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Show RIVER "Sure I do," I said. "Listen," he said. "There's a motel up the street. They got good, clean rooms. Go rent one of them." "But I want a room here." "Kid," said the bartender, "nobody lives up there but winos and degenerates. You don't want a room here." I explained to him my situation and how I couldn't afford a motel room and he finally relented and rented me a room for $2.50. He even showed me a fenced in lot out back of the bar where I could park Thor. To me the room didn't look bad at all. It had an overstuffed chair and a matching bed. The bed looked very good. The shower, which served the whole floor, was something else again. It looked like a wino had died hard in the shower and been left there till he decomposed down the drain, but it did the job and washed away layers of smoke, sweat, and Mississippi mud. I came out warm and refreshed, ready to party. I went down to the grill, which was run by a quiet and smiling lady. I ordered a hamburger. While I was waiting for my order a burly truck driver dropped a platter of fried chicken in front of me. "You look like you need it," he said. I talked with all kinds of people, including a tiny alcoholic old man in overalls and a railroad cap who told me of his great fame on riverboats back in his prime. I met a drummer and we went back into the bar and started tossing down Budweisers. The juke box thumped out good and gritty country music. The barmaid looked exactly like Elizabeth Taylor, or more precisely what Elizabeth Taylor would have looked like if she'd spent forty-odd years in -166- |