Free Tats Too by Layce Gardner Page A

the thank-yous and the hugs and the sisters pack us a lunch of sausage biscuit sandwiches and we’re back on the road with Flora and Fauna and the FBI to keep our thoughts company.

Chapter Four
     
     
    Western Oklahoma doesn’t look a damn thing like eastern Oklahoma. The western part is dry and flat and dusty and anemic looking. Unless you have a thing for The Grapes of Wrath , it makes for some really boring motorcycle riding. When you’re headed toward the sunset the best thing you can do is try to speed through. Or better yet, drive at night. That way you don’t have to look at it.
    We’re deep into the Oklahoma panhandle and it’s dusk by the time I slow down to twenty-five mph like the speed limit tells me to. A gaudy sign with painted clouds and a golden halo surrounding the words Welcome to Heaven, pop. 350 looms up on the side of the road.
    A second sign follows the first, this one in somewhat fresher paint, and it greets us with the rainbow-colored words Meet God at The Pearly Gates.
    The signs give me a really bad, creepy all-over feeling like maybe Flora and Fauna actually did know something I don’t.
    Heaven looks like a ghost town from the Old West days. Main treet is only about a block long, and I don’t see a soul anywhere. Pun intended. Most of the businesses have boarded up windows and the asphalt street is covered with a thick layer of dirt that kicks up in a big red dusty cloud behind my back tire.
    I pull the bike over at the tiny little eight-unit motel named The Pearly Gates. It looks just like any other seedy motel. I don’t see any gates of any kind anywhere. It is pink, though. Looks like it used to be a really hot pink but the sun has faded it down to pale pink. I kill the engine and look over my shoulder at Vivian.
    She’s as creeped out as me. We sit on the bike for a long moment, looking both ways up and down the street. Where are all the people? At dark they pull the blinds and roll up the sidewalks?
    I don’t even hear anything except my motor ticking down and the wind whistling through the motel sign as it squeaks back and forth on its hinges. A lone tumbleweed blows down the dusty, deserted street.
    Okay, not really, there’s no tumbleweed. But it sure looks like there ought to be.
    “It’s got a real High Plains Drifter ambiance,” I say to Vivian.
    “Just go get us a room if they’re open,” she says, “I’m frickin’ exhausted.”
     
     
    ***
     
     
    I make a deal with myself as I squeak open the door to The Pearly Gates: If a guy named Peter is working the desk, I’m out of here.
    But there’s nobody at the front desk. I ding the rusty bell a couple of three times and wait. My eye catches a faded yellow flyer duct-taped to the top of the counter, advertising: See the world’s largest collection of freaks! Only five dollars!
    My eyes mosey around the dingy room, taking in the cracked Naugahyde chairs repaired with duct tape, the broken plate glass window repaired with cardboard and duct tape, and the roll of duct tape sitting on the counter. It reminds me of that old joke: If God would’ve had duct tape the world would’ve been made in five days.
    Then I see a hand-lettered sign duct-taped over a door in the back. It reads: Freak Exhibit. Enter if you dare. $5.00.
    What the eff? Life keeps getting weirder and weirder. Just a couple of days ago I was feeding my baby and eating a peanut butter sandwich and today I’m smack-dab in the middle of a Stephen King novel.
    “Anybody here?” I call out and ding the bell one more time.
    Nobody answers. I keep looking around the room waiting for something to jump out at me, but when nothing does, I decide to investigate. I walk quietly toward the Freak Entrance and turn the doorknob. The heavy door groans open like the lid to a crypt.
    Okay, maybe it’s more like a squeak, but still…
    Once my eyes adjust to the dim light, I see it’s just a narrow room, longer than it is wide, with free-standing metal shelves. Glass