Author: Benjamin C. Roy Cory Garrett Rev History Rev .00 - 05/24/2013 Rev .01 - 03/09/2022
Knowing how to pick a lock is always more interesting than breaking it…
I did not sleep with every woman I took to the Traveler’s Inn,
Only one
but that didn’t mean I didn’t try.
The Traveler’s Inn: There was no more luxurious squat in the history of Kirksville Missouri–nor probably the world–than the briefly abandoned Traveler’s Inn. A hotel with a torrid past of KKKlan rallies and conferences for the Society of American Eugenicists; the only time in the building’s history when it’s ownership was not in the hands of truly diabolical villains was when it was in the hands of no-one at all. The last known owner of the building as an actual hotel, and not the apartment building it would later become, disappeared mysteriously months after a funding a decadent remodel amidst rumors of a Russian mafia scandal. One day, the building was nearly ready to open to customers, the next, the doors were locked even to the staff with no warning or explanation.
This left the hotel a treasure trove built on the history of its own odious peculiarities. For example, most recently, the hotel had transferred ownership from a christian cult which went under after being brought into the spotlight for burying children up to their necks in pig shit at their bible summer camp, to a Southern Missouri strip club owner who was known to dabble in all things traded illegally. This left the Traveler’s Inn with a hodgepodge of bizarre, hybrid/fusions-themed rooms like, “Noah’s Ark,” the “Pharaoh’s Tomb,” “Constantinople,” and the “Parisian Bordello.” Rooms that were all abandoned, freshly laundered, and ready for guests, when the management split.
One night, after more than a couple Kirksville Coronas, Ashleigh suggested that we acquire a jug of sangria and find a way in. I had always harbored a fascination for the place after picking up stories about it from locals I got rides with, hitching frequently around the region. I also had an ever increasing fascination with the person suggesting we do the exploring. Far too many dreams were coming true at once for me to say anything other than, “Yeah, sure. That sounds cool, I guess.”
The building was three stories tall and made of bricks. The roof could be accessed by a fire escape on its southern facade, and the mistake many interlopers made was to believe that it was the easiest point of entry. The ladder was only accessible by moving a nearby dumpster across an alley which couldn’t be done in such a small town without drawing a lot of attention. Additionally, the entire fire escape was visible from the street, and even if you made it to the roof, the only entrance to the building was still visible from the street below and locked. Countless college and high schoo; students had been rounded up by the KPD for thinking they could gain access to the Travel via the roof top. A far more effective and discreet entrance could be found through an unseen basement door in the alcove beneath the porch. Lucky for us, the door was “securely locked” with a thick chain mistakenly held in place with a no. 7LF Master Lock.
Inside the basement was dark–really dark. A darkness all the more terrifying in the days before cell phones. Neither one of us had thought to bring a flash light or even a lighter. We bumbled around in pitch black darkness barely able to tell where the wall ended and the hall began. Stumbling forward, I accidentally kicked a mop, stopping my heart as the handle thudded heavily against an aluminum storage cabinet like a gunshot. We waited in silence for the inevitable sound of sirens, but they never came. Able to breathe again, we pushed farther into the darkness of the basement, questioning the wisdom of our ill-conceived plan. As we creeped on, it began to dawn on me that there were countless low budget horror films that had exactly this beginning, except the protagonists usually had a bit more light, by the nature of people not generally liking movies filmed in total darkness. Phantoms filled in the darkness and we were really starting to spook ourselves stumbling around in that basement until Ashleigh ripped ass and we both almost fell over in a giggle fit.
Our fear was abated, we kept searching the walls until we finally found a doorway in the center of the building that led to a spiraling stair case that wrapped around the elevator shaft. The stairs were carpeted, soft and slick with over a month of condensation with no running airtime. In the dark and increasingly more drunk, we stumbled frequently trying to climb our way up to the first floor. Inexplicably–in our flailing tumble up the stairs–every misplaced hand seemed to find its way to each other’s junk or trunk–accompanied by giggles and whispered shouts of “Goose!” Pickle!” or “Double Melon!” Eventually the soft yellow glow of streetlights began filtering into the stairwell and we knew we had finally reached ground level. Most of first floor was an open ballroom/dining room with the windowed facade creating street view visibility on three sides. We thought about crawling along the floor to attempt an exploration of the kitchen and other oddities of the first floor, but worming across the floor without breaking the wine jug seemed like too great a risk for any of the potential rewards from the abandoned kitchen and so we decided to continue groping our way up the darkened stairwell.
The novelty of exploring two floors of Parisian parlors, British bed chambers, and uncomfortably erotic biblical fantasy suites kept us busy through three fourths of our gallon of sangria. By the time we got to door 321, We were well past tipsy and finding it difficult to remain upright, much less attempt to navigate the stairwell again. Opening the next mystery door, we were delighted to discover a room that could only be christened “the Dog Pound.” The walls were adorned in real classy paintings of Bulldogs smoking cigars and poodles parading around with parasols in négligée. The bed sported a multitude of pillowed portraits of distinguished hounds and Labradors wearing hats. We wouldn’t fully soak in the grandeur of the room until we woke up the next moring and could see it all in the morning light filtered through the silky curtains, but we spent the dregs of the jug of wine, plopped down on the queen-sized bed trying our best to recreate the conversation that led to the genesis of this kennel.
With the drink drunk as drunk as could be, we abandoned the jug to the floor and sprawled out across the bed. It is a little difficult to remember all that we talked about, or for how long, but I vaguely remember talking about boys and girls and school and what the world would look like if we just started living it instead of trying to plan it out. We talked about Cinci and our first real taste for life unadulterated. We talked about how she had made out with Jimmy in the front seat of the Lincoln Towncar we had used as our temporary autonomous zone the night after the our first riot, and about how I had not made out with Michael in the back.
Out of nowhere except years of repressed fantasies, I blurted out:
“Do you think we should just start making out now?”
while staring at the ceiling and sweating balls over having finally asked a question burning whole through my heart.
She responded quickly, as if this a was a question she had had to be prepared to answer from the moment she suggested that a man and a woman explore a derelict building, alone together.
“I don’t think so.”
Young and dumb, the words hurt, but they made sense. I did my best to recover,
“Yeah you’re right. With all of these spectators” I swept my arm out towards all the staring portraits of pups, “it would be impossible to tell if we were doing it for us or them.”
The words came out awkwardly, but she laughed and we returned to our conversation about rock and roll and getting the band ready for summer tour.
***
It would take a long time for me to get over the fantasy that Ashleigh and I were going to have some kind of romantic relationship. We stayed friends for many years, but my inability to completely let go of some imagined tension I sensed between us eventually built a wall that closed off my ability to participate in the revolutionary alliance we had forged on the streets. A moment of rebellious power strong enough to part a red sea of cops. As a man experiencing emotions bigger than the capacity of my head and heart to reconcile, I had made myself a potential enemy to true liberatory solidarity. No promise of understanding I would ever make to her or to myself could guarantee that in a moment of weakness, I was not capable of a violence that would destroy us both.
I used you KC.
Your body.
That same hote room.
The sheets not quite fully made,
the bathroom smelling dankly of stale urine.
To fulfill a fantasy you had nothing to do with.