Satellite Motel

I had always wanted to sleep in a cake.
On a weedy business strip in South Omaha, my dream came true.
The Satellite Motel.
A tiered, eight-sided, lemon slab of lodging deliciousness.



With its model kit planet inertly orbiting a sizzling vintage font, I was expecting the lobby to resemble an Ed Wood film.
Circuits and blips and zero gravity gumdrops on fishing wire.
Instead, a curt Indian man behind fortified glass watched nine security cameras with no signs of humor.
But the cement walls were pink, the carpet putt-putt green, and the upstairs hallway a two-tone mousse.
It was the yummiest fleabag.


My room was a huge trapezoid.
Its wooden ceiling twelve feet high.
Royal discount curtains decorated the entrance to the balcony, which encircled the motel and provided instant and easy access to the other rooms' sliding doors.
Hmm.
Not safe.
The bathroom was the yellowest yellow, and featured a stand-up shower shaped like a big home plate.
Fastened to one of the six corners was a small tube TV, far away from the bed.
For enough to practice archery.


I walked around the whimsical mustard octogon, trying to capture it with a camera and my motor goggles.
A grey vagrant shouted "Hey!"
He staggered toward me like an astro zombie, gesturing demandingly the way elders used to address youngsters before all children became geniuses.
I grabbed for my blue bank deposit pouch, now containing about $800.
Still there.
I grabbed for my Electro Pistol.
Not there.
He was still about 40 zombie paces away.
I walked back to my room.

I relaxed to the tiny images on the far away TV.
An infomercial for The Genie Bra® got my blood going.
I practiced my "archery".


In the morning the Satellite Motel looked even more tasty.
But I wasn't going to eat a Star Crunch® for breakfast.
The long drive home laid ahead.