Graham's True Stories
Number 22, The Motel

It was three in the morning and Maggie and I staggered out from a disreputable Californian bar in the middle of Oakland's no-go area in the company of a sewing-machine collector who, around six hours earlier, suggested we have “ a couple of drinks before he found us a motel room”.

This guy's generosity in treating Maggie to one of every cocktail the bar could produce was only matched by our surprise when his mobile phone rang at 3am. He mumbled something about having to rush off, downed his drink and was gone.

We stood on the sidewalk and remembered that we didn't have a motel room; nor did we have the slightest idea in which direction the motel belt lay.

Locking Maggie in the car - I told you it was that sort of area - I went back into the bar and asked for the motel district.

I got directions, a wink and a dirty leer.

We headed along the suggested road and, yes, in a couple of miles there were motels - of a sort that could be rented by the hour.

Now please believe me, we were getting desparate ,so we selected the least-disreputable one and surprised the clerk behind the bullet-proof window by negotiating for the remainder of the night.

I appreciate that none of the good ladies and gentlemen that make up FWF have any idea of what these rooms are like so I must explain. Mirrors above the bed, red velvet everywhere, a choice of the most-unusual movies on the TV, a king-size waterbed and satin sheets.

I soon discovered that waterbeds and I do not mix. One person turns over and sets up a tidal wave that wakes the other who turns over and sets up a tidal --- you get the picture.

The room had one more feature. A Magic Miracle-Motion Mattress Mover. That's what the label said, would I lie to you?

Seems, according to the directions, all you had to do was insert a quarter and the MMMMM would vibrate your cares and aches away, lulling you into a perfect sleep. Had to be tried, right?

The first few minutes were not at all bad. The vibration was, in fact, soothing - but it was coupled with the noise similar to that made by an angry helicopter.

After 10 minutes we began to wonder how much longer we would be being lulled before we could actually sleep.

I decided to turn it off. Big mistake, no off switch. Obviously on a timer. Have to wait a while. When the while got to 40 minutes Maggie decided action was called for. “Do something” she said. A decisive lady, the SO.

Picture the scene. It's four something in the morning, I'm half naked, scrabbling about around the bed with a cigarette lighter trying to find where the lead for the Mx5 plugged in.

The short answer is, it didn't; the wire simply disappeared through a hole in the wall.

At 5.15 am, “Now!” had been added to “Do something”. There was only one answer. Taking a firm grip on the cord where it entered the wall, I yanked. About four feet of cord joined what I had already. The process was repeated three times before there was a ripping noise from behind the wall and the helicopter fell silent.

The next morning, after tucking 20 feet of electrical cable behind the bed, we crept silently from the room, sliding past the office and making a quick dash for the car.

I thought this looked a little conspicuous but, as Maggie said, it's probably how everyone always leaves that sort of motel.