motel 6 hijab

In town, Pimpleton drops me at the Motel 6 and departs into the fading day with the rental and the majority of my twice-stranded belongings promising to bring the truck back that evening. My mood lightens when I see that the Motel 6 is well positioned between a liquor store, a 24 hour Super Wal-mart and a Pizza Hut. The Motel 6 is owned and operated by Arnold Biffton if I am to believe his name tag. He a kind and efficient fellow, carefully noting the motel highlights such as ice, vending and the complimentary use of washers and dryers.
The room is typical and entered through an interior hallway. True to 'motel form', there is no iron and ironing board. That doesn't bother me because I have no need for pressed shirts on this trip. What does bother me is the size and picture quality of the TV. I think it was a 13 inch or at least it seemed like it was. It received approximately 40 channels with varying degrees of clarity and, of course, the channel carrying pre-season football got the worst reception. Clearly, my Nebraska luck was holding.
The liquor store carried my brand of beer and a bag of ice was free with purchase so I began to lighten up a bit as my fortunes improved. A secondary expedition to the Super Wal-mart rendered a rotisserie chicken, a pasta salad with grape tomatoes and three ripe peaches. Things were definitely taking shape in old North Platte.
I arrived at checkout where I was swarmed by three hijab wearing women who I recognized (clothing-wise) from the lobby of the Motel 6. They clucked and chattered, brandished a toilet brush, a small charcoal grill and several bags of plastic flatware. They abruptly cut in front, surprising me and causing me to drop the pasta salad which exploded on impact. Spiral pasta and grape tomatoes flew. Amazingly, a tomato bounced up into the air ricocheting off the debit card swipe nailing one of the ladies squarely between the eyes.
What are the odds? Nearly entirely covered in cloth, this errant fruit hits the jackpot. For a second, nothing but silence and then uproarious laughter breaks out from under the hijabs. I nearly peed my pants.

NEXT: You must pay to avoid Denver.