Aug. 4, 1980… Got a great little kitchenette.
We were enthusiastic. $20 per day or $120 per week bought a basement level, two room, paneled unit, complete with garage-sale dishes and pans. The toilet was elevated on a step to assure that it would flush. It also boasted a relic radio and a T.V. with poor reception. The best things about the place, though, were the river which rushed several yards from our door and the ability to procure frozen pizzas from the friendly owner, Marion. After a day of rigorous hiking, I would ask Marion to heat a pizza and she and I would talk until the pizza was ready.
I felt sorry for Marion. She was a widow who tried to keep the motel intact for her guests despite rising costs and the continual threat of delapidation. The place was in disrepair, but having little help, change was more of a dream than a possibility. She had endured hardship in life; she looked poor, but with dignity, not despair. Marion accepted things in a manner which encouraged trust, making herself welcome company and her motel a homey place to stay. On one visit, I happened to mention that Norm was my brother. She accepted my statement with unparalleled grace, although it was obvious by the glimmer in her eyes that she did not believe a word; she had seen too much to swallow that story. Having nothing to hide or defend, I let her believe what she would. With or without proof, one believes what he wants to believe.
"That's it!" Relieved of our luggage, the trunk appeared to have been disemboweled. I slammed the lid and turned around to see one of the other guests intercept Norm as he strode toward the car. "Hi, there," the man bellowed. "See you've got a Dodge Dart, too. Got two of 'em at home. Darn things just won't wear out… " Within the passage of five minutes we knew more about him than either of us cared to know. And we hadn't even asked.
"Come here every year," he stated. We also learned the man delivered mail for his bread and butter; he was married and had kids. There was something very unpleasant about the man, apart from his obnoxious flow of conversation. He was the type of person who was oblivious to his own abhorrant characteristics, a man who would drown his victim unwittingly and not realize that he had died.
When I thought the conversation could grow no worse, his eyes took on an eerie glow and he related to Norm the events of one of his past vacations, wherein he and several relatives traveled to Montana. From a previous trip, I knew Montana was a state resplendent with ground squirrels, and had enjoyed feeding them on one memorable occasion. The man, however, found the animals satisfying for quite a different reason; he, his son and another man spent an afternoon gunning down approximately 400 squirrels. It was a lavish affair which had afforded him pure delight; his excitement over the reckless slaughter was complete and shameless. He had done some ranchers a great service, he raved. As he blasted away, I am sure that service was the last thing on his mind.
I gritted my teeth, glad that none of the conversation had been directed to me, while Norm, visibly unimpressed and equally disgusted by the man, inched toward the car. Fortunately, the man's wife appeared from the darkness of a motel room and we were spared further discussion of the ground squirrel Armageddon.
"Be seein' ya'," he offered.
"Yeh," Norm's tight-lipped response almost had to be cranked from his throat.
Pulling from the motel lot was a relief. "Now there is a guy who likes to kill," I said.