He woke to a knock on his Unit 12 door. A delivery. Registered post. Curiously, he took it inside wondering who knew he was staying in the motel. His Ford was one of four similar vehicles parked out front. His seclusion was for a reason – he was a deliberate man: when he played guitar, it always sounded better when wearing his Stetson. In this manner, he put on his pants and the shirt he ironed before he slept. Boots on, rolled a cigarette and only then did he open the package. A brass and familiar item slid out. He’d seen it before, his Grandfather’s compass. An obvious metaphor, he thought. He retrieved the ashtray from the bedside table, lit his cigarette and stared towards the mechanic’s garage across the road. He cracked the window and glanced at the “No Smoking” sign under the peep hole on the silver chain-locked door. He thought about his Grandfather and then the compass. Was he found or was it a call to him to go looking? With his cigarette now discarded he’d walk to the mechanic to see about the cost of a new tyre. Once fixed he’d get all four tyres rolling. He couldn’t take the chance someone knew where he was, he thought.
Written yesterday, 8th of January 2017.