Tears on a Sunday Afternoon - Michael Presley [29]
I had made a decision to confront my father. I wanted him to tell me why my entrance to this earth had to be under such dire circumstances. It was odd but I had not missed my father even once while growing up. I had never cried out for him, even though many of my friends and classmates would talk about their fathers. Maybe it was because there were so many other kids in the same boat as me. We did not have fathers but the mothers and grand-parents who raised us were doing a phenomenal job. A single-parent household usually meant one available parent whereas I had none. I’m not sure if it was the way that my mom exited the earth that caused me to want her so much, or if it was her picture that stood on my grandma’s wall that kept knocking in my head. I needed my mother to be with me in the worst way.
The hours went by as the Hummer boomed its way upstate. I pulled into the Seek Motel, located about two miles away from Fisher’s. The meeting with my father could turn ugly so I was taking all the necessary precautions, just in case. As advertised, the motel was cheap with no amenities. An elderly black man sat behind the front desk.
“Good afternoon,” I said, walking up to him.
“Forty dollars a night, and no loud music or cussing. You’re welcome to bring as many people into the room as you like, but there’s only hot water for two showers a day. There are sheets and towels in the closet for a week. No maid service and checkout is at one.” He turned his attention back to watching a small, outdated white television set with a blurry picture.
I reached into my pocket. “Okay.”
“No credit cards,” he said, not taking his eyes off the TV. “And you pay each day.”
I took out my wallet and laid two crisp twenty-dollar bills on the counter.
“What’s your name, Boy?” the old man said, getting up from his chair. “Not too many white men with good teeth rent rooms here. Are you trying to fool around on the Mrs.?”
“Not at all. It seems like all the other hotels around here are booked. Is there something happening in town today?”
“I guess you’re really not from these parts. Today’s the start of the hunting season. Fisher’s Hunting Park is a couple of miles from here. They gonna have a good season, seeing as all the big hotel rooms are sold out.”
I held my hand out for the keys. He slammed them down on the counter.
“Thank you.” I picked up the two rusty silver keys with the number ten on the keychain.
“I should raise the price. Wherever there is one white guy, another one is sure to follow. Have yourself a good night. I’ll be here in the morning. It’s sixty dollars for tomorrow.”
“Bastard,” I whispered loud enough for him to hear.
“White people; they want it all for themselves,” he said as I pulled the door shut.
The hotel room was surprisingly clean for the price. However, the walls were painted a hideous brown color and the drawings of airplanes adorning the ceiling did nothing to enlighten the room. The small, blue closet on the side of the bed contained five wire hangers, towels and a set of white sheets. I put my overnight bag on the only chair in the room. I went into the bathroom that consisted of a standup shower and a washbasin with a small oval mirror above it. Next to the washbasin was an unopened bar of Irish Spring soap. I opened it and washed my hands. There were no towels in the bathroom; therefore I had to walk back into the bedroom to retrieve a small towel from the closet. There was a “Not Working” sign on top of the 19-inch TV located at the foot of the bed. I pushed it to the side of the room and sat down on the bed. I took the folder that Bill had given me out of the bag. It contained a complete rundown on the hunting event. There was a large club area where most of the hunters hung out before heading out into the woods. He suggested that I approach my father at the event. Apparently, he was quite the talker, so getting his attention should be easy. I took the picture of my father, sitting at a bar with a Budweiser in his hand, out