Days Inn

They call this place a «hotel» instead of «motel» because they technically have too many rooms to legally call themselves a motel and they charge the customer a hotel tax. But it’s a motel.
The sky is always dead over the Days Inn in Solon.
In the winter, the small pond freezes and ducks play on it. There’s an Applebee’s next door in the «Solon Business District,» which is a bullshit term because it’s basically a parking lot with fat families in American cars. That’s about as healthy as you’re going to get in Cleveland. My hair froze walking there.
It gets hot as hell in the summer.
In Ohio, service jobs are done by blacks, managerial jobs by whites, and the division is pretty dramatic. The maids are black. Their boss is white.
I figured most people stay at the Days Inn in Solon for one, maybe two nights tops, because the White Maid Lady Boss always seemed surprised to see me in my room, every time, for over a year. She was friendly, flirty, and cute until she smiled. But she always remembered me.
«You’re still here?»
«Yeah, still here.»
«Wow. OK if they clean the room?»
They did a good job of cleaning the room. The bed doesn’t make much noise when fucking. They use the old-​fashioned amber-​colored ashtray, the heavy one, not the cheap plastic one. The kind that leaves a dent when thrown into a wall. Sorry guys.
Character is overrated. The staff never harassed me. It’s near a quiet freeway and people leave me alone. It’s a good place.