Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Fret ❯ Chapter 5

Chapter Five

 

His fifteen-hour trip passed without notice. He sat near a window without anyone sitting next to him the whole trip. The people seemed to disperse themselves evenly amongst the length of the bus or train, Josh being no exception. He slept most of the time, eating only the tangerine and a Cliff Bar when his stomach grumbled in protest. The world seemed to be in a blur, and he wrote his thoughts, a couple new songs, and then just sat and thought. By the time he stepped into the noon sun in Santa Rosa, he had made several “pros and cons” lists and thoughts were juggernauting through his head.

The first thought as he stepped out of the train was how he has a distinct antipathy for snow.

The second was how he didn't have enough money to get to Canada.

The third was that unless he crossed the border illegally, he couldn't get into Canada without a passport.

California was his home. He grew up here. He wanted to graduate at his high school, not at some polar icecap where the graduation gowns were lined with faux fur. He was almost on his own, and he needed stability. This trip was so unlike him. Maybe the NyQuil and Benadryl did something to him mind temporarily?

For those reasons, he paid attention to the rumbling in his midriff more than the letter from his mom and wandered around Santa Rosa looking for a place to eat. Instead of going into a shop, a picturesque park beckoned to him.

He seated himself in vibrant green grass. His skin slightly bumped from the soft breath of wind barely blowing. The trees whooshed a sound between Angel Falls and a crackling, comforting campfire. He breathed in the moist, crisp air, feeing such a strong pull of life that he unpacked his guitar and started to play. Occasionally, people passed him and requested a song, but mostly they just heard him play as they went out for their afternoon jog and smiled. He had no guitar case open and begging; he was playing now to purely entertain and inspire.

As it got dark, Josh was regretting the fact he hadn't left his case open. Entertaining and inspiring people didn't get him money. He had only $52 dollars left, and he needed a place to crash. The sunset illuminated his search for a decent motel to spend the night. Never being to a motel but having seen ads, he searched for a Motel 6. Towering a few blocks away, a sign designated one. He walked for a few minutes still balanced on the curb and entered through the creaky door with a clanking bell.

As the duct-taped Christmas bells set off his arrival, the receptionist didn't spare a single glance. She was elderly, with a pastel purple Mohawk, sitting behind the reception desk. Her baggy nose was almost swallowing a skull piercing, and she had tattoos around her flabby upper arms and shoulders. Her eyes were dull brown slits beneath an ounce of eyeliner and mascara. Her overly reddened mouth hung open stupidly as she gazed in wonder at Weekly World News. Staring at the ground and fighting the urge to puke, Josh stood two feet in front of the reception desk and asked in a loud, awkward tone, “How much is a room here?”

She turned her face away from the magazine. He couldn't even tell if her eyes were open, even more so if she was looking at him.

“Rate's thirty-five a night. But ya gotta be at least twenty-one.” She said in a slurred drawl.

“Okay,” Josh squeaked. He backed out through the creaking door as fast as possible. When he reached outside, he started to twitch with revulsion. Even if he was twenty-one, and even if he did have that much money to waste, he would never spend a night there simply because of that receptionist.

He looked up and down the street. Dozens more cheap motels and hotels sat all around him. He had just realized something; they would check for identification to make sure he was twenty-one. It made sense after all. They had legal justifications- America was sue happy and if they boarded a runaway, they could get charged with something outlandish like assisting a fugitive. Nevertheless, their little streak of intelligence ruined Josh's whole plan. He had nowhere to stay. He didn't have enough money to travel home, and he couldn't get a motel room. He had to ask the motels for a room at the very least.

He went in and out of the Sunset Motel, the Palm Tree Motel, the Hacienda Motel, and more with no letup. Each establishment required the verification that he was twenty-one. He stumbled out of the Westward motel, eyelids drooping and toes scraping the ground as he walked. He went back to the park where he jammed earlier that day, and found a secluded place. The old zipper on the luggage made such a cheery zip that it infuriated Josh. He kicked it, pulled out his heavy jacket, zipped it up, and then swore at it. He fell asleep swearing at his jacket zipper.