I’m Fixin’ To Play Dead (Part 61)
I woke up early with money and food on my mind. I knew I had to get back to Montgomery, get to the bank and get my money out of that safe deposit box. It just didn’t feel right not having it with me. It seemed unnaturally quiet as I drove the Jeep through the Birmingham trailer park. I didn’t even see a light on in Mister Jenkin’s trailer when I went by it. The money had to wait but the food didn’t.
After I picked up a couple of big fat sausage-and-biscuits at the place Leon had told me about, I munched on them and swigged on a jug of orange juice as I maneuvered through light traffic onto I-65 South. I left the Magic City feeling forsaken and alone without knowing who to blame.
I cruised into Montgomery anxious to get to the bank. I was off the interstate and only two blocks from the bank when I noticed how extremely quiet the city was. Then it hit me—it was Sunday! I had completely lost track of the days. Now I had to wait until tomorrow morning before I could get into the bank. I figured there was nothing to do except scout around some more, so I started driving toward Sissy’s house again. One more trip to it and if nothing had changed, then I would make a final concession and move on.
When I arrived it was still the same—cold and empty with the rental sign still in place. For the first time I used the built-in phone in the Jeep and called the number on the rental sign. I figured I would get an answer because real estate people worked on Sundays. Sure enough a pleasant voice came on the line saying, “Good morning. East Town Rental.”
I gave her the street address of the house and asked if she could tell me something about the house.
“I sure can,” she answered, “it’s available immediately, fully furnished and the rent is——”
“No, ma’am,” I stopped her, “what I need is some information on the former tenants.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”
“I need to find them. Can you tell me how long they lived there and maybe give me a new address for them?”
There was a moment of silence before the female voice said, “just a moment,sir.”
After a few more moments a stern sounding male voice came over the phone asking, “May I help you, sir?”
“Yes, what I need is some information on the former renters of the address I gave the lady.”
The stern male voice replied, “I’m afraid we aren’t allowed to give out information like that.” Then the line went dead.
At that moment I knew I was on my own again with no lover, no friends and no idea of what I was going to do or where I was going to go. I started the Jeep and just drove for a while before I decided I needed a place where I could rest, relax and think. That’s when I saw the sign of the Marriott Courtyard just ahead on East Boulevard.
After I parked the Jeep in the motel’s parking lot I contemplated renting a room the normal way, just walk up to the front desk, present my Visa card and register. Somehow I thought I wasn’t quite ready to resume being normal again, so I used a plan that my Uncle Virgil had taught me.
I walked unnoticed through the lobby with my duffle bag and took the elevator to the second floor because I always felt safer there than on the ground floor. Once there, what I was looking for was a maid to bribe. I saw her cart in the hallway and she stepped out of a room just before I got to it. She was an elderly woman and had a handful of towels when I approached her. She looked up and said, “Good morning, sir. Ain’t it a little early to be checking in?”
I placed two fifty dollar bills on the bundle of towels she was holding and said, “I’m not checking in, but I do need a room, ma’am.”
She quickly wrapped the towels around the bills, looked up and down the hallway and said, “How long will you be needing that room for?”
“Tonight and tomorrow night.”
“Well now, I don’t know about that. If you needed it for a day I could probably swing it, but two days could be a—-”
Another fifty silenced her. She reached inside her apron, fetched a key card and said, “Take the last one down on the left. I’ll block that room off, but you need to be gone by early Tuesday, and don’t use the phone.”
“Uncle Virgil was a genius,” I thought to myself as I closed the room door behind me. It was a nice room, a place where I could rest, think, plan and nurse my wounded ego.
After I had settled in I took the stairs down to the first floor, exited the motel by the side door, walked across a side street and located a Blimpie inside a BP Station. I bought a classic sandwich and a root beer, and retreated to my room where I could contemplate fixin’ to play dead for the rest of my life.