4.2
Between the airport and the Sarasota city limits stretched about a mile-and-a-half sea of concrete shopping plazas separated by isolated swamps and alien tropical prairieland, dotted with retirement communities of the ultra-wealthy and trailer parks of the poverty-stricken on every point on the condition/respectability spectrum. Most of the ride was straight down the Tamiami Trail, the name of which implied a rich and interesting Native American back story, but, in actual fact, was simple shorthand for “Tampa to Miami” as suggested by one white guy or another in the early 20th century.
The cabbie dropped Rupert off in a parking lot in the middle of one of the concrete oceans, blinking in the sun, and resigning himself to the fact that he’d have to break down and buy a pair of shitty, uncomfortable sunglasses. On the other end of this parking lot, on the same side of the road and before the next block, was a fast food joint called the FFG. He had no idea what that stood for, but his hollow stomach barked at him.
He turned to his destination—the Royal Courtyard Econo-Regency Chalet—and it was a dump. It was not helped by the merciless sun—everything in this place seemed destined to be faded by and eaten up by that fiery hell-orb, its very glare a visual chaos tearing everything apart atom by atom.
He really needed to get a pair of sunglasses.
Short palms guarded the corners of the building’s surrounding gravel/stone/shell “landscaping.” The place did look free of weeds, and free of an unreasonable amount of litter. The Spliphsonian paid for the duration, so Rupert took what he got. What he got right now was the sound of someone yelling nearby.
“Freeze! Hands Up!”
As if by genetic predisposition, Rupert’s automatic response was to throw himself face first onto the hot pavement, though he checked himself at the last second. He was melting in a Royal Courtyard Econo-Regency Chalet parking lot, about to embark on an already-doomed mission just to avoid cleaning some museum toilets, so he considered how hygienic or comfortable the local jail might be. Perhaps a little surprise racially-profiled vacation time could be the perfect excuse to not have to follow through with any of this, but the potentially-fatal consequences didn’t justify lengthy consideration.
Then, two black labs bounced by, both collarless and barking. Rupert panicked for a moment—police dogs, maybe—but one sped by in front, the other behind him, then both were gone around the corner. Not a patrol car in sight.
Rupert hitched the duffle bag higher onto his shoulder and walked sweating through the door of the motel.
Now, he froze. The AC felt set to about thirty-two degrees. His sweat-soaked shirt clung cold to his back and chest, and, to his horror, his nipples knifed at the fabric. He dropped the duffle bag, trying and failing—between adjusting his cross-body bag strap and sliding the file high up into his cold, sweaty armpit—to hide what he now realized was a phenomenon as embarrassing as it was unavoidable, no matter how you sliced it. He mentally apologized for the many times he’d covertly ogled women in the grocery frozen foods isles.
The clerk behind the desk smiled a smile at Rupert that made the flesh of his lower back crawl. Not unfriendly, but not friendly either—perhaps this was normal for the service industry. She had black hair that hung in her face to her jawline. Her nametag read “Angel.”
Really. He had difficulty maintaining eye contact.
Rupert handed her his reservation printouts and said: “Hello. I am checking in . . . indefinitely, I guess.”
Angel didn’t look at the papers, but left them on the counter and turned to the side to type away at something for about five full minutes. At length, but with no less typing, she spoke:
“Sooooooooo . . . ” And she typed.
Please, no small talk.
The “so” went on so long he had time to think of several things that might be coming out of her mouth, and he picked the most obvious.
“No, it’s a cross-body bag.”
Angel stopped typing and looked at him.
“ . . . how’s the weather up there?”
He didn’t answer and instead studied a framed watercolor of a manatee floating under the surface of the water, bathed in the glorious rays of some imaginary benevolent sun that clearly did not exist in real life. It wasn’t a bad painting. It also was not good. This was a land of ambiguity, and ambiguity made Rupert—as it does most people—feel deeply uncomfortable.
“Did you paint that?” he asked Angel who had returned to the novel she was evidently required to write before checking someone into the motel.
“Fuck no.” She didn’t look up.
Those were the last words Angel ever said to Rupert, that he was aware of. She slapped a small envelope onto the counter containing two plastic credit card-sized electronic keys with FFG fast food ads on them then pointed straight ahead, past him where a corridor stretched back into darkness. As Rupert made his way to room 220—as scribbled on the key card envelope with a malfunctioning ballpoint pen—the working light fixtures became fewer. His room was somewhere between I Feel Relatively Safe and Someone’s Going To Push Their Way In After Me And Rape Me Forever. Even Rupert recognized that this was an odd thought for a six-foot-ten biracial man.
The room was unremarkable—typical motel-on-the-highway fare. Two queen-size beds (that his feet would hang off of), plum-colored, floral-printed bedspreads made of some sort of moisture-repelling fabric. Two pillows per bed, neither of which were comfortable, alone or in combination. An entertainment center with the TV on top and the rest of it modified to hold a mini-fridge (which clicked and hummed in turns) and microwave (unset, flashing digital time that would have to be covered up with a sock). Too-small bathroom, too-low showerhead, and the toilet flushed, but struggled. The bathroom sink was outside the bathroom, before a massive mirror and fluorescent lighting that made anyone who stood in front of it look like a citizen of Nilbog. Ironing board, hairdryer, hangers attached to the rod, one-cup coffee maker. A dog might have peed on the carpet, once upon a time.
Rupert could hear the traffic of Route 72.
Much to his disappointment, he realized he’d have no trouble adjusting to living here. Aside from the cold. His shirt was dry now, but, damn, he was still cold. He looked at the heater beneath the window and hoped it worked. When it kicked on, a weird smell came and went, and he felt the heat come through.
“Thank God.”
Through the window above the heater, he saw the yellow and green FFG fast food sign before pulling the curtains shut.
Lee Harper Oswald 
Sock it to me...