of summer, but faded and washed out. The level, gray slice of road stretches farther than I can see. On either side, flimsy grass stands calm, the barest hint of green.
From my vantage point on the shoulder, the dull, listless water seems like something from an old photograph—flat and without texture. It lies beyond the low-slung structures that dot the shallow properties every few miles. Small vacation homes—overgrown shacks—stand in ruinous shame, almost as if they are a sorry excuse unto themselves.
Before me lies the Shoreline Motel, a longish one-story affair. The crusty shingles curl not from the sun but from the memory of whoever left this place behind. Who were they? Someone young and free of worry? Someone old with regrets? I’ll never know.
Thick steel benches line the cement walkway, one in front of the window of every room. A brown, numbered door stands to the right of each. The parking spaces before them comprise a dusty, gravely void.
A slanting sign planted in the front lawn advertises cable in crude block letters. The neon vacancy indicator hangs dormant in the office window. This is where my search for Grimley led. He’s here, somewhere.
All night I drove from one waypoint to the next, following the path where I last saw him. The first was a dense vineyard—gnarled grape vines wrapping themselves in choked circles. Sometimes wanderlings play among the tangled growth.
I stumbled through the field for what must have been an hour. Moving on from there, I scoured back alleys and a crumbling cathedral, anywhere the little ones might hide. The far end of that urban dreamscape melted into a rainy, industrial strip of decaying smokestacks and warehouses.
There I found a pack of them, stomping in puddles and acting out something from someone’s dream. Their voices rang out on repeat as they mouthed their own sing-song version of what they’d seen the night before.
I stood among them. Each of their deformities was unlike the next—one with a concave chest, another with stumps for ears. Several minutes passed before they all stopped to stare at me.
They all knew me, or at least knew of me. It wasn’t difficult to coax what I needed from them. The promise of a ride in the Camaro purchased where Grimley was headed: Summerland.
Most places in the Territory aren’t named, but now that I see how this lazy vacation scene evokes what many associate with the warmer months, it makes sense. I’m told Grimley favors the motel.
I shove off from the front fender of the Camaro leaving the heaviness of the car behind. Sometimes it feels like a prison, the amount of time I spend in it.
The office is nearest. The brass knob on the door gives way with an easy twist and I peek my head in. Silence. A dingy laminate counter rests above a sign that says “Ring for service,” but there’s no bell.
Backing out, I close the door and step a few paces to the first unit. It’s locked, as is the second.
The third opens to a muted scene, darkened with the shades pulled tight. The brown bedspread lies immaculate with a small bed stand beside. A simple, studious desk sits opposite. It’s as though I’ve interrupted a world unto itself, one I shouldn’t disturb.
Closing the door, I work my way down the remaining units, and it’s more of the same. Some locked, others a forgotten world of tidiness. At the end of the motel I step off the edge of the walkway into the overgrown grass. A sideways glance off the back corner reveals a small figure sitting near the rocky ledge overlooking the water. Grimley.
He doesn’t turn as I approach, preoccupied with whatever lies before him. His sallow head tilts as he whispers something to himself that I can’t make out.
I stop a few paces behind so as not to startle him. “You’ve got one of my souls.”
The small figure jumps, wide eyes darting over a lumpy shoulder. “Oh, it’s you.” Coarse, matted hair hangs over his rounded head. A puggish nose rides over a dimple of
From my vantage point on the shoulder, the dull, listless water seems like something from an old photograph—flat and without texture. It lies beyond the low-slung structures that dot the shallow properties every few miles. Small vacation homes—overgrown shacks—stand in ruinous shame, almost as if they are a sorry excuse unto themselves.
Before me lies the Shoreline Motel, a longish one-story affair. The crusty shingles curl not from the sun but from the memory of whoever left this place behind. Who were they? Someone young and free of worry? Someone old with regrets? I’ll never know.
Thick steel benches line the cement walkway, one in front of the window of every room. A brown, numbered door stands to the right of each. The parking spaces before them comprise a dusty, gravely void.
A slanting sign planted in the front lawn advertises cable in crude block letters. The neon vacancy indicator hangs dormant in the office window. This is where my search for Grimley led. He’s here, somewhere.
All night I drove from one waypoint to the next, following the path where I last saw him. The first was a dense vineyard—gnarled grape vines wrapping themselves in choked circles. Sometimes wanderlings play among the tangled growth.
I stumbled through the field for what must have been an hour. Moving on from there, I scoured back alleys and a crumbling cathedral, anywhere the little ones might hide. The far end of that urban dreamscape melted into a rainy, industrial strip of decaying smokestacks and warehouses.
There I found a pack of them, stomping in puddles and acting out something from someone’s dream. Their voices rang out on repeat as they mouthed their own sing-song version of what they’d seen the night before.
I stood among them. Each of their deformities was unlike the next—one with a concave chest, another with stumps for ears. Several minutes passed before they all stopped to stare at me.
They all knew me, or at least knew of me. It wasn’t difficult to coax what I needed from them. The promise of a ride in the Camaro purchased where Grimley was headed: Summerland.
Most places in the Territory aren’t named, but now that I see how this lazy vacation scene evokes what many associate with the warmer months, it makes sense. I’m told Grimley favors the motel.
I shove off from the front fender of the Camaro leaving the heaviness of the car behind. Sometimes it feels like a prison, the amount of time I spend in it.
The office is nearest. The brass knob on the door gives way with an easy twist and I peek my head in. Silence. A dingy laminate counter rests above a sign that says “Ring for service,” but there’s no bell.
Backing out, I close the door and step a few paces to the first unit. It’s locked, as is the second.
The third opens to a muted scene, darkened with the shades pulled tight. The brown bedspread lies immaculate with a small bed stand beside. A simple, studious desk sits opposite. It’s as though I’ve interrupted a world unto itself, one I shouldn’t disturb.
Closing the door, I work my way down the remaining units, and it’s more of the same. Some locked, others a forgotten world of tidiness. At the end of the motel I step off the edge of the walkway into the overgrown grass. A sideways glance off the back corner reveals a small figure sitting near the rocky ledge overlooking the water. Grimley.
He doesn’t turn as I approach, preoccupied with whatever lies before him. His sallow head tilts as he whispers something to himself that I can’t make out.
I stop a few paces behind so as not to startle him. “You’ve got one of my souls.”
The small figure jumps, wide eyes darting over a lumpy shoulder. “Oh, it’s you.” Coarse, matted hair hangs over his rounded head. A puggish nose rides over a dimple of
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