Sweat lined his brow. His greasy pony tail glistened softly in the low light of the musky office. The hourly rates of the motel were posted on the wall. “You sure it’s just two of yas?” “Yep. I’m sure.” He was flustered. Confused. Where was the hooker, he thought. Why would these two young men choose to spend the night here at the Plantation Motel in Island Park, New York? Nevertheless, he handed over the grimy key and spent the remainder of his shift watching whatever bad movie TNT was featuring on a 10 inch moniter and answering texts from his T-Mobile Sidekick.

Five of us sneak into the crack den of a room, succumbing to the third-hand smoke from the 3.5 billion cigarettes that had previously been smoked in there. Menthols. Marlboro Reds. Even the comforter on the bed had lost the battle to cigarettes, as it’s ugly colored cotton had been burnt by the bastards, searing holes through the bodily secretion encrusted scum-carpet of a bedspread. We turned on the TV. Porno was on. After several nauseating seconds of a chubby buck-toothed brunette with glittery lips, we decided the TV was best left off. I set my sleeping bag on the floor, thankful for the first time in my life to not be on a bed, and fell asleep.

The next morning, we got lots of fun waves. I’d chalk the trip up to be a great success. -Buck