welcome to the sunrise suites
by Joe Nasta
The stray dog always returned. He lay in the shadows cast by the palm trees and the motel’s vacancy sign. Every afternoon around 3 pm the scraggly boy came by for his nap because the concierge left a bowl of water and some kibble. She’d even supplied him with an oversized T-shirt to protect his skin from the dirt and sun: Someone in Palm Springs, California is thinking of me was emblazoned across his back.
The lobby’s white tile tinted in the yellow light streaming in the cigarette-stained upper panels of the windows. Midafternoon sun slowed each August in the throat of the desert’s hourglass. Behind the counter, the attentive boredom of the offseason coiled and twisted in the concierge’s chest like a spring about to snap. Her second-hand Prius sat in one corner of the nearly empty parking lot with a Snoopy-themed heat screen in the windshield. She recognized the same beige color of her car in the couch’s upholstery and the stray dog’s fur.
Each morning before her shift, the concierge dotted her pale nose with freckles using a makeup pencil and pulled back her red hair before donning a bellboy’s hat she’d found collecting dust in a maintenance closet. She enjoyed making herself up, applying a clear lip gloss, performing small rituals as if somebody were watching through the wide windows of the motel. She folded the freshly laundered linens. She sprayed blue glass cleaner on the mirrors and wiped the foam away with a cotton rag in widening spirals. She swept sand from the entryway intensely.
Now, she was investigating. The concierge typed, “California serial killer,” “escaped convict,” and “handsome mugshot news” into a search engine on the check-in computer and took notes in cursive on bright yellow post-its. Several guests had reported their encounters with a hitchhiker on their way into town, but none had stopped to pick him up. Mrs. Dillinger in room 203 mentioned his piercing green eyes when she checked in last night. The speedo-clad couple in 114 were fans of the hitchhiker’s colorful, thick-lined tattoos and sleeveless white undershirt. They were all clearly enamored by his good looks, but she’d worked here long enough to know that beautiful things in the desert were usually poisonous.
On the edge of the property, the hitchhiker wrapped his body around a palm tree. Its rough skin caught the inside of his elbows like velcro. The bark pinched until it loosened from the inner layers of wood, exposing them like the red lines of tender its coarse fingernails left along his veiny forearms. Determined to get the best view of the oncoming traffic and potential rides, he wrapped his Levi-clad legs around the trunk and shimmied upwards.
That’s when he saw the crimson Cadillac. Chrome detailing sparkled and burned his eyes as the car slowed at the entry to the parking lot. He couldn’t believe his luck. The dog raised its ears as it passed but left his eyes closed. The hitchhiker squinted, the edges of his lips curling. The window tint was too dark to be legal so he couldn’t be sure the driver was, but he imagined a blonde with a strong jaw like River Phoenix. He licked his lips. But the waistband of his blue jeans started to slip off of his hips and he knew he was going to fall before the sudden whir of air – a few seconds of weightful bliss until he hit the ground.
Emily kept the curtains closed in her room to ward off the heat, only relieved every few hours by a cold shower. It had been dumb to come this time of year but she’d needed an escape from her three kids and malingering husband, the work-from-home freelance job that dangled a promotion over her head but never delivered. It was time to relax and she deserved it.
She turned the shower faucet off, stepped toe first onto the cool tile, and reached for the orange terry cloth bathrobe instead of the towel; she’d rather stay damp than rub herself dry because it felt more luxurious. She sat on the edge of the bed directly in front of the fan with the robe untied. Soaked strand of straight brown hair flattened against her cheeks.
A thud outside the door.
“Who's there?” she called out wearily. No use opening the door to let the AC out. The response sounded somewhere between a dog’s whimper and a cracking branch. None of Emily’s concern. She squinted, sighed, and fell back onto the gray comforter.
By the pool, the couple were enjoying their first vacation together. When Aaron stepped out of his Birkenstock, his heel and toes burned. The high-pitched buzz of the desert continued.
“If you’re not in the water before I count to –”
“Hot! Hot!” he cut Steve off as he hopped across the cement until he reached the edge.
No wind broke the surface of the swimming pool but it moved gently, playing coy with the white lines of sunlight. Heat became too unbearable between Aaron’s shoulder blades as he lowered a foot down the ladder’s top rung, the ribbed rubber casing digging into her sole. Relief soothed his skin as first one foot & then the other breached the clear blue, sending circles towards the center of the pool.
“But it’s too cold to go under!” Steve grabbed both of his ankles with his wet hands, ran them up and down Aaron’s bare legs. The faint hair on the front of his hamstrings stood on end, then he fell backwards with a splash on top of his lover. They came up for air laughing.
The crashing sound of splattering water broke the concierge out of her reverie. She’d been developing an elaborate explanation for the handsome hitchhiker based on the plot of a crime TV show she’d seen the night before, but the sudden crash disturbed her. Must be that couple, she thought, they’ve been making loud thumping noises ever since they’d arrived. She stared dramatically towards the door to the pool deck with a brief idea of checking on them, then shook her head. The bell above the door rang as a new guest arrived. She smiled without missing a beat, “Welcome to the Sunrise Suites!”
Early the next morning the dog’s insistent barking woke her from a dream in which she was a private detective. She didn’t bother to put pants on under her size XXL Harley Davidson T-shirt before slipping into her flip-flops and hastening to the source of the noise: The man from her dream unconscious under a palm tree. She was the first to arrive on the scene, but soon the exasperated woman emerged in the motel’s bathrobe and the gay couple showed up in matching plaid pajama sets.
The dog’s gentle tongue was not reviving the hitchhiker. The couple was right: The tight tank top and muscle tone was quite exciting to look at, even in this state. The concierge took a deep breath but savored the rush of blood to her head. Her daydreaming had prepared her for this moment.
A car door slammed and the ignition turned over with a roar. The hitchhiker opened his eyes and shot up just in time to see the blood red Cadillac stealing away, gold and white neon reflecting in its black windows.
Photo of Joe Nasta
BIO: Joe Nasta is vibing in Seattle. He has whispered four collections of poetry and a collection of short stories into existence. Ze is an Associate Editor at Hobart. @roflcoptermcgee on Instagram and X, @joenasta on TikTok