The Toilet Was Not Green
“Want a beer,” the hipster asked. He wore the standard ski hat with a mess of hair coming out of the bottom.
“I am checking in,” I replied. Apparently, the bar was the front desk.
Because my brain thinks I am 27 years old I decided to stay at a vintage motel in Nashville this week. It was in a seedy area of town lined with other shanty motels, liquor stores, and a closed Piggly Wiggly.
The dude gave me my room key.
“It’s room number one. Not the first room number one but keep walking until you see the next number one. The one with the green door,” he explained.
I left the bar and wandered out to the main area with the pool, hot tub, and renovated motel rooms. There was a small stage in front of the pool and two girls in the hot tub. One girl had a few thousand tattoos.
I entered my room which was the size of a, well, small motel room. The theme was disco, wilderness, dead deer.
The disco ball on the ceiling was wired to a light switch which was wired to the vintage radio that only had four channels:
Sex
Drugs
Rock N Roll
Sleep
I chose drugs.
After settling in I headed back to the bar area.
“Are you guys usually busy,” I asked the hipster as I noticed his vintage loafers and ankle socks.
“No. I can’t wait until summer,” he sighed as he turned away to do more useless stuff. I was the only person in the small bar / lounge / restaurant / dance area. There was a Christmas tree hanging upside down next to a massive disco ball. The food was cooked in a food truck built into the motel property near the pool. Beer was in the can and the wifi password was the address.
A couple of other gals showed up to work behind the bar. None of them talked to me. Hipster code, I suppose.
After a beer, I headed back to my room. As I was lying on my bed I thought about my life. I wondered how a middle-aged man ended up in a hipster hotel. Then I remembered I was in Nashville to register a Fur Bus which is a party bus company I started many moons ago around the idea that fake fur inside of buses is cool.
I thought about my friends who are married and have careers. Who have kids or dogs or expense accounts. Who drive fancy cars, love sports, and have health insurance.
Who are not me.
What’s his name once said comparison is the thief of joy. I don’t 100% agree.
If I compare myself to a prisoner with schizophrenia and no legs, it does not steal my joy. If I compare myself to a rich, happy, amazing guy with muscles and a shit ton of friends, well, it does take a hit on my joy.
However, if I compare myself to…well…myself then I think I am doing alright.
I have done some interesting things, had some fun, and am not addicted to meth. I like unique people, unique things, and unique places like this vintage motel. I also like to tell stories...like this one.
Let’s be more of ourselves. Let’s worry less about what others are doing and more about what we are doing. Let’s have some fun.
Keep dancing my friends, keep dancing.
Trey