The Indialantic Motel by Rachel Prin

The crunch of shells beneath their feet was audible above the wind as they walk along the wet beach.  Years of work from creatures beneath the waves so quickly destroyed and

turned into new sand. Foam from casual waves creep towards her feet, never quite reaching them. It was strange. Being so familiar with a person and yet such a stranger. Months of correspondence and  conversations had led them to this point, to this place. And now here in the moment the conflict of her emotions was unfamiliar and intriguing.  

There was no specified destination to this journey, but that was not the purpose of this outing. Miles of empty beach sprawled out before them with no end in sight. She found the sound of his voice, untainted by technology, intoxicating and soothing. His presence a welcome one.  As the breeze blew cool off the waves she found herself pulling him close. Partially for warmth, partially just to feel his physical presence against hers and to feel what that meant.   

A line of buildings soon come into view stretching for miles down the vacant beach. Dated, and a little beat up, these buildings show years of wear and tear. Some from weather, some from neglect.  It’s apparent that at one time this place was supposed to be something. A destination. And yet the years had not turned out how they were supposed to. Now this stretch of land was really just a physical manifestation of a dream unfulfilled. There was a beauty in their battered state. Forever sealed in the time and era in which they were conceived, they ooze nostalgia.  

There was one building though, a building that appeared to have experienced more than just years of neglect. Despite the obvious damage that this building had sustained at some point, there was an appeal to it. The combination of pink, blue, green and yellow hues reminiscent of a time that attracted them both. Approaching the building she took it all in. The word “MOTEL” printed in large letters across a wall that was now missing it’s roof. Unfamiliar foliage encroached around the structure.  Broken windows, abandoned televisions, twisted, knotted blinds, pieces of molding

with nails still sticking out of them, attached to nothing. The damage was not recent, and yet there appeared to be little effort to clean up the incredible mess. But this was not just a clean up gone stagnant to them, it was a backdrop.  

They climb to the third floor, or what remained of it.  The cement steps leading up to it littered with plywood, plaster and various debris. He forces the door open and in one of the rooms they find everything one might expect to find in a hotel room; lamps, mattresses, blankets, televisions, furniture. Yet in this room the mattress is soaked and a cloud of tiny flies appears when she climbs over the top of it, sidestepping the pile of fabric, furniture, electronics and drywall that is piled near its’ base. The roof is completely absent and the sunlight from the cloudless sky pours into the room casting perfect shadows across the scene. He directs her where to stand, directs her where to look.  He’s capturing the moments, she’s capturing the memory.  

The next room reveals a similar scene, but this time she turns a camera on him. As he climbs onto the fly infested, water damaged mattress, his feet sink into a decaying piece of drywall that has fallen across the bed. The way the shadows and sunlight fall across his face, his hair, strike her as beautiful in this room that is anything but. It’s likely that given enough time this building will simply disappear. There’s no salvaging what is left of this structure, and yet it has become such an intrical part of their story. The end of this old, storm damaged motel is really just the beginning for them.  

Not wanting to push their luck they decide to return to the ground floor. Along the way he stops her, taking advantage of a rail-less balcony, an interesting window, some attractive lighting. The way he finds beauty and interest in this place appeals to her and tells her more about him than hours of conversation could. As she ducks underneath a low hanging piece of plywood nearly blocking the stairway, she notices some yellow caution tape. At one time it had been tied across the stairway, the same stairway they had just climbed. She hadn’t even noticed it when they first embarked on this adventure; distracted by the scene, by him. The light slowly starts to fade as the sun begins to set and they return to the beach. The tape, still tied to both sides of the railing but torn in the middle, flutters gently in the breeze.  

Story by Rachel Prin

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