Packing up our campsite under the shaded mesquite trees in Mesa Verde National Park, New Mexico, we got on the road for a lengthy drive to Carlsbad where we planned on a hotel for the first time in eight nights. We were looking forward to not unpacking a tent and stove, but rather getting a hot shower and a restaurant meal.

Though the aliens lining the streets, yards, and gas stations in Roswell were tempting backdrops for family photos, we were too tired and road-worn to stop. We pressed on for the not-too-distant hope of rest in the cave city.

As we approached Carlsbad, we began looking for our respite. What we saw was, “No Vacancy,” “No Vacancy", “No Vacancy.” Every hotel was booked. We pulled over and Googled for a vacant room. Not only were there no rooms in any inn, the prices were astronomical. Rooms began at $250.00 per night. At the edge of town we pulled into a hotel parking lot. My wife went in to ask of any known rooms and why they were all so full. She returned to the family van with a forlorn sigh. “Apparently, there are no rooms for miles,” she informed us. The oil-field workers filled the towns and jacked up the hotel prices. Their employers were willing to pay and the hotels were willing to receive. Texas gold.

We drove on.

Grumpy and tired, the deserts of New Mexico and West Texas we so wanted to experience became a monotonous drudgery. Nodding donkeys and tumble weed became to us as the assembly line bottles of Shotz beer to Laverne and Shirley. Dusk and a gathering dark sky to the East were descending quickly. What looked like a thunderstorm became a wind-strewn dust storm creating an ominous yellow to dark brown lighting. Our Odyssey was blown side to side. Blood was still absent from my knuckles when we reached the southern end of the storm. It was then that our van started hesitating like a fuel pump gagging on sediment. A few more miles and we would reach the town of Pecos, Texas. I would need to find a mechanic in the morning.

In college, my roommate and I lived about a mile from an abandoned rock quarry. We had heard stories that a human torso had been found in that quarry, discarded by a psycho killer. Entering Pecos was like my roommate and I exploring the old metal framework building of the rock quarry with that torso haunting our brains. The street lights in Pecos were out. A haze of dust lingered in the air. The streets were spookily quiet. We searched for a hotel and found a Best Western. Best Western. Ironic. They had one room available in their motor court for $250.00. We took it.

I backed our van into the parking spot right outside our door so it would possibly be within earshot if anyone tried to break in. Upon entering, I quickly realized that the A/C unit’s whir would block out even a gunshot.

The interior of the room was what you would expect from a $39.00 room. It smelled musty. The beds sagged in the middle under the cheap polyester-filled comforters decorated in a maroon floral pattern. The sink dripped. The shower had remnants of hair from who knows whom or what. The peep hole in the door was missing and had been filled with twisted tissue paper.

Rather than a restaurant meal, Holly procured some cold muffins in plastic. We ate, laid out our sleeping bags on top of the beds, and tried to sleep as quickly as possible. The long day, the money spent, the potential parking lot creeps, the needed van repair, and the safety of my family filled my head as I stared at the stained popcorn ceiling.

As dawn approached I set my feet immediately in my shoes so not to touch the moldy carpet and peeked out the window. The van was still intact. We woke the kids and walked to the diner attached to the hotel for our “free” breakfast. As we entered, there was not a female in the room but for the lady behind the counter. Every male eye turned and looked as we entered. They were looking at my wife and daughter.

“Come on. We’re not eating here.” My kids didn’t complain. I think they felt the eyes and the weight of the place. We clambered into our van to try and find an automotive repair.

The door was cracked but it was difficult to tell if they were open yet. I peaked through the door and saw the scruffy man behind his desk with grease under his nails. “Excuse me. I was wondering if you could take a look at our Honda van. It’s hesitating . . . like maybe the fuel filter is clogged.” Looking up from a paper and over his reading glasses, he finally spoke, “I don’t work on Jap shit.” He lifted the paper and went back to reading.

Infuriated, I got back in the van. Not caring if I stranded us fifty miles from nowhere and had to be towed, I got back to the family and we just drove. And drove. And drove. The van never resisted. Pecos scared the dust out of it and out of us.