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A few weeks ago I was approached by the producers of a fantastic new podcast called Listen, Rinse, Repeat with a request for a story contribution for their show. The concept of it is in response to one of the peculiarities of the current situation thrust upon us by the pandemic: stories that run about as long as it takes to thoroughly wash your hands. Honored by the request and a fan of the show, I sorted through the materials I had on hand for something resembling flash fiction. 

A few of these have already been published via Listen Rinse Repeat. Find them at Listen Rinse Repeat podcast.com.

Since this is a mini-bonus episode of sorts, I’m going to forego the usual preface notes since contextualization’s not all that necessary for these. Fans of the show will recognize these bite sized tales as being lifted from Oscar’s writings and from Ahab Cloud’s postcards. If you’re new to the show, welcome. Dive into the rabbit hole via any one of the other episodes to lose your bearing. 

So without further ado, travel size nuggets from the motel. Get those hands clean.

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Dirty Hands

Marty checked in with enough pills to stop the hearts of a herd of wild horses. He took them one by one, like praying the rosary, listening to the New Jersey Turnpike. 

In the time between, he turned on the faucet hoping for water hot enough to scald his conscience clean, but knowing it could never, knowing how deep the infection ran through his life line, packed hard like ancient sand in the patterns of his fingerprints. 

He scrubbed anyway, been scrubbing nonstop since the night he killed the Sullivan kid.

That’s how it is with kids these days, the father pays for the sins of the son.

And he may have been looking at his fingers turning raw, but all he could see was that Sullivan kid saying over and over again, Please god, Please god, I’m afraid to die.

But what can you do when you love a monster who inherits your eyes, a monster that can rape a girl like Sullivan, jeopardizing everything he built. All the good going to waste, disappearing as if it never was. 

Please god. Please god. I’m afraid to die.

He was so tired. More tired than the pills. 

So he fell asleep not knowing that the Motel Americana water ran strange through its pipes. Fell asleep not knowing that the hand scouring brought back the Sullivan girl as if nothing had happened. 

No funeral. No gun shot. No rape. No sins of the son with inherited eyes. 

Fell asleep not knowing that the water had cleansed the stains from his life, like removing tree rings from an oak that’s still standing.

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Words of Advice from an Acquaintance

The following was found written on an undated postcard sent from the Motel Americana, undated:

Dear Jack,

Some words of advice from the open road:

Squeeze that fish too tight and it’ll slip right out of your hands.

Chad. Never trust a chad.

Whenever possible work at the intersection of all intersections.

Schedule all the real, real dirty work for the Friday before Easter.

Salad will kill you more slowly than red meat, increasing the possibility for painful illness or depression due to the loss of friends and family and everything that brought one comfort in the old world.

Best to the Family,

A. Cloud

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Mutually Assured Happiness

The following was found written on a postcard sent from the Motel Americana dated May 25th, 1986:

Dear Phoebe,

By now you’ve realized that I’ve left you and taken everything. The furniture, the jewelry, emptied the bank accounts, the whole kit and kaboodle. I know this may come as a shock but, like everything I’ve done in the past four months, I did it for you. You always say that my happiness is what’s most important to you. 

But I feel the same way.

I hope you’re happy now. 

Love always and forever,

Paul

—

Love Story

The following was found written in a notebook kept by a kid who lived at the Motel Americana with his family in the 1980s:

In the pre-coital neon

He walked across the carpet

Of their hourly rate room

To break every film convention and cliche

He could of about such matters

And kissed her.

She let him.

—

Public Announcement

The following was found written on an undated postcard sent from the Motel Americana, undated:

Dear Jack,

The following words have been trademarked by the Flaming Tiger greeting card company: “Love,” “Grace,” “Loss,” “Sorry,” “Life,” and “Time.” You may still use these words in everyday conversations, but when writing them, you must include quotation marks and the proper citation.  Larry Humpwilde, the CEO of the company, made the following statement: “The new trademarks on these old, nearly meaningless words will reinvigorate the common human experience.” The experts suggest that these words will carry a larger emotional impact now that they can be purchased in designer boutiques.  The Flaming Tiger company plans to release more affordable versions to denote less intense expressions of emotion. There is, of course, the risk of counterfeit cards, already said to be circulating through the Chinatowns of the nation. Chairman Humpwilde despises these fraudulent vendors, stating, “Counterfeits could have dangerous psychological implications. Imagine finding out that the ‘love’ you felt was not true ‘love’ TM.  Imagine that your experience of “life” TM was somehow false.

Yours,

Ahab Cloud

–

Old Glory

The following was found written on a postcard sent from the Motel Americana dated July 5th, 1987:

Dear Martha,

Nothing like a road trip to get you strolling down memory lane. I’m in Jersey at a place called the Motel Americana and for some reason been thinking about that dog we had when the kids were little. Remember? Kids called her Glory? Frisky little pup, couldn’t sit still, then protected those kids like nobody’s business. Turned into a pretty creature. Regal. Still breaks my heart to think how quick she got so old. Her eyes clouded so she couldn’t see straight. Bit anyone came knocking on the door. Then barking and growling at us , her own folks, poor thing. Then pissing inside the house, on the rug your mother gave us, pissing on her own bed. Had us screaming at each other trying to figure what to do about her. It was like she knew almost, then just disappeared. I loved that do. Old Glory.

Hope to be home soon,

George

—

The Fonder They Fall 

(cut from episode)

The following was found on a postcard sent from the Motel Americana, dated November 12th 1985

Dear Sam,

I left for good this time. But it’s not that I don’t love you, it’s just that I miss you when we’re apart, and I can’t stand the thought of losing you.

Yours,

Millie

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