My GPS was broken. I realized it when I saw the sign, Welcome to Des Moines. I had planned to drive down to the Yucatan in my new silver Beemer to break it in and here I was in both a state and a city I’d never been to before.
I decided to stay and looked around for a place to crash and grab a bite.
It was a no brainer. There was a Motel 6 or The Des Moines Bordello B&B. The B&B was part of a complex that encompassed a farmer’s market, the local prison, and the middle school.
A valet in black and white striped culottes with the word “Con” on his back took my car (unfortunate choice of words), and told me to have the warden validate my parking stub. Another “Con” took my bags and led me through the revolving door. He pulled me into the pantry, patted me down, took my pack of Marlboros and pushed me back into the lobby.
A female “con” registered me for a room and asked if I’d be using the dining room or bordello services and handed me what looked like a Chinese menu where I was able to check off my evening’s desires.
I ordered a deluxe BL&T on raisin challah and for dessert the mother/daughter combo flambé. The mother/daughter, wearing the same stripped culottes outfit wheeled the cart in and while the daughter was cutting my BLT in thirds, salting the fries and spreading the mayo, the mother was spitting on my nice cloth napkin. Then she began wiping the dirt off my face rubbing hard in some spots. There was a familiarity I couldn’t place in having my face washed with spit.
After I finished my sandwich, fries and a ramekin of tapioca, the mother/daughter wheeled the cart out. The front desk called up and asked if I was ready for the Bordello twins. Back came the same mother/daughter this time topless and wearing only the culottes with “con” on the tush and 5” fuck me heels. The daughter turned on music and pole danced with a virtual pole and the mother, spotted mayo drippings, spit on her handkerchief and began once again to clean my face.
My mother used to wash my face like that and my sister used to practice pole dancing the same way. Waves of nostalgia come over me.
Paul Beckman lives in a small shoreline town in Connecticut with his wife Sandra. His recently had a collection of Flash and Micro Fiction published in print and online “Maybe I Ought to Sit In a Dark Room For a While” and has also been published in Great Britain,Sweden, Prague, Canada, India, New Zealand, and Australia.