AnYi 安亦

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Tell the story of a man who lives in a motel.

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If you were to ask the people who know James to describe him in one word, you’d certainly get a variety of responses. Many a colleague would think back to the steady presence he maintained throughout his nearly 50 years of service and call him reliable; those who have ever considered him a friend might remember some specific circumstance where he risked a great deal to aid them and go with generous. The larger half of his family, however, would put in the utmost effort to find a word epitomising the very opposite of both prior descriptors and – five hours later, having settled on lazy – label him as such. My point is that throughout his life, James has interacted with a great many people in a great many ways. He could come across as anything from distant to engaging, welcoming to curt, reserved to… perhaps not life-of-the-party, but he certainly had his entertaining moments. One quality that no-one would assign him is promiscuous – the closest anyone would come would be inventive, as what he calls a rhumba is… well, there’s a reason he’s taking a class.

You see, James was brought up ‘properly’ in a time where children only spoke if spoken to, and did precisely what they were told, precisely when they were told to. In short: a time without the sort of personal freedom you and I have enjoyed. And, as always occurs when a person is forced through autocorrect at a young age, this behaviour manifested itself throughout his life. He had his little rebellions, of course. As a small child, he greeted his father at the door once, which went largely unnoticed. And there was his own anti-social-teenager phase, wherein he started dating in secret. His final rebellion was a few years after that, when his parents informed him that he was to be married; he kicked up a great deal of fuss all the way to the little coffee shop where he was to meet his soon-to-be wife for the first time. But sitting down across from the girl he had been cautiously dating for quite a while now, he had a few uncomfortable thoughts. Firstly, that his parents knew – this whole time they had seen right through his various misdirects, and this was just their way of torturing him for his disobedience. Secondly, that his parents didn’t know – coming after the first, you might have expect this thought to be somewhat calming, but alas, it was directed far further into the future; he would have to keep up the ruse the rest of their lives, not once letting slip to anyone how he had truly met his wife for fear of word trickling back to them. Either way, his parents had him on a leash. The third thought came a little later than the others, when he saw her face. She looked genuinely delighted to see him, but that joy was quickly draining as she took in the combination of shock and horror plastered across his. And it was that, the edges of sadness creeping into her eyes, that loosened the leash around his throat; he wasn’t sure what game his parents were playing, but if he was sure of anything, it was that sadness didn’t belong there. “Sorry.” He began, almost to buy time while he came up with something he could say to ease her mind. “I suddenly feel underdressed – you look amazing.” He was as relieved as she was to hear those words tumble from his lips.

So, now you know James. Don’t look at me like that – you’ve seen more of him than his family ever did. The newlyweds did the whole song and dance of being married: jobs, house, kids, etcetera, sickening happiness, etcetera. But you’re not here for that, are you? No. You saw the word promiscuous in the first paragraph, and now you’re here wondering what could possibly push this mild-mannered softie to something so far outside the scope of his personality. Well, his wife died. I feel like you should have seen that coming.

So here he is, 71 years old – having worked his whole life dreaming of enjoying retirement with the woman he loves, only to have her bail one year in – spending so many nights at the Rusty Oasis motel that he basically lives there. Those of you who are good at maths and have the psychic abilities to know when this is set and what his job was, know he’s been alone now for eight years. Eight! I certainly wouldn’t have lasted that long, no matter how much or how long I’d loved my partner. And while he waits in what is essentially just a dirty box containing a bed, toilet, and shower, he casts his mind back to how exactly he got caught up in all this. It was a Saturday and, because his youngest ‘had a job thing’, he was looking after her youngest. The day was comprised of the usual feeding, changing, and reading, only this time there was a baby there, too. And something about this particular day had him feeling restless. When she came back to pick up the child and oh so subtly let him know the ‘job thing’ was now a weekly occurrence, he got to work. He tried every sort of exercise he could think of to make the feeling go away – he went for a walk, toiled for hours in the woodshop, and even tidied the attic somewhat – but no dice. His final attempt was to call up a friend from rhumba class. He’s not proud of what happened after they started practicing – in fact, he felt quite ashamed of having betrayed his wife in her own living room. But once the initial revulsion wore off… well, he’s here, isn’t he?