(fic) ... breakfast included in the price
…breakfast included in the price
Martan Havlat /Tomas Kaberle
This is a work of fiction, it is untrue.
Marty is not a man that holds much with introspection.
You really only need to know three things about Martin and Tomas:
One, that they were lovers once upon a time.
Two, that their affair happened in Canada, which is neutral ground, Switzerland for gay sportsmen.
Three, that they don't do that anymore.
Well, they don't do that anymore anymore. Mostly.
Even though America is no longer the Promised Land, forbidden to their people the way it once was, the question Marty gets asked the most when he is home is inevitable: "What is the United States like?"
And he wants to say something along the lines of "it's like a whole different country from Canada where I live." But he doesn't, because he doesn't pick fights with people. Anymore. Usually.
If he were to say what the best part of Those United States was, he would say that it was the motels. The lines and lines of faceless cheap motels that bracket the highways leading into any decent sized town. With neon lights that are always blue, even when they are green or pink, and always promise entry to all, cable, clean rooms, and spa baths. Marty doesn't indulge in such middle-class things. Very often.
And that those hotels always have at least one person, the night desk clerk who has seen it all, hell twice just the day before, he knows where to get laid, liquored or high. And all those things twice on a Sunday. Not that Marty would. They are without a doubt the coolest people Marty has ever met. Their ability to makes his small offerings of 20's vanish in the blink of an eye fascinates him. Of all the magic tricks in the world, that is one he'd really like to have. Fuck pulling a rabbit out of a hat. He hates rabbits unless they are stewed.
There is a factory somewhere that makes the type of sheets they have in hotels. Something with a special formal that means they are bleached, starched, sterilized but never feel entirely comfortable to sleep in. Maybe too clean. Marty had to dirty them up to make them feel real.
That was one thing Tomas was good for. The sheets would stink of sweat and come and aftershave. And then Marty could curl up and nap.
The way the lights glare off the road, and off each other leave streaks of colour down Marty's windshield. Even if he hadn't obsessively checked the directions three times he would recognize Tomas' rental car parked in front of room 41. Tomas always has an American car. Always.
Martan Havlat /Tomas Kaberle
This is a work of fiction, it is untrue.
Marty is not a man that holds much with introspection.
You really only need to know three things about Martin and Tomas:
One, that they were lovers once upon a time.
Two, that their affair happened in Canada, which is neutral ground, Switzerland for gay sportsmen.
Three, that they don't do that anymore.
Well, they don't do that anymore anymore. Mostly.
Even though America is no longer the Promised Land, forbidden to their people the way it once was, the question Marty gets asked the most when he is home is inevitable: "What is the United States like?"
And he wants to say something along the lines of "it's like a whole different country from Canada where I live." But he doesn't, because he doesn't pick fights with people. Anymore. Usually.
If he were to say what the best part of Those United States was, he would say that it was the motels. The lines and lines of faceless cheap motels that bracket the highways leading into any decent sized town. With neon lights that are always blue, even when they are green or pink, and always promise entry to all, cable, clean rooms, and spa baths. Marty doesn't indulge in such middle-class things. Very often.
And that those hotels always have at least one person, the night desk clerk who has seen it all, hell twice just the day before, he knows where to get laid, liquored or high. And all those things twice on a Sunday. Not that Marty would. They are without a doubt the coolest people Marty has ever met. Their ability to makes his small offerings of 20's vanish in the blink of an eye fascinates him. Of all the magic tricks in the world, that is one he'd really like to have. Fuck pulling a rabbit out of a hat. He hates rabbits unless they are stewed.
There is a factory somewhere that makes the type of sheets they have in hotels. Something with a special formal that means they are bleached, starched, sterilized but never feel entirely comfortable to sleep in. Maybe too clean. Marty had to dirty them up to make them feel real.
That was one thing Tomas was good for. The sheets would stink of sweat and come and aftershave. And then Marty could curl up and nap.
The way the lights glare off the road, and off each other leave streaks of colour down Marty's windshield. Even if he hadn't obsessively checked the directions three times he would recognize Tomas' rental car parked in front of room 41. Tomas always has an American car. Always.