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I woke up fully
clothed on
naked mattress in trashed motel room to
digital camera's beeping and the simulated
sound of a shutter release. The door to
Room 3 had been left open when the last
guests left shortly before sunrise. I'd
flopped down on bed without undressing
or removing camera, wallet, or keys from
pockets--which turned out to be lucky as
dude-passed-out-on-floor had put his wallet
on the dresser only to have it stolen while we
both slept. Old habits die hard in a seedy
motel,
as attested by the blood spatters on the wall
behind a chair which must have been a favored
place for shooting up. When I woke,
the furtive
photographer asked permission to shoot. Why not?
I
covered my face as he clicked away for several
minutes,
exposing evidence. I
was quite at home in this chair,
legacy of Steve, the
motel's previous resident drunk
who moved out
Friday. The chair was still warm
when I moved
in. I would sit in it for the better
part of 4 days, spinning 45s and
drinking
beer, finding little reason and no
desire to be elsewhere.
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