Scent of a motel room: an open letter to the former occupants of Room 114

Good former occupants of Room 114 in this backwater motel:

How to describe the robust and complex scent bouquet you left lingering in this room, an olfactory memorial to your refusal to bow down to The Man and his lame-o rules? There is a dank moldiness, yes, and a touch of feet, and the barest hint of dollar-store cleaning product. There is a whisper of, how you say, eau de sex. Notes of men's locker room, or perhaps teenage dude's bedroom. A frisky hit of air conditioning filter, with extra freon. I'm already dialing Robert Parker at this point, unable to contain frisson upon frisson of elitist delight. Perhaps he will promote me to Master Sommelier when he hears this.

And then...THE TOBACCO. A strident ode to that grand crop, economic linchpin of Virginia - you saucy wenches, I see what you did there. The Wine Spectator receptionist answers, grows insistent -- Hello? Hello? -- but I am too moved by the acrid burned-chemical-toast stench assaulting my nostrils to speak.

You are patriots through and through, former occupants of Room 114. Discerning smokers such as yourselves experience mounting discrimination in this country; the damn fascists who nailed that pansy-ass "non-smoking" sign on the door fail to appreciate the vision behind your art. Your refusal to kowtow to Big Brother and his dirty commie demands is an act of courage I can only aspire to approximate. If only I knew how to find you. If only my nose and Robert Parker and I could but live in the shadow of the bright trail you have blazed, forever.

Until cancer do us part,

Renée


Apologies to McSweeney's