Hostels > Motel 6

 I spent my first moments in Austin wandering aimlessly, looking at hats I couldn’t afford and Texas Ranger monuments. It was my first time bumming in a major city. I felt stupid and washed up as strangers bustled around me in swarms. The traffic raged like hell. I didn’t want to sleep in my car. 

What if I told you that you could sleep in a room full of bunk beds amongst strangers, and it’s somehow less sketchy and more affordable than a Motel 6? You can. It’s a hostel.

From my limited experience, I gathered that hostel people were their own breed. We want cheap beds and good conversation with fellow weirdos. There are even hosts nearby to kick out any bad eggs. 

The hostel in Austin was a little white building on the outskirts of town with a porch swing and a tiny lawn. It felt like walking into someone’s living room. There were couches, colorful rugs, and a stack of board games. I wandered into the kitchen. A pretty dark-haired woman was wiping the counters. She looked up at me through her thickly-framed glasses.“Oh, hi! I’m Juanita!” she said with a stark accent.

Juanita was the hostess. She was from Mexico. She’d been in the states for a few years.

“What do you like about America?”

“I have more freedom as a woman,” she said. She explained that in Mexico, it is more difficult for women to be independent. She felt as though America had given her the world at her fingertips. 

She led me upstairs to the girls’ bunk room. It was the size of a walk-in closet, but they’d managed to stuff two bunk beds in there. It felt like I was back at church camp as I climbed up the white rails, but hopefully these girls were less giggly and wouldn’t whisper in eachother’s ears in front of me. Someone else had put their bags under my mattress.

That someone turned out to be Chelsea. She was from Dallas. Half of her hair was red, the other half was blue. Her fishnets were stark against her white legs. She was dotted with piercings. I soon found out she was only 18. “Where are you going?” 

“I’m just gonna find some town that feels alright, and I’m gonna move there.”

“I like that,” I told her. “I hope you find it.”

We went downstairs and sat in the kitchen with Juanita. A smiley fellow with a killer Afro walked in. His name was Jay. He was actually a local, but he was in-between houses. He worked in a lab and he liked asking questions. He made sure to get our life stories. 

“Man. I like some girls from the South,” he chuckled after getting most of mine.

Then he moved on to Chelsea’s. She told us that she’d been riding Greyhounds and staying on any couches that would have her, and every so often, someone put her up a hostel. “Girl, you crazy,” was Jay’s repeated response.

“Yeah. I think after this I’m going back to this dude’s couch next...Tryin’ to get west, though…” I still sometimes pray that she did. 

I was hot stuff because I was the only one with a car. “I’m gonna go listen to some music if y'all wanna come,” I told them. They were all for it as they hopped in the Subaru. I forgot to mention that I’d been living out of the thing, so they got to move my bras, instruments, jars of peanut butter, and pillows out of the way. They didn’t seem to mind, though.

There was a bar called The Skylark down the road. A fellow named Dickie Lee Erwin was playing Texas country music there. So a wild-eyed punk chick, a wandering Mexican woman, a laid-back black guy, and a road-tripper in cowgirl boots walk into a bar to hear some country music. There’s no punchline, that’s just what happened. 

Jay drank his beer in silence as he listened, and Chelsea seemed like she’d rather go to a concert that involved more moshing, but Juanita was very into the telecaster’s twang and the troubadour’ s wail. “I love country music!” she exclaimed, like a baby who had just started to eat real food. “It’s so real!”

This old, toothless man in a khaki suit, gaudy jewelry, and a wizard-like staff asked me to dance in the neon lights with him. I felt like I had to, as though I’d regret it if I didn’t. Both of us were bad at dancing. We did this move where we reached into the air like we were swatting at invisible moths, but he seemed to be living for those moments. It made it worthwhile. I felt like I’d truly had an Austin experience.

Afterwards, we went out for ice cream, talked about God, and laughed about nothing. We watched Chelsea ask random guys for their phone numbers. Only one of them said no.

We got back to the hostel after midnight. I headed out in the morning before those three awoke, so I left a strip of paper with my name and number on it. They were alright last I heard, but it’s been a while. Sadly, I don’t have their numbers on my new phone.  

Maybe I’ll miraculously bump into them at the next hostel I stay at. If not, maybe I’ll just keep seeing their faces in the smiles of other well-meaning strangers.

Feel Free to Use the Shower

 I took a deep breath as I rolled into the driveway. I double checked the GPS and reread the directions she’d given me: truck in the driveway, boat in the yard. Both were there. I spent a moment thinking about it, because you can never be too sure when you’re pulling into a stranger’s driveway in Austin at 3:05 in the morning. 

In case you were wondering, there’s no way to get settled in a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend’s guest room in the middle of the night without feeling like a punk-kid breaking an entering. I stalked up the driveway. What a relief to find the door unlocked.

Snores echoed in the dark room. My heart jolted as the silhouette of a dog stepped into view, but he wagged his tail, licked my hand, and didn’t cause a ruckus in a stranger’s living room at 3:10 A.M. That was a plus.

I stumbled towards a light down the hall and found the room Libby had described in the text. It was covered in beige, featuring a giant bed. Family pictures sat on the dresser. I only felt slightly creepy as I looked at them and decided they looked like a nice family of three.

To my surprise, there was even a bathroom! What a blessing! You know how you see depictions of Native American cultures marking the days by the moon phases? Well, on the road, I sometimes marked the days by showers. “Oh, that was before the last shower... 5 days ago…”

I never mind making due with wet wipes and river beds. I didn’t have anyone to impress. If it got bad, I’d just pay to shower at Love’s with the long-haul truckers. But it never came to that.

Showers are commodities on the road, though. The last time I’d showered was in Louisiana. I’d stayed with the couple who owned the cafe where I played tunes for gelato, a chicken sandwich, a bed, and some good talks. Maybe they smelled me when I walked in their house. They offered their guest shower.

Anyways, Libby’s shower was exciting.

Libby was my friend’s friend’s friend, and that is a joy of social media. She’d offered me her guest room. I told her I’d be late. Little did I know it’d be 3 A.M. late. 

I’d played a gig at this place called Hole in the Wall in downtown Austin. True to the name, it was a hole in a wall, and you did come out of there reeking of cigarettes. I opened for a couple of songwriters, Wild Fitz and Will Cope. They were long-haired men with shiny belt buckles and boots. 

Mr. Cope must’ve been an Austin legend because all night everyone was like, “GOSH DARN IT THAT’S WILL COPE!” His shaggy hair and newsboy’s cap made him look like he had a lot of songs in his head. I remember a song he sang about moving to Texas, buying some cowboy clothes, and learning to write songs and sing them in smoky bars. It made me smile.

Fitz was sweet, and he sang like Hank Williams reborn. I got the feeling he used to be a wild one, but now he has a baby. Now he stays home and sings for his woman. He told me about the best record store in San Antonio to find Tejano vinyl, and to this day his words have stuck to my heart.

     “It’s crazy,” he said, a far away look in his eyes, “On the road, you meet these strangers, and more often than not, they’ll be so kind to you for no reason. You probably won’t even see them again.” He sighed. “It’s like people want to be a part of your story.”

Turns out, we weren’t getting paid until the bar closed at 2 A.M. The three of us would split a percentage of the beer sales. So I sat out back with these cowboy singers for a good while, laughing about mostly nothing, and I got that $30 I was owed. At least it covered the parking costs.

I was already going to be late to Libby’s, and then, halfway to her house, I realized I’d forgotten my condenser mic (of course, one of the more expensive things I owned). I sped back, grabbed it by the grace of God, and despite the strangeness of creeping into a stranger’s house in the pitch black, as soon as I hit that bed I was out.

In the morning, my eyes unpeeled, breaking the seal made by clumped eyeliner and mascara. The midday light shone through the windows and the bed held my tired bones like a cocoon. I heard voices in the living room. It sounded like Libby’s husband and the kid, but I didn’t hear a woman. I’d better get up, get out, and let these nice folks move on with their day, I thought. Of course, everything I needed to make myself decent was left in the car, so bedhead and bad breath prevailed. At least I’d slept in my dress.

I strolled into the living room. The world stood still. Libby’s man, a large fellow with earrings and a mohawk, stared at me with eyes like saucers, his mouth wide open. The towhead kid held his HotWheels to his chest and gawked. Do I look that rough? I thought. Is the bedhead that horrendous? Are the raccoon eyes that bad?

“Who are you?!” Boomed the man. “Where did you come from?”

I stuttered. My knees shook. “Uh…” I pointed to the guest room. “In there...I’m from North Carolina…”

Apparently, Libby had forgotten to tell her family that a weird girl was going to crash in the guest room. She’d gone to work early that morning. “I am so sorry, sir, I didn't mean to scare you.” 

He burst into laughter. “No it’s fine!” He smiled all too kindly for a guy who thought his house had just been broken into. “We have touring musicians stay with us a lot, it’s sometimes hard to keep track.” 

In the daylight I saw the guitars and the drum set in the corner. “You play?”

”Yeah,” he said. I told him I’d played at Hole in the Wall.

“Oh that’s why you were in so late. I’ve played there,” he said. “It’s cool, but the pay sucks, huh?” He grabbed the kid’s backpack. “I’ve got to take this squirt to school, but hey, stay as long as you want.” He headed towards the door.

 “Oh, and feel free to use the shower.”

We Like Metal But Doc Watson Goes Hard

 “Yeah, I hopped freight in Oklahoma for a while. It’s not San Antonio, but you’ll like it,” said Alex. She said she’d hopped freight so casually, like she’d gone there on business or to see a cousin. 

“So what’s that like?”

“Well, it gets you where you’re going, wherever that is.” She laughed. “You can make friends, but you’ve gotta watch your back.” I was pretty sure the girl could do both of those. She had a sincerity that made you feel you could tell her anything. She was also built like a brick house with brown, muscular arms. She knew how to put a body in their place. 

She’d insisted on walking me to my car while I put up my sound equipment. Some people offer such for the sake of being polite or offering a second presence in the event of trouble.  However, I got the feeling that Alex would be more than a mere presence if a bad guy showed up on the darkened street. She’d kick their ass. 

I had been dreaming of a shower for the past few days. That friend-of-a-friend’s shower in Austin felt like a long ways back. I’d been making due with rivers, lakes, dry shampoo, and baby wipes the past few weeks. All of those are great, but a shower sounded like a treat, and I was starting to look the part of the bum that I was. When I discovered another friend-of-a-friend in San Antonio, I was excited about using theirs.

I was playing at a bar on the edge of the city. It used to be an old house. It sat in the corner of a neighborhood, and despite the empty room that greeted me when I arrived to set up, the little parlor had gradually filled up.

Alex was the bus girl. Despite the obscure metal band on her t-shirt, she requested I play Shady Grove, and she proudly blared Doc Watson on the radio when I finished my set. “I gotta say, we prefer metal,” said the curly-headed bartender, Bug, as he mixed drinks like a madman. “But Doc can go hard.”

The mutual friend showed up right before I started my set. His name was Dennis. He was a tall man with slicked-back hair and big white teeth. His gold chain and boat shoes made for an interesting combination. “So what’s your thing, Dennis?” I asked as I sat down beside him. It’s probably a good idea to get friendly with the person whose shower you’ll be using. “I’m a rapper. I just wanna keep it real.” 

It seemed as though his version of “keeping it real” was to become the next white Drake. Did you know that Drake was half-Jewish? Or that he had a thing for Niki Minaj? Or that Kanye West filmed his music video? Dennis spent a good part of my set break making sure that I did. “Look at this dope watch.” He put his wrist in my face. “Drake has this same watch.”

 There were times throughout the evening when I needed a break from the Drake business, but that wasn’t happening. Dennis was like a shadow that reeked of Axe Body Spray. But he was a friend-of-a-friend, and he had a shower...

Maybe Dennis had a few too many drinks. I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt. When he’d gotten the vibe that I wasn’t impressed by him and Drake’s matching watches, he decided to challenge Bug to a pushup contest. “I bet I can do more pushups than you, man,” he said, eying me as he got down on the hardwood floor and heaved up and down. Bug gave me a confused look. It was all I could do to not burst into laughter. 

And then it occured to me...I was going home with this guy.

I mean, maybe he was just a close-talker with everyone he meets. Maybe he puts his arm around all his friends-of-friends. Maybe he’s just really proud of his waterbed, and that’s why it came up multiple times throughout the evening. Maybe he just enjoys a good pushup contest, regardless of my being there to watch. I mean, he was a friend-of-a-friend. With a shower.

But shower or none, after the pushups, when he put his hand a little too low on my back, the red flags were confirmed. I knew I needed out.

 That’s when my train-hopping metal head in shining armor arrived. “Hey Alma, I need to ask you about your pay.” She could have said she wanted to tell me why I sucked. I would have run to her. “Gotta go,” I said as I dashed out the back door. Alex and a group of others sat on the moonlit patio. “I’m not the person who pays you,” she laughed. “But are you ok? That guy is weird.”

I explained my situation. I thought he’d be fine. We had a good mutual friend, and I was originally planning on staying with him. “Don’t worry,” she smiled, “I’ll get rid of him for you. You can crash with Bug and his lady, Mariah, here.” She motioned towards a beautiful Latina in a polka dotted dress. I thanked them relentlessly as Alex headed back inside. “Be nice, though.” 

“Hun,” said Mariah, her voice silky and smooth, “Sometimes people forfeit a right to your niceness. That’s not cold, that’s just making it home.” 

I sat out there drinking lemonade and talking to Mariah. She was in school to be a teacher, but she also managed the bar. Born and raised in San Antonio, and she didn’t plan on leaving. “I don’t blame you.”

I felt the ickiness of my potential situation mixed with relief. After what seemed like a decade, Alex came back. “Apparently you were gonna be his DD. He’s out on the porch waiting for an Uber.”

“Was he mad?”

“Yeah, but that’s not your problem.”

“What can I do to pay y'all back?”

“Nothing. Just play more Doc Watson when we get back to Bug’s.

After they closed the bar down, we all went back to Mariah and Bug’s. They lived in a nearby neighborhood, in a three-roomed house stuffed with house plants and good records; Doc Watson to metal. That’s how I ended up sleeping on a stranger’s couch for the first time. 

The thing about strangers’ couches is that if they want to invite friends over at 3 a.m., you’re going to drink their beer, play them some songs, and stay up with them until they decide to crash around 6 a.m. And the thing about strangers is that they’re only strangers till they get woven into your evening like patterns on a loom. Then, if you wake up before them, leave them a note with a heart that drips with gratitude as you hold these characters dearly, closely, and always.