For the past few days I’ve been holed up inside unit 65 at Scott Shady Court in Winnemucca, Nevada. It is far and away my favorite motel, and I am sad to see the FOR SALE sign out front, because once it goes away, its like will not be seen again.
Is it comfortable? Well, let me put it this way. Late last night I was awakened by a noise. Someone was working a key in the front door lock and the doorknob was turning. What the…? These units all look alike, so I’m assuming the would-be intruder was more confused than malicious. And the good news is, he didn’t manage to break in, thanks to what could loosely be described as a deadbolt.
And now it’s time to take my morning shower. This room is so small, I have to inch sideways between the bed and the television set, taking care not to scuff my knuckles on the textured plaster walls. The bathroom has seen no upgrades since the place was built. Same mint green and maroon ceramic tiles, same antique fixtures complete with a tiny faucet stalactite. The rubber bathtub stopper is no longer pliable. It’s petrified, hard as a rock and fits loosely in the drain. Oh, well.
I love this place! The poet Edgar Guest once wrote that it takes a “heap o’ livin’ t’ make a house a home.” By the same token, it takes a heap of disoriented transients to make a motel a motel.