by Roach Spell
California Motel
Spencer’s first
By Roach Spell
For God’s Sake, Spencer!
“Do it again. This time, please sing the right line and hit the note. ‘Youth Elite,’ take 39!”
The recording studio lights went on, a strong bass, in rhythm with a hard-hitting drum, followed by vibrating, driving metal guitar chords. Both hands on the studio headphone set. His lips aiming for the big microphone. Spencer let out a long scream of “Yeah, c’mon” which sounded good. Then he sang an off-key, disastrous first line of lyrics, which reminded the others of a white-copied Indian spiritual dance line, interrupted by a howling wolf in the desert, all under the influence of magic mushroom.
The red control room light went on again. “Stop, Stop, Spencer!”Behind the soundproof glass, hectically, four heads with lots of hair surrounded by smoke began to argue while Spencer took his Corona and cigarette, and walked slowly toward the control room.
“What’s up?” asked Spencer.
Eight stony eyes looked at him in that smoke-filled room at the North Hollywood studio. It was two a.m. There was a curfew on the LA streets, the Rodney King scandal had just happened, and Spencer’s band manager Keith was about to fire him.
“Hey man,” Keith said. “You are a great stage performer, you know. We love you, man, and we really fucking hoped you would get it done this time, but it fucking sucks, man. You really have no fucking clean sound in the recording studio. We have to let you go, man, because we need to finish our fucking debut album, and with you, it is just not fucking going there. We got your replacement already. We knew this might happen, so we placed a ‘Lead Singer Wanted’ ad in BAM Magazine a few weeks ago. We found a new fresh talent – your replacement.”
The guitar player put his hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Sorry dude,” he said. “We had a real awesome time, with great gigs, especially the one at the Roxy. We rocked it, and it got us here with a record deal in hand. Thanks buddy. You always did a great job on stage.”
Spencer, pale white, only said, “I got it! Analog Cocksuckers!”
He took his blonde-haired woman in heels by the hand, spat a wad of chewing gum onto the recording panel, and left the studio, fully aware of the street riots that were moving in all the way from East LA. Those riots did not mean anything to him now.
1
“Cut it. Cut it short, Mario.
All of it.”
Long pieces of hair fell off the side of his head. It was the end of rock’n’roll for Spencer. He was tired of trying to follow his big dream. Ever since he moved away as a young lad from his home country Scotland, he had been trying to make it as a musician. Years ago, he crawled out of that loch, leaving his father’s whisky distillery and kissing his red-haired Highland mother goodbye. His thoughts were as short as his hair, which was falling to the ground in pieces at Mario’s Italian Barbershop on Magnolia Boulevard.
What will I do now?
Mario was buzzing like a Danny DeVito, standing around him with a mirror. He said, “Ah bello, you now look like this actor. Come si dice?”
“Back to the Future…yes, Michael J. Fox,” Spencer replied, laughing. “Si si Mario, grazie.”
He glanced at an ad in The Los Angeles Times job section. “Good,” he continued. “I can become an actor now or...”
Urgent: Motel Manager wanted!
“Can I borrow your phone, Mario?” Spencer asked, although he had already begun dialing.
“This is Terry, talk,” said the voice on the other end of the line. Spencer had called the number listed in the job posting.
He started talking and said many convincing things. Spencer was good at these kinds of calls and sounded very professional, spoke in the right tone, and used the right words. This conversation proved much better than his singing abilities. After two short minutes, Terry’s tired voice said, “All right, you’ve got the job. Come down here tomorrow morning. Bring all your belongings and move into the apartment that connects to the reception. You get the apartment as part of your assignment. I’ll be waiting for you at nine a.m.”
Terry hung up the phone. Mario, who was trying to hear the conversation, raised his hands in the air as if he was making a pizza.
“Mamma mia, how did you get this job so quickly? So easily?” He is right, Spencer thought, that was a bit strange and very swift.
“Look, Mario,” he said, “As the offer says in the paper, they need someone urgently. So here I am, about to become a motel manager. Well, why not, Grazie, ciao. I will see you again, but the motel is a bit far from LA. It is on route to San Diego on the Pacific Coast Highway. My destination is a town called Dana Point.”
Then Spencer returned to the street, feeling naked, with that clean cut on his head. Passing by some police officers and military guards standing behind brick street barriers. It is a good time to get away from this racial conflict zone, Spencer thought. For the last time, he went back to his Studio City apartment; packed his few belongings and kissed the Blonde goodbye all over, wishing her all the best with her goal of becoming the sexy girl on the cover of Hustler Magazine.
Do we not all have our dreams while we face the reality of survival, he thought, enjoying her big, soon-to-be-famous boobs, one last time.
2
Spencer could no longer afford his old black Mustang. He would have to sell it once he got to Dana Point.
The heavy wheels turned right out of Sunset Boulevard, heading south. Spencer was driving at a very uncool, not so Rock’n’Roll early-morning hour, and he wanted to at least try to enjoy himself. He tuned into the awesome KNAC station on the car radio, rolling down the window with a cigarette tucked between his thin lips. A new kind of life and unknown grounds awaited him.
Newport Beach, Laguna Beach – he made a stop on the hill for a burger and some fries at a place viewing the sea, and from where he could spot Avalon. The sound of Motley Crue’s “Home Sweet Home” played. Spencer thought about this job waiting for him – a job that would be nothing like the rock star life he had been living all those years. A blink of sadness appeared in his eyes. No more late-night whisky at the Rainbow or the Troubadour, he thought. No girls and dudes that all belonged to the glamor-style family. Well, fuck it, and so long.
He finally arrived at Dana Point and drove to a big, lousy signaled intersection looking to the right. It was the Villa Motel. The place he would manage from now on. Damn, it was much bigger than he expected. There was a huge parking lot, a Mexican restaurant, and many guest rooms in a wide stretched two-story Hacienda-style building. This was a surprise at first, but Spencer soon perceived that there would be many lovers coming in for two-hour quickies and leaving the keys in the room after they left.
“Terry, hi,” said Spencer. “It’s good to meet you.”
Spencer smiled and shook hands with a tall, skinny, pale person in his early fifties.
Terry looked, as though, he is not much under the California sunshine. This was no wonder, since Terry was a night person and owned several clubs in the area.
“This is Jim,” Terry said, introducing Spencer to a moustache, John Wayne lookalike. He is the motel maintenance man, and he is temporarily handling the reception.
“But now you are here, Spencer,” Terry continued. “Let’s show you around. Then you can sign the contract and move into your new home.”
There were forty-eight rooms in the motel, several of which had a kitchen and two additional rooms included, with a layout similar to an apartment.
Jim and two other staff resided onsite full-time. Harper, the black gardener. In addition, Esperanza, who came from Mexico and did all the housekeep
ing.
They all live in their own private rooms at the far end of the parking lot, next to Terry’s own home. Spencer would have his first meeting with them soon, and he would get to know the individuals, belonging to his team. What a career move, from a longhaired, time-stealing rocker to a Bates Motel manager. Bertha was there too, a big woman who was drenched in sweat. She is in charge of all the accounting, which probably had something to do with her sweating issue, as counting numbers and calculating figures all day can really get you worked up. He was going to know some of the other oddities about her soon. Bertha handed him the contract, a big bundle of keys, and some written safety instructions. She informed Spencer that Jim would collect the daily room rental invoices every evening before leaving for the night. Afterward, she would lock the money in the safe in her office, which was right above the Mexican restaurant.
“Spencer? Are you listening?”
Said Terry, who was standing next to Bertha. She was sitting in her well-used chair, with her big legs wide open beneath the desk. Spencer had never been around such a big woman before, and he found himself fascinated by what he saw. Immediately he tuned up the lyrics of “Whole Lotta Rosie” from AC/DC’s Bon Scott in his mind.
“Yes, Terry. I got you.” Spencer said.
“Hmm, Bertha, I can always bring you that daily account money before you leave in the evening. That is no problem. Let Jim do his maintenance and we’ll do the managing.” With a big grin on his face, Spencer had just given the perfect answer, sounding just like Jack Nicholson.
The others did not catch his ulterior motive and went on to accept his suggestion. All three had funny California resident smiles on their faces.
3
The first night on the new job began. Spencer turned the lights on. The parking lot was yet still empty, and only a few guests had signed in for the night.
Jim was there to assist him so that he could get used to everything. The two men closed the front reception door, leaving a single sliding window open. Any new guest would have to ring the bell, sign in, and show some form of identification.
Any check in, needs to pay upfront.
Now suddenly the parking lot became terribly busy, almost jammed.
Happy hour. Jim advised Spencer to keep the motel guests and the Mexican restaurant patrons in separate parts of the lot. That way no restaurant visitors would park in the spaces reserved for the motel guests. Spencer had a lot to handle. He started to walk out with a flashlight, from now each night. It soon became clear that many of those young pickup truck drivers did not give a shit about parking rules.
Spencer was always directing them to the correct lot, and this game often went on for hours. Soon Spencer would not only walk outside with a flashlight, but he would also keep pepper spray that he’d bought at a sex toy shop, and a small metal baseball bat on his belt.
The Mexican place was rowdy as hell, and the craziness of it all kept Spencer’s adrenalin through the roof.
“Hey, sorry, you can’t park here,” he would say. “Please move your car over to the front or across the road if it’s all jammed up.” Two guys jumped out of the back of their Toyota truck, and one immediately pulled a knife out on Spencer.
“Get the fuck back! “Spencer screamed, with that rocking sound in his voice. One person moved to the left and turned his neck sideways, like in those creepy movies. “You sound like a foreigner,” he said. “You fucking bastard, go back to fucking England.” Well, that was the wrong thing to say to a Scotsman. Spencer grabbed his pepper spray and vaporized the man’s open mouth. Other people came running. “Oh fuck, oh fuck,” the person with the knife whined. “I am blind.” In the meantime, the cooks from the Mexican restaurant, who always went outside to smoke, called the police. Trouble in the Villa parking lot was nothing new.
Another boy jumped at Spencer with a knife, one with huge buckteeth. Spencer cracked his arm bone with the swift swing of his bat.
Now, everybody was in a rage while the two men screamed in pain and shouted every bad word known to people in the region. Before long, the parking lot turned into the celebration of a happy California Friday night. It was the weekend, and one had no reason not to get wild and rumble.
All the female observers seemed to have a lot of joy and pulled up their shirts to show off their chests to Spencer.
They cranked up Boston’s song “More than a Feeling” in their car, which mixed with the sirens of the police cars arriving at the scene.
The cops had arrived just in time, because he did not think he could fend off any other crazy person that evening.
It was another exciting night, and he was certain many others would follow.
4
Detective Miller pulled his police badge from his long trench coat and shook off the breadcrumbs that came with it.
“Good morning, Sir,” he said to Spencer. “Are you the manager on duty? You got a minute?”
Spencer felt somewhat amused by this detective’s appearance and behavior. The man immediately reminded him of Peter Falk’s Columbo, of which Spencer had never missed an episode. Same bulky hairstyle, those blinking eyes, and that coat – maybe it was Columbo’s original coat.
Spencer sympathized with the detective right away. Smoking his cigar, the detective followed Spencer into the backroom, Spencer’s living room.
Miller’s phone rang. Softly, Miller said, “Sure honey, I will bring that home for you. Yes, I will take the safe road home.”
Milled turned to Spencer. “My wife,” he explained.
Spencer answered quietly, “Yes, I assumed,” smiling, because of course it had to have been his wife, just like in the Columbo series. Columbo was always talking to his wife, or about her.
Miller retrieved some photos and laid them out on the table: men’s faces with ugly scars and dangerous looks.
Then Miller spoke,
“Those guys are from beyond the border coming out of Tijuana. They will show up here or at your neighbor’s Korean Motel. In any case, if they do, give them a room and contact me. Don’t do anything that could expose you as a nosy manager, which you most likely are based on my experience with motel managers.”
Spencer smiled a bit and said, “I certainly will, Detective Miller. It will be my pleasure to assist you.”
Then the front bell rang at the reception.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Spencer said. “And by the way…will they have guns?”
5
“Good morning, Miss. What can I do for you?”
An old, elegant women in white, dressed as if she was back from the Dixieland period, stood at the reception. She gently moved her pale hand away from the bell. Spencer felt her arousing look, and he was breathing in the scent of sweet flowers.
In his thoughts, he heard the Blondie song Call Me, and then the old woman spoke.
“Young man, are you okay?” she asked. “Do you have a room available?
“I certainly do, Miss,” Spencer, replies.
Unaware of the fact that Miller was standing beside him, watching the scene in a slightly amused manner, he continued. “How long will you be staying with us, Miss…Miss?” Spencer looked at the upturned registration paper. “Oh…Miss Bernadette Rose,” he read aloud, practically singing her name.
“This is Detective Miller,” Spencer added sheepishly, having finally become aware of his presence.
“Miss Rose,” Miller greeted. She nodded slightly and said, “I will stay here for a while, enjoying the sea and going down old memory lane. Please do write me up for ten days; and if you do not mind, I would prefer a room on the second floor. I would want to stay in Room 32, please.”
Spencer looked at Miller. “Yes, I can do that for you,” he said to Miss Rose. “Are you sure you don't mind going up and down those old wooden stairs?”
“Young man, I hope you’re not implying that an old woman should–”
“Oh no, no, not at all, Miss Rose,” interrupted Spencer, smiling. “Please let me help you with y
our luggage. I’ll give you your key, and we can walk right over there.”
“Before I forget,” she said, turning around the way only a dancer could.
“Sunday evening at nine p.m., please deliver a bottle of bourbon to my room, and a pack of light cigarettes. If you do not mind, arrange that you have time to join me.”
“Certainly ma’am,” said Spencer, his eyes gleaming.
As Spencer escorted Miss Bernadette Rose to her room; he saw that Miller had met Harper the gardener, who wanted to ask Spencer for some guidance regarding flower arrangements on the second floor.
“Yes, Harper, that is a good idea,” said Spencer, upon his return to the reception. “We need to cover those old rails up. Here is fifty dollars to get it done. I will talk to Terry about this, since surely he will not be happy about any spending. But the place sure could use some sort of upgrade in appearance.”
Harper played the harmonica every night, sitting on his bench, and Spencer admired those kinds of bluesy people.
“See you later, Harper,” he said.
Miller was on the phone with his wife again. It was obvious from his sweetness and the special look he had whenever she called him.
He hung up and said, “Miss Rose is an interesting lady... She is old but very elegant. Am I right, Spencer?” Miller smiles.
“Yes indeed. She is, isn’t she?” Answered Spencer slightly embarrassed.
“Well, I got to head back home, young man. You call me if anything comes your way with those banditos. Be polite to them, and keep a low profile.”
When Miller drove away in his old Peugeot, Rain started to pour down hard. Damn, he is the real Columbo, thought Spencer.
6
“Water! Can anyone turn off that fucking water?”
Spencer stood in a thick brownish puddle behind the reception desk. Esperanza hurried in, “Oh, dios mio,” she cried, carrying two empty buckets and a mop. Then she started to soak up the wet floor with a big towel. “Oh, it happens so many times, Mr. Spencer,” she said. “When there is rain and flooding coming in from the sea.”
