September 13, 2015 – Trail Motel – Kellogg, Idaho
A large, blue sign is lit and it reads “Trail Motel.” Multi-colored lights dangle from the railings in a sort of half-assed attempt at looking whimsical.
The 1976 Mustang in front of me is covered in hand-painted liberal propaganda. That’s really the only way to put it. A waste of a perfectly good Mustang.
A dew lingers in the air, which is warm. This place has a sweet authenticity to it that both consumes and escapes me. It’s snuggled deep in a valley in the mountains in the most unassuming place possibly ever. I think to myself that I wouldn’t mind staying for a while.
I could buy the Mustang and have it as my own little joke. I could ride around pretending to be someone I’m not. I could fool everyone.
The man who manages the Trail Motel is named Don and he is across the parking lot smoking a cigarette right now. He told me he has been here, doing this, for a year. This – chain smoking and cleaning rooms.
My first and only real impression of Don is he feels nothing towards everything. I like this about him.
White, is his hair. White, his shirt. White, his pants. White, white, white. The ashes of his cigarette. Don is vibrating high in all white.
Maybe, just maybe, Don is a holy man.
And maybe, just maybe, because I am staying at the Trail Motel that Don has managed for a year, yes, maybe, I too am holy.
Holy me in a holy place with holy Don.
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