I was diggin' through my files and ran across this. I don't remember exactly when I lived it or wrote about it (circa 1999 - 2000) but it opened my eyes as to what to expect in the way of lodgings in the small hunting and fishing town of Matagorda in South Texas.
Think "Appalachia". I don't believe there was a female in the whole town over the age of 14 that had a full set of teeth.
Enjoy...
Adventures in Motel Living
Jimmy and I stayed at the Carla Court for a previous
gathering. We were inside out of the bugs and the
weather but it wasn't the Ritz. But it wasn't over
priced either. Our room had a king sized bed and a
roll-away. I know that the same thoughts that were
going through Jimmy's head were going through mine...
"I get the bed. No way I can sleep on that thing over
there!". But I conceded and let Jimmy have the bed.
As we were getting settled down for the night Jimmy
graciously offered to switch, his back was about 8
inches off the floor. But I had gone to considerable
trouble to locate and commit to memory all the
cigarette burns and stains and I wasn't about to move.
It was adequate, but just barely and that's about the
best I can say for it.
While we were looking for a place to stay we had quite
an adventure. Just about every place was full but when
we pulled into the white shell parking lot of the
Matagorda Motel we left the natural world behind and
entered the Twilight Zone. There was an "L" shaped
collection of hovels there which the fresh coat of
whitewash could not disguise as anything but but the
stye it was. We were trying to decide where the office
was when a tenant came out of one of the hovels and
yelled, "they're in the bus". We looked over to our
right and saw a dilapidated old school bus, sitting on
rotten, deflated tires and nestled comfortably and for
decades in the middle of a huge patch of really tall
weeds.
Jimmy and I looked at each other..."uh-oh". So we
walked over to the door of the school bus and, even
though I'd never knocked on the door of a bus, I made
a fist and hit the glass pane on the door 5 or 6
times.
For what seemed like a very long time nothing
happened. I didn't really want to knock again, some of
the sensations of impending doom that I felt earlier
had intensified and I was pretty sure I just wanted to
run screaming back to Jimmy's truck and get as far
away from there as possible, as quickly as
possible.
Too late the doors open and before my eyes
can focus on the creature standing there, my sense of
smell was overwhelmed by a powerful smell of really
cheap, really bad whiskey...took my breath away. I
wiped the tears out of my eyes and saw a shabby,
bearded guy there and he looked homeless (but at least
he wasn't bus less, eh?) He stared blankly at us for a
time and then he said, "She's in the back. She's sick
in the back of the bus". And he pointed to the rear of
the bus in case Jimmy and I couldn't figure out where
he was talking about.
I finally spoke, "Would you have anything open for
this Friday night?" His eyes looked like stewed
tomatoes floating in buttermilk and the smell only
seemed to be getting worse. Coming from the back of
the bus were the sounds of some one softly but
relentlessly loosing their breakfast. He said, "We
don't take reservations and we don't take credit
cards. Come back Friday and we'll see if we can fix ya
up...bring cash".
Don't take credit cards??? don't take reservations???
Now I call that a real innovative style in motel
management. Oh, we thanked him and vowed to return on
Friday with high hopes in one hand and cash in the
other and then we got the hell out of Dodge, as they
say. I'll never forget it. Long after I've forgotten
even the tiniest detail of the gathering, the good
friends, good times, and good fishing, the Matagorda
Motel will remain bright in my memory, burned there
for all eternity.
Think "Appalachia". I don't believe there was a female in the whole town over the age of 14 that had a full set of teeth.
Enjoy...
Adventures in Motel Living
Jimmy and I stayed at the Carla Court for a previous
gathering. We were inside out of the bugs and the
weather but it wasn't the Ritz. But it wasn't over
priced either. Our room had a king sized bed and a
roll-away. I know that the same thoughts that were
going through Jimmy's head were going through mine...
"I get the bed. No way I can sleep on that thing over
there!". But I conceded and let Jimmy have the bed.
As we were getting settled down for the night Jimmy
graciously offered to switch, his back was about 8
inches off the floor. But I had gone to considerable
trouble to locate and commit to memory all the
cigarette burns and stains and I wasn't about to move.
It was adequate, but just barely and that's about the
best I can say for it.
While we were looking for a place to stay we had quite
an adventure. Just about every place was full but when
we pulled into the white shell parking lot of the
Matagorda Motel we left the natural world behind and
entered the Twilight Zone. There was an "L" shaped
collection of hovels there which the fresh coat of
whitewash could not disguise as anything but but the
stye it was. We were trying to decide where the office
was when a tenant came out of one of the hovels and
yelled, "they're in the bus". We looked over to our
right and saw a dilapidated old school bus, sitting on
rotten, deflated tires and nestled comfortably and for
decades in the middle of a huge patch of really tall
weeds.
Jimmy and I looked at each other..."uh-oh". So we
walked over to the door of the school bus and, even
though I'd never knocked on the door of a bus, I made
a fist and hit the glass pane on the door 5 or 6
times.
For what seemed like a very long time nothing
happened. I didn't really want to knock again, some of
the sensations of impending doom that I felt earlier
had intensified and I was pretty sure I just wanted to
run screaming back to Jimmy's truck and get as far
away from there as possible, as quickly as
possible.
Too late the doors open and before my eyes
can focus on the creature standing there, my sense of
smell was overwhelmed by a powerful smell of really
cheap, really bad whiskey...took my breath away. I
wiped the tears out of my eyes and saw a shabby,
bearded guy there and he looked homeless (but at least
he wasn't bus less, eh?) He stared blankly at us for a
time and then he said, "She's in the back. She's sick
in the back of the bus". And he pointed to the rear of
the bus in case Jimmy and I couldn't figure out where
he was talking about.
I finally spoke, "Would you have anything open for
this Friday night?" His eyes looked like stewed
tomatoes floating in buttermilk and the smell only
seemed to be getting worse. Coming from the back of
the bus were the sounds of some one softly but
relentlessly loosing their breakfast. He said, "We
don't take reservations and we don't take credit
cards. Come back Friday and we'll see if we can fix ya
up...bring cash".
Don't take credit cards??? don't take reservations???
Now I call that a real innovative style in motel
management. Oh, we thanked him and vowed to return on
Friday with high hopes in one hand and cash in the
other and then we got the hell out of Dodge, as they
say. I'll never forget it. Long after I've forgotten
even the tiniest detail of the gathering, the good
friends, good times, and good fishing, the Matagorda
Motel will remain bright in my memory, burned there
for all eternity.
