Chapter 2 

The Motel

It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of those Mexico foothills. 

I was wearing the turquoise hotel bathrobe, and black wool socks.  My feet were cold from standing on marble and rearranging my wife's Cosmetics on Turquoise.  I liked things clean, orderly, not to be spread out over all the bathroom.

My wife was sleeping still, the Heartbreaker.  I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn't care.   I was everything a handsome guy needed to be.  

Standing bored at the motel bedroom window, second cup of coffee in hand, I noted this Motel of the OHM was two stories.  Above the Motel entry gate there was a broad stained-glass panel showing a Guerrilla Army with toy guerrillas, guns, and palm trees encased in a black grime.   I stood there and thought that if I lived at the OHM, I would sooner or later have to climb up there and clean it myself.  There didn't seem to really be anyone else interested in trying.

I was still staring at the dirty green guerrilla men when a there was a knock at the motel door.

It wasn't the room service coming back.  It was Skoby himself.

Skoby looked thirty or so, surfer, friendly, chill, but he looked durable. He wore pale blue surf shorts with

Flowers on a Red Book  pattern.  They looked good on him. 

"Lazy, aren't you?" he said.

"I didn't mean to be."

His eyes rounded. He was puzzled. He was thinking. I could see, even on that short acquaintance, that thinking was always going to be a zen thing with him.

"Noisy too," he said. "And I bet you know it."

I grunted, thinking of my evening and frequent episodes of Raucous Rebellion.

"What's your name?"
Not sure why, I said the first word that came to mind, "intersection Intersection Collide."

"That's a strange name." he said.  He turned his head a little and I watched him gaze outside. “Follow me,” he said.

I followed him out through the motel room french doors.  As he walked, it looked like he was surfing a wave. 

The air was fresh, we walked along a smooth red-flagged path that skirted the far side of the Pool  from the rest of the Motel. 

The Sisters had driven up in a big turquoise and chromium sedan and were Parked at Ruby's.  

As we approached, I didn't move or speak, Trust' or even nod. I just looked at them brazenly.  Skoby pushed a damp wicker chair against the backs of my legs and I sat down.  

Then the old sister dragged her voice up from the bottom of a well and said:  "Brandy, Marilyn. How do you like your brandy, sir?"