-new Cadillac, you expect a certain quality. A used twenty-year-old sedan by a guy who smoked, you expect something else.
The air vent above the shower looked suspicious, and there were cracks in the shower walls filled with white putty. They could have gone to Home Depot to find a color that matched the walls. But, hey, I’m here for 12 hours, most of which will be spent with my eyes closed.
I was hungry and tired, and I didn’t want to make a big production out of dinner. I remembered seeing a Subway next door when I pulled into the Motel 6. I walked over to the shop and entered the building. The interior was larger than most Subways I had been to. I assumed the space was available for rent, and the person who decided to open a Subway here must have been able to afford the extra square footage.
There was one man in the building sitting at a table. He was looking at his cell phone. He had on a baseball cap and was deeply engrossed in his phone. My first reaction was that he might be the guy to serve me. But he never looked up at me at all. So I stood at the counter, and a young girl came out from the back. I‘m not good at guessing age these days. (I didn’t get a picture of her; I was thinking of my stomach.) Her age was young, maybe in her early 20s or younger. She was very slim, can I say skinny? Perhaps petite would be more sensitive. She smiled brightly and began putting on her flimsy, transparent plastic gloves.
I asked what sandwich was the most offered. She had two suggestions. I went with the 12” All American Club Sandwich for $14.49. With drink and chips and 8% sales tax in Georgia, it came to $16.18. As she was assembling my sandwich, we struck up a conversation. She had an Indian accent to her voice. So, I asked if she enjoyed her work. Or something along those lines. She blurted out that she hated America. I stood there thinking, ‘My goodness, this is not want she projected coming from the back room.”
“How long have you been in the country?”
“About a year and a half.”
“Why do you hate America?”
“Because people are so mean.”
“I’ll try and not be mean.”
“Oh, you very nice man.”
I looked back at the man who was sitting at the table. I firmly believe he did not understand the English Language. He never reacted to anything she said. I wondered if he was her bodyguard. She was very open about her opinion. I have never had a person who is serving me food tell me they hated America. She never said what would make her life better. Does her culture allow a young woman to express herself like that? Is she simply spoiled and believes she should get what she wants and isn’t getting it now? Is it political? Does her parents own this place, and does she work without pay? And what in the world would this young woman need or want? Did she leave the love of her life back home? Yes, okay, I assume ‘one’ is not paid top money standing behind the counter of a Subway in Byron, Georgia. And she may be looking for a way out of her situation/lifestyle. A rich American, perhaps? I’m not a guy who qualifies as a lost soul counselor. I am a rich American who wanted a sandwich before I called it a night. (I just had to say that, reference Mark Twain.)
I walked back to room 123 and ate my sandwich. Then I decided to adjust the temperature in the room and turned out the lights. Before I fell asleep, I still wondered what could be so wrong in her life. She said it out loud, “I Hate American.” One never knows the trials and tribulations faced by people we come in contact with daily.
Good night, all.
