Chapter 72
The Captain Cook, I realize, was the one-night-only I-just-left-my-wife deluxe hotel special, the I-want-to-impress-you splurge, the let-me-convince-myself-I-made-the-right-choice-by-treating-myself-to-a-one-hundred-percent-goose-down-comforter-and-room-service-pancakes extravaganza.
This, the Bird Creek Motel, is the reality.
A dingy room that reeks of must and has a left-behind half-empty carton of sour milk in the mini fridge.
“So, it’s not not the Bates Motel,” he says, force-laughing as we examine the room, “but I figure it’s fine short-term. Can’t imagine it’ll take me longer than a week or two to find a decent apartment.”
I lie that it’s kind of charming even as I stare at a questionable stain in the shape of Texas on the tattered burgundy carpet.
He calls me out for lying, and we laugh, and I say that even with my white trash background, this is unsavory, and we laugh some more, then we lift the mattress to unironically check for bedbugs but instead find a plastic pen bearing the motel’s logo leaking ink onto the top of the bed skirt.
“Well, it’s not bed bugs,” Korgy shrugs.
“It’s not bed bugs,” I agree.