It was about a ten o'clock when Cavanaugh came through the front door of the hostel, stomping his feet and brushing snow from his jacket. Snow! In Albuquerque, New Mexico of all places! He'd thumbed a ride in from a jovial enough real estate agent named Dave near Santa Fe. Twenty minutes later the snow was falling so hard Cav thought he was back in Chicago. Dave rode the brake of his 2001 Altima; slipping, sliding and cursing all the way to the front door of the Route 66 Hostel where he let Cav out.
"Thanks for the ride."
"No problem, youngster." Dave inched away from the curb and slowly drove into the night, off to his wife, kids, mistress or whatever occupied his life. Since thumbing from Chicago, Cav had met all types and, generally, the people were nice; a positive reminder of the good aspects of living in America.
His favorite ride had come while he was still in Illinois. A couple of college girls on their way to Carbondale had picked him up at a gas station, giggling and flirting with him the whole time between Joliet and Urbana. Karen, the driver, had stared at him through the rearview, running her hand through her shoulder-length red hair while her friend Jen spent the majority of the time turned around in her seat, facing him and asking a lot of sexually charged questions, laughing loudly and slapping his knee every time he said anything even remotely funny.
They'd invited him to come along to Carbondale with them and do some partying but he politely declined, promising to call them and visit if he was ever in the area again. He didn't doubt that hanging with Karen and Jen would have been rewarding but he'd done the college girl thing plenty of times and didn't want to get sidetracked so early in his trip.
Cavanaugh wiped his boots on the mat in front of the hostel's door and made his way to the front desk. Behind it sat a man so old he looked like he might have witnessed the last stand at the Alamo. His head was buried in an old Robert Ludlum hardcover. Cav dropped his backpack on the floor and waited for the oldster to notice him. Several moments went by with no reaction from the man. Cav cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Sir?"
"Yuh." Cav was a bit startled when only one of the oldster's eyes rolled to look at him. The other stayed glued to the book.
"I'd like a room for the night."
The old man shifted in his chair, bones creaking. "Lucky," he said, reaching for some kind of leather-bound ledger. "Storm. Lotta vacancies tonight."
"Great."
"Strange weather patterns. All year. Strange patterns." The old man ran his finger up and down the entries in the book, one eye on the page, the other seeming to stare at a spot just over Cav's shoulder. He realized the eye must be glass. Unnerved, he looked around. The hostel looked like it might have previously been some sort of large ranch style home. The walls actually seemed to be made from adobe, and all the doorways had high arches. The front room had been converted into a library with two broken down couches and a coffee table. On one of the couches was a sleeping man with a newspaper in his lap, feet propped up on one of the cushions. The entire place was decorated in a Native American motif that Cav found to be particularly cheesy since he himself was half Cherokee.
The oldster picked up a pen. "Name."
"Cavanaugh Butler."
"Stayin' how long?"
"Just one night."
"On the run or chasin' somebody?"
Cav thought this was a rather intrusive question, especially since he actually was on the run. On the run from debts, relationships, and a life that had made him miserable for the past few years. After losing his parents to a retirement village in Florida, getting fired from his job at a hot shot ad agency and getting dumped by his girlfriend, Cav had decided that Chicago had little left to offer him. Depressed and frustrated, Cav had bought a map of the United States, tacked it to the wall, closed his eyes and threw a dart at it. Two days later, he'd vacated his apartment and was on his way to southern California.
"On the run, I guess you'd say. Running from the old life."
The oldster nodded as if this was all the information he needed. "Startin' new is always good. Go somewhere nobody knows your name or your face. Good as long as you ain't got folks that'll miss ya."
Cav snorted. "Not really. Unless you count a landlord looking for the last month's rent as 'missing' me."
"Well it costs money to rent rooms here. I don't want to be 'missing' you come mornin'." Cav laughed then quieted down when he saw the stern look on the old man's face.
"Got a couple of choices," he went on. "Large rooms. Eight beds each. Sixteen bucks a night. Got some smaller rooms though. Four beds each. Those go for twenty. Little cozier."
Cav thought about it. An extra four dollars for less roommates. Less chances of having to sleep with a snorer. Hell, he could afford it. "Sounds great. I'll take it."
Cav reached into his pocket, counted out twenty dollars and slapped it on the desktop. The old man took the money, wrote out a barely legible reciept, and handed Cav a key.
"Room 2. Upstairs."
"Thanks." Cav bent down to grab his bag.
"Rules." The old man said this sharply and Cav looked up. The one glass eye continued to stare dully over his shoulder while the other fixed him with a severe gaze. "No drinking in the rooms or in the library, only in the kitchen. Dishes. You use 'em you wash 'em. Food with a name on it: don't touch. No name: free for all. Check out at noon."
"Got it. Thanks."
"Yup."
Cav hurried through the library and up the stairs to get away from the creepy oldster with the wandering eye. He found his room and let himself in. Four bunks sat on opposite sides of a rather large room. All the beds were made and there were no signs of any other occupants and Cav wondered if he had the room to himself. He chose the bottom bunk closest to the window and sat down. The mattress felt like it had been stuffed with old beer bottles and doorknobs. It was covered by a natty orange blanket that smelled faintly of fabric softener. He placed his backpack at the foot of the bed and went down the hall to use the bathroom. He was dismayed to see that there was no shower, just an old, rust-stained claw-foot bathtub with no stopper. Oh well. . . He'd only be here for a night.
