Free Middle of Nowhere by Caroline Adderson

glasses and the windshield, thumping her chest and burping all the way.
    We were taking the old highway. On the new highway you had to pay a toll. Also, the old highway was more picturesque, she said. It wound above the river, higher and higher, curvier and curvier.
    Soon I began to feel like throwing up. Partly I was worried about leaving Mom behind. Partly it was carsickness. Car after car passed us, even on those dangerous bends, which was maybe the real reason she took the old highway. The Bel Air couldn’t make the speed limit when we were going uphill.
    Artie and I dozed off. When we were all awake again, Mrs. Burt taught Artie a song called “I’ve Heard That Song Before,” which they sang over and over until I had to say, “I’ve heard it before, too. Like about a million times.” I peeled the covers off one jam after another and passed them to Artie in the back seat. He couldn’t sing when he was licking jam out of the little packets.
    It was almost dark when we finally drove down from the mountains into a bald, hilly countryside. Mrs. Burt took the exit after a big sign that read MOTOR HOTEL and was pleased to see trucks filling the parking lot.
    â€œYou can always tell a motel has a good bed, or a restaurant has good grub, if truckers stop there,” Mrs. Burt told us.
    Very slowly, very stiffly, she hobbled into the office with the walker I’d got from the trunk. We waited in the car until she came back a few minutes later carrying a key on a wooden block.
    The room had brown carpet and two double beds separated by a night table.
    â€œWell, looky here, boys,” she said, going over to one of the beds. “This is a bonus.”
    There was a metal box attached to the headboard with a slot on the top for coins. The instructions were printed on it, but it never said what the box did. Mrs. Burt knew.
    â€œIt’s a vibrator bed.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked.
    First she made us change into our pajamas and brush our teeth. Then she asked me to read the instructions because the print was too small for her.
    â€œTwenty-five cents for ten minutes. Fifty cents for half an hour.”
    â€œHalf an hour’s the better deal.” She fished in her purse for a quarter for each of us and we fed them to the box.
    A noise started up as loud as the car wash, and the bed began to tremble. I thought it was an earthquake until Mrs. Burt cried, “Lie down, boys! Lie down!” Artie and I fell onto our backs laughing and let the bed shake us like jumping beans.
    â€œGet on, Mrs. Burt!” Artie cried and she did. She fell down next to us and we all jiggled together.
    It would have been relaxing if it wasn’t so loud. I guess that was the “motor” part in Motor Hotel.
    We fell asleep with the lights on and the vibrator bed still rumbling. The last thing Artie said was, “Mrs. Burt? This was the best day of my life.”

    BANG, BANG, BANG!
    I sat up. Between the bangs, it seemed very quiet. The bed had shut off. The room was dark, but I could still see because the lights from the motel office shone through the curtain.
    â€œGeorgina!” somebody shouted just as the pounding started again. “Georgina! Open up!”
    Artie clutched me. In the other bed, Mrs. Burt was feeling around on the bedside table for her glasses. Once she got them on her face, she peered across at us. When she saw we were awake, she switched on the light.
    â€œGeorgina!” the man at the door bellowed.
    â€œThere’s no Georgina here!” Mrs. Burt bellowed back. “Go to bed!”
    â€œLike hell! Come out!”
    At the sound of that swear word, Mrs. Burt really woke up. She snatched the walker waiting by the bed and struggled to her feet. Barefoot and in her nightie, she stomped over to the door. Even on carpet you could hear she was mad just by the way she put the walker down.
    â€œWatch your language,” she said through the door.