A flickering light comes from the rumbling truck’s destination. A neon sign stands as high as he is on the truck. Orange and pink neon lights outline an arrow pointing towards a small building. Blinking on and off, white lines of light spell out ‘THRESHOLD MOTEL’. Doors and windows line the facing wall. The truck drives into the parking lot and comes to a stop.
“Alright,” says the driver, a rough voice from below. He slaps the panels, startling Big Al. “Anything back there? Hello? Any animals?”
Big Al crouches on the roof, still. So long as he stays where he is, he should be fine.
“Whoops. Forgot about the door.” Then comes the double-click of a flashlight. “Didn’t think so. Crazy kids. Alligators. Yeah right.” The flashlight clicks off, and the driver goes into the motel.
Big Al waits for a moment, watching and smelling. A faint shampoo aftertaste from the collie appetizer tickles the back of his throat, and it makes him nauseous.
Too much hair, too much soap. That dog had too much small human on it.
His nose can smell lots of new and different things. Now that the truck is standing still, it reeks of the thick, oily pungent smell of diesel. Something about it smells very wrong to the hungry crocodile in a straw hat. The light lines have a faint, twizzly smell to them. At the front of the motel, he can smell pungent territorial marks from dogs. Inside the office it smells of coffee, stale farts and cinnamon buns.
So many scents, so many possibilities!
Big Al waits for the moment though. He thinks the driver will be back, and it only takes a minute before his assumption is proven right.
Instead of returning to the truck, he watches the driver press something against the fifth door and disappear into the room.
Feeling safe for the time being, he isn’t quite sure where he should start. Perhaps the same place the driver went into. His stomach needs food, and something sticky and sweet was inside that office.
Big Al slides down over the windshield, using his tail to lower himself to the ground without a sound.
Adjusting the hat low over his eyes, he scans the area.
No humans.
He approaches the first door where the office is, and presses his right claw to the door.
However, the door doesn’t just open for him. He pushes against the door and makes a terrible thump.
Something’s wrong here. The human went in just fine. What am I doing wrong?
He pats the doorknob, then brushes it from top to bottom, discovering by accident that it turns.
Unfortunately, Big Al is leaning against the door and it opens inwards. Click goes the knob and the he crashes across the threshold into the room, his face meeting the red carpet.
He pushes himself up off the floor with his front legs.
His dress is off to one side, his hat tilted.
“Oh my goodness! Are you okay?” says a woman. She stands in the middle of the motel lobby, surprised.
Big Al looks up to see her face twist into a grimace. Blonde hair frames a thick, dark line above her eyes. White flowers texture her pastel pink dress.
“That door of ours always sticks. I’m surprised you didn’t roll right in.”
“Do you have a reservation?” asked a man at a counter, his voice a nasal drone. Dark hairs comb over a shiny, bald head. The clerk peers over wire-framed spectacles, lenses smudged.
The scent of the sweet and sticky fills Big Al’s nose, and it makes him feel a little frenzied, having gone so long without a real meal.
“N-Name issss R-Rick,” he manages. “Smells g-good in h-here. Good food?”
Both adults look at each other and exchange a glance.
“I’m sorry sir, but this is a motel, not a restaurant,” says the clerk, rubbing knuckles so dry they sound like scales to Big Al.
“There’s a diner next door if you like,” suggests the woman.
Big Al looks at the woman and says “Smells…sweet. Sticky too.”
Big Al doesn’t know a human could change color so quickly. His nose relays information, nothing else.
Before she can reply the clerk interjects, sharp, certain. “Ok. That’s enough. You need to leave,” says the clerk who stands up, his eyes narrow, lizard-like. Thing is he isn’t much taller than the chair he was sitting in.
Big Al can smell the fact that they are no longer welcoming to him, and despite still being afraid of him, are confronting him. This is unusual.
Kind of like Mama Buffalo, only without little ones. Humans are so confusing.
Big Al lets his stomach talk. “Hungry. Need food. Cinnamon? Need cinnamon.”
The adults exchange another look, and their smell changes. It’s not as tart now.
“Cinnamon, need cinnamon,” huffs the clerk under his breath, mimicking Big Al. Then, “Sir, the snacks are for paying guests. But you are not welcome here. You need to leave.”
“It’s okay,” she says to the clerk, her blush fading. “It was a misunderstanding.”
Big Al turns his head following her, smelling the coffee and cinnamon buns in the direction she is heading.
Must learn to smell out the place first, thinks Big Al.
“Daphne, don’t get him one. He was rude. Sir. You need to leave. Now. Or I will call the police.” His voice is hard, prepared for conflict.
“R-Rick is h-hungry.” A word comes to him that Ms. Fast said to him when she turned the same color. “S-Sorry.”
And just like that, the tart smell is gone. The humans smell quite normal.
“Apology accepted,” says Daphne. “I’m going to get him one…”
Not only do all twenty cinnamon buns disappear into Big Al’s mouth, but the plate as well.
Daphne blinks her eyes, not quite sure what to say.
“Well now. Somehow, that wasn’t entirely unexpected,” says the clerk behind the counter in a voice as dry as a crocodile’s back. “Rick, sir. If you need to eat, the town diner sits only a doorstep away. We are a motel. People come here and give us money to sleep in a room for the night. If you are going to pay for a room, let’s do that.” His fingers steeple, a thumbnail black and broken. “Otherwise, please, keep moving, alright?”
He nods towards the door, his territory marked. Narrowing his eyes, nostrils flare and the clerk seems to be expecting something from him. The clerk smiles cold yet welcomingly as Big Al approaches the counter.
“Very good. I’m always pleased to serve a customer,” the clerk says, nodding his head.
Big Al puts his claws on the counter and stands there, looking at him. Money. Sleep. Food. Big Al knows what sleep is, but he doesn’t understand the concept of money. Can he get more food? So, he stares at the man, unblinking.
The man puts his left hand on the counter, stares back at him, also unblinking.
Then, both blink slowly, lizard-like.
Big Al remembers what Raven said, and smiles, his lips pulling back even further to reveal more of his teeth. The man makes more of a grimace, shows yellowed teeth and looks at Big Al’s purse and back at Big Al’s huge snout. Big Al glances at his purse, then back at the clerk.
Watch what humans watch. He must want something from my purse.
Opening the flap to his purse, he wraps his claws around the skin moisturizer and presents it.
The clerk looks very confused. “Sir. That’s, uh…skin moisturizer? I’m sorry, but I, I don’t barter here.” He shakes his head, takes off his glasses and wipes the lens clean, sighing. “I think it would just be best if you carried on, alright?”
Apparently, this isn’t something that can give me food or a place to sleep, thinks Big Al, the process of elimination clicking into place for him. Big Al places the skin moisturizer back into his purse, closes the flap and backs towards the door. The unwelcoming scent is back.
“I got you! You’re it!” shouts a young voice from outside the door.
“Nuh uh! You’re still it!” calls a little girl.
“Why do parents let their kids run wild,” mutters the clerk. Daphne shoots him a side-eye.
Parents? Must be big humans with little ones.
Despite the confusion, Big Al stills. Daphne remains in the corner by the coffee, looking at him gently. The clerk rises and gives him a withering look. It slides off his back.
Can’t leave just yet. Kids outside. Their joyful voices remind him of the two he met at Ms. Fasts, though their scents and voices carry different pitches.
Whatever these growing scents of discomfort may smell like, it will intensify into something else entirely if Big Al doesn’t do something.
The scent grows stronger. They’re looking at him as if he weren’t there, but it isn’t the invisible gaze that he enjoys.
He thinks they are trying to see him out the door.
He purses his lips, presses them together and tries to make a sound. It comes out sounding like a sneeze.
“What?” asks the clerk. “What are you doing? Please leave.”
Big Al can still hear kids running around outside, giggling. He can’t leave yet.
Again he tries, and this time it sounds like a cough.
“I do believe he’s trying to whistle,” says Daphne.
And the third time is the charm. Expending more air than he should, Big Al starts whistling the tune he heard from the airplane, so long ago.
The two relax into smiles as they recognize the tune. “I love that song,” says Daphne. Her voice wavers, and to Big Al she smells wistful.
But all Big Al knows is the ‘in the name of love…’ he heard. He repeats it once, twice, three times before the kids running around outside go away. This time he knows to turn the knob.
With a smile, he lifts his straw hat a little with a claw and exits the Motel lobby.
The neon lit THRESHOLD MOTEL sign flickers light onto the sidewalk where he walks out.
“Most unusual vagrant I’ve seen in a while,” mutters the clerk.
Daphne replies gently, “Give him some slack, you old crocodile. He’s just another wanderer.”
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Chapter 7 audio drops October 4
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