Swamp Victim

  Chapter 11

  Patrick Alejandro and Staci Frezee were heading east on Highway 10 about ten miles out of Phoenix, Arizona. After several hours of riding the Harley-Davison 1200 Custom bike, both of them were bone tired. It had been two days since they left Los Angeles, where both of them spontaneously decided to take a cross-country trip on Patrick’s new bike. They spent the first night in a public park along the way, sleeping in the small tent and double sleeping bag they carried on the back of the bike. Cruising along the highway at 60 MPH, the young couple didn’t have a care in the world. They had planned to sleep in the outdoors, with an occasional stay in a roadside motel until they reached the east coast. So far, the trip was more than they could have wished. Staci wanted to stop every hour or so at roadside pullouts along the way to stretch her legs and take in the beauty of the southwestern desert. Patrick was more than happy about the diversion.

  It was near dark, when they arrived at the western Phoenix suburb of Surprise. As they exited the inter-state, they saw a cheap motel about a mile off the main highway. The words “Cactus Motel,” stood out on the weather worn sign in front of a horseshoe arrangement of ground level rooms. Patrick parked the motorcycle in front of the office and went inside. A sun-bleached man of about 70 greeted him.

  “May I help you,” said the man flashing a broad smile from his winkled face.

  “Yes, how much will it cost for a room for the night for my friend and I cost?” said Patrick.

  “We have a nice room for $35.”

  “We’ll take it,” said Patrick, and he filled out the registration form, and handing the clerk $38.52 which included the tax.

  After checking in and taking a shower, Patrick and Staci decided to have dinner at a Mexican place, called “Two Amigos,” they had passed a few blocks away. Holding hands, they walked to the restaurant. As they entered, they realized that it was not only a restaurant but also a bar. In one corner were a microphone, a set of drums, and a keyboard where it appeared a band had been playing. Ordering the Mexican special, Staci, in here vivacious manner struck up a casual conversation with the waitress and asked about the entertainment.

  “Oh yes, we have a band that plays here every weekend. Our biggest crowd is on Saturday nights, which is tonight. The band came in earlier and set up their equipment and will start playing shortly.”

  “What kind of music do they play,” Staci asked.

  “Mostly western, but they play lots of other stuff too. You should come back, you will enjoy it.”

  After dinner, Patrick and Staci went back to the motel, where Patrick watched TV and Staci dozed off to sleep. When she awoke, it was 9:00 PM and they decided to go back to the “Two Amigos.” The place was packed. The bar had about 15 seats, and the 10 or so tables had people at them. Periodically, couples would dance, and everybody seemed to be having a great time. Patrick and Staci found a table. Patrick ordered a Coors and Staci just wanted a Coke. At the band’s break, Patrick got friendly with one of the band members and told him that he and Staci were into music. One thing led to another, and they were invited to do a guest song. Patrick played the keyboard and Staci sang the only western song she knew, a Kelly Pickler number, “Didn’t Know How Much I Love You.” The impromptu performance wasn’t bad, but Staci’s attractive appearance carried the day, and they got a warm ovation from the crowd. Deciding not to push their luck, they declined the second round and enjoyed themselves until around midnight.

  They continued riding east for the next week. They rode most of the day and stayed in a cheap motel or slept in their tent at public parks along the way. They were within their goal of reaching the Atlantic Ocean when they decided to exit Highway 95 onto Highway 21, which they learned later was called Low Country Highway. Riding a couple of miles south, they came to Flood’s Place and pulled in to have a snack. Upon entering the building, they were taken aback by the characteristically typical southern juke joint. Far from anything they had seen in California or other small towns along the route they had traveled. Two old timers sat at the bar drinking beer.

  The two men, in their 60s, were friendly enough when Patrick asked, “How far are we from Charleston?”

  “About 75 miles, just keep on the road and follow the signs,” said one of the men.

  Addressing the man behind the bar, Patrick said, “I see you have a large area out back. You think my friend and I could put up our small tent and spend the night there?”

  Oats Schoenfeld, answered, “I don’t see why not, there is plenty room and you will be safe enough. I close up around midnight, except on Friday and Saturday, but this is Wednesday, so if you need anything you should come back before about I close. About all, we serve here is beer and knick-knacks. If you want to eat at a real “hifalutin” restaurant, you’ll need to go up ’95 about ten miles to the next exit.”

  Patrick and Staci parked their motorcycle and put up the small tent. They retired about 8:00 PM and cuddled in the comfortable tent. The sound of crickets and an occasional passing car helped them slip into a peaceful sleep. The two carefree young people were happier than if they were on an expensive holiday cruise liner.