Okay, here’s the Motel 6 story. On my return journey from New England, I decided to take it easy and spread the drive over three 10-hour days, rather than the two 15-hour days of driving that had launched my vacation in a spasm of back pain and extreme boredom. Using the Mapquest, I figured Roanoke, Virginia would make a convenient first point of stoppage, with Memphis, or more accurately, West Memphis, Arkansas, as my second port of call. Motel 6 was my preferred lodging chain due to my depleted wallet and their pet-friendly policy (Maury was my co-pilot, you may recall).

No complaints about the Roanoke Motel 6. It was by the airport, so it was a nice, five- or six-story structure. Ice machine on every floor. Friendly desk clerks. Roomy rooms with nice hot showers and nice cool air conditioning. The Democratic convention on CNN (it was the infamous “Go balloons! Go balloons! Where are the fucking balloons?” night). A couple slices of pizza from the cooler, left over from my lunch. (Guy’s Pizza, Route 10 in Whippany, New Jersey. My favorite childhood pizza place. Most of my extended family lives in that area, thus many Christmases and summers there as a young’un, so I developed quite a pizza snobbery early. My Mapquest route happened to find me on I-297 in NJ around noon and when I saw the Whippany exit, I could not resist. Though the shopping center around it had completely changed, Guy’s was right where I left it.)

But I digress. So, no problem in Roanoke, but the West Memphis locale was another matter entirely. Seedy, rundown, not in what appeared to be the greatest neighborhood. A family of 27 with a dozen screaming kids running around the lobby, scaring Maury as we checked in. I made sure to park within sight of my room’s window, lest my hubcaps and worse get swiped.

I’m in my room not more than two minutes when a knock came at the door. Foolishly, I answered. There was a fellow standing there who had the appearance of a bible salesman. At first, he acted like he had mistaken my room for his, then made a little small talk and asked several times if I was familiar with the area. I made it clear that, no, I had been on the road all day, was just stopping for the night on my way back to Austin, and most likely never returning.

“So you don’t know this area at all?” He asked for the third time. I still didn’t. He decided to make his plea explicit. “Cuz I was just wondering if you might know of any adult bookstores in the area.” Uh, no. Afraid not. At this point I ended our conversation without further ado, although if I had been in a more helpful mood, I would have recommended that he bring his own porn next time he’s out on the road selling bibles and harassing weary travelers. I’ve told this story to several people who are of the opinion that this was his way of making a pass at me, but I refuse to give that another moment’s consideration.

So choose your Motel Sixes wisely, I guess is what I’m saying.