Jesse Goolsby - I'd Walk with My Friends If I Could Find Them

A knock at her door jolts her awake and she looks around, dazed. A lit lamp. A television. Brown curtains. White walls. This is her room. She’s in Klamath.

Kristen searches for a clock and finds one on the nightstand: 11:15 P.M. She’s not sure what that means. When did she get in? Another knock. A double tap. Kristen stands and steps to the door, not thinking to glance for a peephole. She pauses for a moment. Klamath.

Through the door, a voice.

“It’s Dennis, from the front desk.”

Kristen inspects the room, unaware of what she seeks. She remembers there’s no suitcase to find. The bed appears huge. Her purse on the bathroom counter. The clothes she wears. She turns the door’s handle and cracks the door enough to expose her head.

“It’s Dennis. You know. From the desk. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay in here.” He smiles. His hands are behind him and he rocks back and forth.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine. Thanks.”

“Good,” he says. “Good.”

He rocks in place, and Kristen comes to. Eleven-fifteen, she thinks. The motel’s lights cast a blue shade onto the parking lot.

“Yep,” she says.

“So the drive-through tree is down the road here. Hell, you could walk to it. You know, there’s three redwoods you can drive through in California. Two of them are down south a bit.”

“Oh.”

“I haven’t been there to those two, but…” He pauses and Kristen waits for him to continue, but there’s only silence. He rocks in place.

Kristen thinks Dennis may be wearing a different shirt, and she gets a whiff of his cologne. She notices that he’s combed his now wet hair. He’s tall and overweight, and his large hands appear at his sides, then slide into his front pockets. She cases the parking lot for someone, but there are only two cars parked in front of dark rooms on the far side of the place.

“Yeah,” she says. “Well. I’m fine with this one. Thanks.” She moves her left hand to the door’s edge and grips, pointing her ring set at him, but his eyes don’t leave hers. At the far side of the parking lot someone appears and walks a few steps in their direction, then pauses and lights a cigarette. Dennis glances at the smoker, then turns back to Kristen.

“I’m glad the room works,” he says. “There’s not much going on, but we got a bar across the street.” He points.

“I’m not really—”

“I know Rick, the bartender. It’s the one game in town.” He gulps. “No pressure, of course.”

The parking-lot smoker has moved a few steps closer to them and stopped. Kristen eyes Dennis’s boots, a couple feet from the doorjamb. She breathes his cologne.

“I’m married,” she says. “I mean, he’s here…”

“Wow,” he says, and laughs. “Married. You the only one?”

“I’m sorry?”

Dennis lifts his hands and presses his palms to his chest. Kristen decides to shut the door, to slam it, but her hands don’t move. She flexes her arms and the muscles tighten.

“I mean I’m just being nice, telling you about the bar,” Dennis says. “That’s what we got here. You from some big city looking for the drive-through tree. That’s what I’m saying. I’m not asking if you’re married. Just being nice. You seemed a little out of sorts, that’s all. Just being nice.”

“I know,” she says. “I’m sorry. Long day.” She hears her words and this repeated apology.

“So?”

“Sorry?”

She tells herself to close the door. Why is she asking questions?

“So you agree about nice people? That there are nice people?”

“Sure.”

“That’s all I’m saying. Why does everyone have to be scared all the time? You’re scared and I don’t know why. I know your husband isn’t here. That’s fine. I’m checking on a guest. I live here, ma’am.”

“I know,” she says. “Sorry.”

“You know?”

“No. Please.”

“Please?” he says. He lifts his hands to his face. He covers his eyes. “My God. I’m sorry.” He leans back and takes a step away. The smoker sits on the pavement.

“Okay.”

“Have a great night,” he says, shaking his head as he starts his walk away. “There’s a deadbolt on the door if you have issues.”

Kristen closes the door and presses her body against it. She finds the deadbolt and twists it locked and backs up against the door. Her mind whirls and she grabs her purse and sits on the bed. She turns off the lamp and reaches into her purse for her phone, but remembers she’s left it in the car’s glove box and says, “Fuck.” Narrow strips of blue light leak from the bottom of the curtains onto the AC/heater unit. She picks up the room’s phone and hears the dial tone, then puts the receiver down. She stands and walks to the curtains and draws them back and peers out. She sees her car and the unmoving parking lot. Near her knees the AC kicks on, and she jumps back. Quickly she reaches into her purse and grabs her car keys, steps to the door, unlocks the deadbolt and handle lock, opens the door, and looks around. Nothing. In the distance the sound of brakes from Highway 101, and in front of her a deserted parking lot.

From her car’s glove box Kristen snatches her phone and a bottle of pepper spray. Back in the locked room, she sits in the darkness, surprised to find herself here, on this bed, in this room, confused that she isn’t bound for another place. She sets the pepper spray on the bed next to her and turns on her phone and studies the background photo while the phone searches for reception. Three missed calls and five texts from Wintric, two texts from her mother. She places the phone on her chest and tries to relax.

The cool air from the AC reaches her legs and she hears a car door shut outside. She grabs the pepper spray and stands.

From outside, a woman’s voice: “One seventeen. No, one seventeen.”

Kristen tries to remember her room number, but nothing comes to her. She edges to the curtains and stares out. Outside, a woman stands near a car holding a sleeping child. She enters the room next to Kristen’s. Kristen hears the woman’s movements through the shared wall. A man waits for a moment in the parking lot, then reaches into the back seat and brings out a baby in a car seat and a large bag and follows the woman into the room. Before she closes the curtains, Kristen hears the short beep and sees the headlights flash as the car locks.

Back on the bed, Kristen listens to the family settle in the room next to hers. She retrieves her phone and opens the first text from her mother: Okay? Worried. Call ASAP. Love you. From the next room, the rising cries of the baby and the muffled reaction of the parents. The infant unleashes a full-blown wail as Kristen types a text to her mother: Drove to coast. Need deep breath. I know weird. All okay. Home soon. Help with Wintric. All okay. Love. The baby screams, then quiets, then screams, and Kristen realizes that Dennis may have put the family next to her as some sort of punishment, but tonight the noisy family and thin walls comfort her. They’d hear if someone knocked on her door. They’d hear her if she called out. Kristen rereads her text to her mother— All okay. She hits Send and keeps her phone on but in silent mode. The AC kicks off, and though she’s still hot, she stays on the bed, guessing it will turn on again soon. The baby cries, and Kristen wonders how young the child is, if it’s a boy or a girl. She grabs the pillow that Wintric would use if he were here and clutches it to her chest.

In the morning, about half a mile from the motel, Kristen slides five dollars into a slot in a yellow shack beneath a handwritten sign that reads $5 FOR CARLOAD. PUT MONEY IN THE SLOT. WE TRUST YOU. Guiding her car up a steep road just behind the shack, she comes upon the Tour Thru Tree so fast that the scene instantly surprises and disappoints her. A green car is parked halfway through the massive tree and two teenagers stand nearby, taking photos with their phones. Kristen stops and glances around, but there’s only this small clearing with the massive, holed tree and a thin paved road looping through. Somehow she’s already here. She rolls down her window and hears a group of Harleys on 101 and one of the teenagers saying, “Humboldt.”