The Horrors of a Late Night Motel-6 Check-In

You’ll never guess what was behind door number 1.

I pulled into the parking lot of a one-floor Motel 6. We weren’t going to make it any further.

After leaving Lansing, Michigan a few days after Christmas, I wanted to make good time driving back to Tucson, Arizona. Some years I made the two thousand-mile drive in three days. Others in two. It all came down to traffic, my bladder, and heavy eyelids.

Over time I’d picked up tricks to keep myself awake while driving. Most recently, I started shoving a handful of wasabi-covered peanuts into my mouth whenever thoughts of slumber began to seep in. The blast of sinus-clearing fire momentarily slapped away drowsiness better than any smelling salt. But even so, the remedy only lasted so long.

The Great Plains states are some of the most difficult to traverse when fighting slumber. There are few turns and fewer landmarks. Just a straight road and open sky. And when night finally takes over, it’s only a matter of time.

When I took the highway exit for the motel, its fluttering flood lamps the only visible light for miles, I’d exhausted my Roladex of sleep combatants. Cranking the AC, singing to music, talking to the dogs in the backseat, chugging water so I continually had to pee, everything had failed. So, it was either spend the night at the Motel 6 or an eventual ditch on the side of the road.

Once upon a time, I avoided motels with numbers in them like the plague or healthy food at a buffet. Eventually, I discovered such establishments were some of the few that openly accepted dogs. At least without needing to sneak them in through a back door. After a woman let out a blood-curdling scream as if walking in on me dismembering a family member while I snuck my Jack Russell into a room, I decided using hotels with numbers in the name far outweighed that awkwardness. I’ll still never get over that woman’s face as she pressed herself against a hotel wall, other guests rushing out of their rooms to lend aid and to questioningly stare at me as I ducked down the hall.

The rattled “ding” of the lobby door failed to rouse anyone to the front desk. Under sputtering fluorescent lighting, an analog clock on the back wall tiredly suggested a time of a little past three in the morning. Tapping a prominently displayed bell on the desk, a sleepy face popped out of the darkness of a side room. As if surprised an actual person had rung and not the wind or the ghost of guests past, a young man removed earphones and approached the desk.

“Wasn’t expecting anyone else tonight.”

“Wasn’t expecting to make it this far.”

“You have a reservation?”

“No. There any rooms?” With the near-empty parking lot, I assumed the answer.

“We’ve got space for you.”

He clicked away on his computer before selecting a room. The printer took its time waking up, eventually spitting out a contract. The young man scanned my driver’s license while we waited.

“Room is around the corner on the left. No coffee inside but it’s available in here throughout the day.” He motioned to a corner with a self-serve coffee pot, offset by two heavily painted cast iron chairs.

The man slid over two key cards and wished me good night. I told him the same and left the lobby.

I considered driving the truck around the corner and letting the dogs out, but I decided to check out the room first. If I didn’t, one of the dogs, a springer spaniel-golden retriever mix, would help herself to toilet water. As the most hydrated creature possibly in the known universe, I needed to close off bathroom doors and have a water dish ready for her consumption.

Tracking down my room, a series of flashing red lights rebuked me when trying to unlock the door with the first key card. Okay, so one didn’t work. Not a big deal. Sliding the second card into the lock, the door thought long and hard, then blinked green and clicked. Opening the door in a room of darkness, I reached for a light switch, then stopped.

There was an odd sound coming from inside the room.

Snoring.

Looking through the light sneaking into the room from the outside, the body of a very large man lay sprawled out on the bed. His chest rose, a white t-shirt covering up what the thin blanket didn’t. The man didn’t flinch or rouse, despite breathing like the wet snort of a pig.

Ever-so-slowly, I backed away, closing the door as quietly as I could.

Thank god I hadn’t brought the dogs with me. Busting into an apparently occupied room with a pair of travel-stirred canines in the middle-of-nowhere Oklahoma could only go one way. Poorly.

Back in the lobby, I tapped the bell. The same sleepy face poked around the corner.

“Everything okay?”

“You gave me a room with a man in it.”

“How’s that?” he said, confused.

“The room. There’s a very large man who is very asleep in it.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You sure it was the right room?”

It was too late for such a conversation. “Unless the key card works for every room in the hotel, then yes, I went to the right room.”

Convinced, the man took back the plastic cards, reprogramming them to a different room, hopefully without live-in turndown service.

Rounding the corner to the right side of the building, the room was unlocked with the first key. Briefly inspecting the shadows before flicking on the light, the room was empty. Relieved, I closed the door, went back to the truck, and pulled around. Letting the dogs out to relieve themselves and claim new territory, I let the dogs into the room while I returned to the truck for my bag.

Inside the hotel, I closed the door but heard another strange noise. Wet and sloshing. Looking about the room, there was only one dog.

The toilet. The other pup was helping herself to a drink.