You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

B O A R D M A N H O T E L

Bill Miller and I were best friends in high school. We shared many firsts. We each had our first cars at age 15. We both did all the repairs and maintenance on them. We did stupid things together which cemented our friendship. One such event was the night we took his Ford out for a test drive after he had changed his points and plugs. We drove to a county road with a long straight stretch. When we reached the straightaway, Bill pushed the accelerator peddle to the floorboards. We were the only car on the road and we were flying. Headlights out front and stars above to guide our near flight speed. Then as the speedometer needle was approaching the 100 mph mark the view of the road in front of us slowly disappeared. Then the stars were gone. Bill held the wheel steady and let off on the gas. The road began to reappear. Then we could see the stars again. We coasted in wonderment as the car slowed. Suddenly behind us, there was a terrible crashing sound with sparks trailing after the alien object which had blocked our view and now was following us. Whatever it was quickly disappeared into the darkness. Bill pulled off to the side of the road not letting on that he was shaken by the mysterious sequence of events. He may have already realized what had happened. But for me it was not until we walked back to investigate this alien object and found the hood off of Bill’s ford. Bill had neglected to bolt it down after working on the engine. We pulled the smashed hood off the road and drove home.

Another first we shared was getting drunk. It started by deciding to have cocktails before a high school basketball game. I suppose that we had taken this notion from seeing our parents having cocktails before an evening out. Each day we pilfered small amounts, of burbon from our parents liquer cabinet until each of us had a pint. On game night Bill’s parents planned to go out to a movie. We decided that a hot toddy would be the right drink for a cold Fall evening. We bought a pint of the sweet creamy mix and walked to Bill’s house to prepare for our happy hour. His parents’ car was there, they had not left. We hid our booze and the pint of mix in the bushes. Bill went in to see why they were still there. After they had their cocktails, they decided to stay home. With paper cups from Bill’s kitchen and our hidden supplies, we started to walk to the school for the basketball game. As we walked we wondered where we could find a place to drink or hide our cocktail supplies. We walked down an alley, It was flanked by garages. In one garage there was a white Cadillac. We got in, and poured the cold hot toddy mix and bourbon in our cups. We had neglected to bring something to stir it. Nevertheless, we enjoyed our cold toddies in the luxurious leather interior of the neighbor’s Cadillac. We eventually made it to the game only to be quickly escorted out by our friends before our inebriated condition could be discovered by teachers. As I staggered the two miles to my home, I became increasingly sick. Never, in the subsequent 65 years, have I taken another drink of bourbon. Later that year, Bill and his family moved to Missoula Montana.

Over Winter break of my freshman year at Oregon State. I decided to hitchhike to visit Bill. It had been nearly two years since I had last seen him. I threw some sox and underwear into my backpack. Wearing a sturdy rain jacket I walked through downtown Corvallis and over the bridge across the Willamette River. On the other side of the bridge, there is a wide shoulder. I stopped walking there, and I held out my thumb. Rides came easily through the day. It was night when my ride turned off the highway at Boardman Oregon. I tried to catch another ride but there were few cars and no one stopped. The cold winds of this winter night were grim. It would be a challenge to survive the night on the road. I would have to find someplace warm to stay. The only sign of life in view was a Shell gas station up the road a short distance. I walked to it. The attendant was preparing to close. I asked him if there was any place in town where I could spend the night. He said that there was. “You could stay in the Boardman Hotel.” He pointed the way up a dark street lined by barren poplar trees. “At the corner turn left.” he said, “At the next corner you will find the hotel”. I was much relieved as I set off on the sidewalk between darkened silhouettes of houses on one side and leafless trees on the other. As I approached the first corner I was imagining a comfortable room and a good breakfast in the morning. At the corner, I looked back. I could see the lights of the service station were out. The attendant was driving away. I turned the corner as he had said. The street was lined with old dark houses. There was no sign of a hotel to be seen. I walked to the next corner where the attendant had said I would find a hotel. There was nothing that looked like a hotel. My heart sank. I was facing a freezing Winter night in this lifeless little town.

Then by the weak light of the street lamp, I saw it. A plain board, hanging under the gutter of an ordinary house, the one-word “HOTEL”. The yard was surrounded by a picket fence. A narrow walk, lined with a low boxwood hedge, led across the yard to the wide-covered front porch. The house was nearly dark inside. I crossed the yard and climbed the three wooden plank steps and across the dry boards of the porch. Looking through the dusty window pane of the door, I could see a lectern. On it was a small lamp that was the only source of light in the room. There was no door bell so I tried the door. It was unlocked. I was desperate to get out of the cold. I opened the door. Its hinges were in need of oil. They groaned in objection as I pushed it open. Next to a small bell on the lectern was a note “ring for service”. I rang it. There was no response. I took off my back pack and rang the bell again. Still no response. Looking around the dimly lit room I could see several doors, an old couch and a couple of wooden chairs. I was tired, the room was warm, I crossed over to sit and wait on the couch. Without giving much thought, I stretched out on the couch and quickly fell asleep.

I was wakened by the sound of an alarm clock ringing. It seemed to be next to where I lay. Then I heard a gruff coughing of a man waking. He was on the other side of the door which was next to the couch upon which I had spent the night. It was morning. And by the light from the window the room, which had seemed to be a hotel lobby last night, was now clearly someone’s living room. The man in the next room was shuffling around now. I panicked thinking of what would happen when he opened that door and found me in his living room. I grabbed my backpack and as quietly as possible I made my way across the complaining living room floor out the door with creaking hinges. I crossed the front porch and down the three rattling stair treads. Finally, I was on the quiet pavement of the walk across their yard. Whew! I thought I had made it out! As I walked between the boxwood hedges I hoisted my pack onto my back and slapped my back pocket. I stopped, frozen by the realization that my wallet was not in my pocket where it should be. I checked other pockets, and no I didn’t have it. I returned to the door. Through the glass, I could see the couch upon which I had spent the night. On it was a dark object, my wallet. I slowly opened the door and could hear the man in the next room walking around now, any moment he would emerge from that door. But I had to get my wallet so I opened the creaking door and quickly crossed the room. I grabbed my wallet and again made my way across the tattling living room floor and out the door with hinges that screamed to get the owner’s attention. I crossed the front porch with dried boards that made a hollow sound like a beating drum. Finally, I was on the quiet pavement. I quickly walked out through the gate.

The morning air was cold. A light fog drifted through the bare branches of the poplar trees as I walked up the empty street to the highway where I was able to hale a ride.