A week or so ago I had to bop down to Austin (the state capital and place of mystery) for a couple of quick meetings. Since my meetings went into the night, and late night flights back to Amarillo are rare things, I asked our travel office to stick me in a hotel someplace with quick access to the university (where my meetings were). They put me in a La Quinta near the intersection of several gigantic freeways overlapping and crisscrossing each other, probably so the non-stop drone of traffic would lull me to sleep.
During one of my meetings, someone asked where I was staying. I told him, and this is what he said:
"Really?"
"Yep."
"You know that's a HO-tel. Know what I mean?"
"Hmmm. I think I'm hearing you but . . ."
"It's a hooker hotel, man."
"D'oh."
And then it all made sense. When I checked in, the woman behind the counter handed me my key and said, "Will you be paying for this in cash today?" and I didn't give it any more thought than "Huh? Why would I do that?"
As I sat through the rest of the meeting, I dreaded going back to the hotel. But because I am a manly-man (rather, because I was wiped out and had no other place to go) I ventured back to my room, glancing side to side, expecting to see bored women in high heels lurking in the shadows by the Coke machine.
It was in all in my imagination though. The parking lot was normal and well-lighted, and even though the traffic hummed and buzzed and hurried along down the freeway next door, it seemed to be a regular, conventional hotel.
That changed at three in the morning.
Some kind of massive, meaty fist started pounding at my door, shaking it in its frame. With it came a deep woman's voice: "I WANT MY MONEY! I SAID I WANT MY MONEY!"
Well, growing up as a 100% comic-book lovin' American kid, I knew exactly what to do. I lay there silently and pulled the sheets up to my chin. This impervious sheet tactic has protected me against vampires, swamp creatures, and other assorted murderers, so I knew it could certainly protect me against jilted and underpaid door-banging women.
"I WANT MY MONEY! I WANT MY MONEY!"
Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom!
Then she paused, and all was silent for a few seconds and then she attacked the door with even more aggression. BOOM BOOM BOOM!
"YOU BETTER GIVE ME MY MONEY!"
And then, instantly, she stopped and moved to the next room and started the whole thing all over again. She did this for door after door after door, finally exhausting the supply a half hour later.
The next morning, which took its time arriving, I refused to eat the continental breakfast served near the main desk (the continent in this case being the land of cereal and pre-packaged pastries). I feared the money woman and thought she might be lingering, ghastly in the daylight, shaking down the poor, wretched, bran-eating business traveler who might have paid for his room in cash. Instead, I hit the road, getting to my next meeting very early and then after that making it to the airport with plenty of time to spare.
Now, safely at home with a sheet, blanket, and comforter for protection, I wonder if that woman, whoever she was, eventually got her money. And if she didn't, I pity the next brave soul whose travel office sticks him in room 140 and leaves him to fend for himself in the dark of night when she reappears with thunderous anger demanding the cash she desperately wants.