In the story of America, the road is beautiful, the people are beautiful, even the motel is beautiful. It’s beautiful even when there is no chance of that, even when it is an ordinary, respectable chain franchise that promises anything but a surprise, or when it is the very opposite, a no-tell motel where the dirty little surprise—of a place just funky enough so a woman can cry to heaven without fear of summoning the police—is what motivated the choice. The motel is beautiful because it is a caldron of expectation fueled by a thousand songs and stories, a thousand real or borrowed memories of the motel as a place where sex happens, or might.
Always there is the promise, but then… the delivery. I remember once picturing something charmingly louche while driving to a motel described as being out of the way. It was under a highway in New Jersey. The man at the front desk asked, "One hour or four?" The carpeting was a stained shade of puce. A small paper fir tree twirled "Evergreen" odor out into the room from a bedside lamp, and just overhead in a gold-tone frame a stagecoach hurtled forward across a stormy plain. Dirty in all the wrong ways, at least a paper strip across the toilet seat guaranteed "Sanitary."
Disappointment was part of the romance of the road from the start. The nation’s first stag film fantasy was a road trip. In the 1915 silent A Free Ride, a mustachioed man and two women are bouncing along in a Model T, the air ripe with possibility. They stop for a pee, a caress, and in an instant one of the women disappears—to watch?—while the other is led to an auto robe spread on the ground. The mustachioed man pounces, dropping his trousers as the camera moves in close for a view of his rather feeble buttocks thumping away. Seconds pass and it’s done, the act and the film—as so often with fantasy, more thrilling in the hothouse of imagination than in fact.
Lately I’ve been driving America’s roads, where picnic sex and its more prosaic indoor substitutes are secondary to the carnal in its most basic sense, to bodies in motion and at rest; in other words, to men, women and children simply surviving.
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It’s plain that the American dream of lighting out for the territory has gone awry when the school bus pulls up at the Quality Inn. I could name any chain motel of the low-frills type—a Days Inn or Best Western or Howard Johnson. The phenomenon is not uncommon; it just used to be confined to the obscure motel specializing in weekly rates for construction workers, transient soldiers, ex-cons, drug addicts and writers on really small expense budgets. Now almost any motel might be at least partly residential. But I am speaking of a particular motel near a particular East Coast city, and here two yellow buses have been coming by ever since a man on the first floor was arrested and his 7-year-old daughter, hard up for a ride, went knocking door to door at 7 am, asking strangers if anyone could take her to school. At least seven children from the motel ride the buses each morning and afternoon. The walkway on the side of the motel where the girl lives with her troubled father, crippled mother and older brother is lined with plastic toys.