I Messed with Texas
You had me at $67 a night, Knox City
As a precaution, I always pack my passport whenever I drive through Texas, even though I’m technically still in America. Sometimes when you pull into the drive-thru at the donut joint, the pimply-faced manager wants to see a passport.
No, I do not know why there is a Donut Palace in every small town in Texas, nor do I know why Jimmy Bob wants to see my papers. I’m not one to stir up trouble, so I don’t ask questions.
I was grumbling about some beehived lady yahoo barreling down the highway behind the wheel of a mammoth pickup truck, as you do, when my mumbles turned to outrage as I saw her bumper sticker:
“Trying not to raise any Liberals.”
Fortunately, my rage subsided because the next thing I saw was beauty incarnate. It was Bigfoot, on a sign at the Gasquatch gas station which, as you can imagine, sells gas.
Bigfoot is not native to Texas but with a passport, anyone is welcome here.
I was driving west like a bullet, heading straight to a hole-in-the-wall motel in the panhandle run by a family from India.
People from India, and possibly Pakistan, have bought 97% of small Texas motels. Without these hard working immigrants, who I presume came over because that first guy, we’ll call him Chandran, discovered bargain-basement prices not far from Lubbock and called all his cousins to come see — without Chandran’s pioneering vision, I would have to take the interstate and drive through Dallas-Ft. Worth.
Mom-and-pop motels might have blown away in the hot Texas wind like tumbleweed without family investors willing to work like immigrants/dogs.
The Knox City Motel has 15 rooms and got a rock solid 4-star rating.
Despite the glowing references from random online reviewers, I breathed a sigh of relief as I pulled 20 feet off the highway to the motel office. Although I was nearly blown off my feet from the winds of an 18-wheeler passing by, it was obvious The Knox City Motel, with it’s sky blue trim, was well cared for.
The manager welcomed me into a postage-stamp sized lobby and I handed over my debit card: $60 plus tax for a total of $67 and change. He said I could pay $70 and get a room with two beds but flying solo, who needs a second bed?
He gave me the key to #7, which If I shaded my eyes I could see from the lobby, shining like a beacon in the thermal inversion haze of late afternoon. It was 30 feet across from the world’s weirdest patio: two red office chairs bookending a bench resembling a diving board, beneath a ramada.
Kudos to the Knox City Motel for providing outdoor seating with a top notch view of highway traffic.
I drove the 60 feet to my personal carport, which resembled an oversized closet made of concrete. I nervously wedged Pearl the Beast into the chifforobe-sized space, narrowly missing two steel poles and a brick wall. I felt sorry for whoever had to park next to Pearl but, hey, I got here first.
Slender Man Needs Lodging, Too
If I were Slender Man, room #7 would’ve been ideal. I could’ve sat on the bed and reached everything with my super long arms, usually reserved for snatching children from playgrounds.
I could’ve easily reached the top of the microwave, where I would place my air fryer because some people travel with pillows, but not this weirdo. You want my air fryer? You’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.
Slender Man is not afraid of anything, as he is the Boogie Man, so the fact that the door didn’t lock wouldn’t have bothered him.
I went back out to Pearl and extracted my sword, just in case.
The shower stall was tight but the water was hot and highly pressurized and not that creepy Texas soft water. The TV had HBO and Cinemax, and the microwave — although the size of a breadbox — was clean and shiny.
I could see why this motel got four stars because, most of all, it was clean.
I settled in, although my #2 criteria for a great motel room had not been met: the door didn’t lock and the extra security device that looks like a narrow U on its side was missing.
This wouldn’t have been an issue for Slender Man or D’Artagnan, but it was for me.
Motel Size Does Matter
After taking off my old lady orthopedic shoes that are comfortable and unfashionable in equal measure, I did what every motel-goer does —stripped down to a T-shirt and undies and climbed under the covers, even though it was 4:30 in the afternoon and sunny outside.
As I gave a sidelong glance at my trusty epee, leaning against the side of the bed where I’d never get to it in time, I turned on the TV.
I was met with Tommy Lee Jones. Texas, you sure know how to make a gal feel welcome. And he was in Texas — where else? — chasing down Javier Bardem in No Country for Old Men.
After several people died, I decided to redress both myself and the security issue.
I reluctantly flung the thin blanket aside and put on clothing.
I flagged down the manager who, for the sake of crisp narrative, shall be called Ravi. Because The Knox City Motel is tiny as a ladybug, I had excellent access to Ravi.
I simply peered out my front door and shouted, “Ravi! This door doesn’t lock!”
He attempted to lock the door, then agreed I was not lying.
“Yes, no problem. Easy fix,” said Ravi.
He was carrying a screwdriver and a hammer, and set about repairing the lock in seven minutes flat.
I thanked him, then locked the door and returned to watching the I Survived marathon, because nothing says safety like a deadbolt and true crime.
No Country for Liberals
A unblooded traveler would opt for the most direct route across Texas: from Texarkana to El Paso, via the hellish Dallas-Ft Worth megalopolis, through the Mordor that is Midlands-Odessa, and across El Paso, where legend has it the town was named after the Spanish for “roller derby.”
No sane person would voluntairly drive through Dallas-Ft. Worth sober. The journey takes four hours and requires a vaccination card and an emissions test (car and driver). When you finally clear that tire shop on the outskirts of Ft. Worth, you have a 50–50 chance of mistakenly exiting onto a loop that leads directly back into Dallas.
The next leg of the 21-hour route is the hellmouth of the Texas oil fields. It’s a 75-mile stretch of nothing but work trucks driven by high school graduates with prison records earning 90K a year. The scenery is a treeless wasteland that makes Furioso look like the garden of Eden.
Since I am usually driving a gas guzzler through this mess, a pall of guilt and shame descends upon me, requiring a stop at the nearest church to confess my oily sins.
The final insult is driving the highway through El Paso, which is Spanish for:
A never-ending highway with 500 exits and entrances.
Thelma and Louise tried to get around the Lone Star state but when those lady bandits rejected Texas — with good reason — they drove into the Grand Canyon (spoiler alert) instead.
Legend has it that Slender Man, too, avoided Texas. It’s a shame, really. He would’ve booked a room at The Knox City Motel and never checked out.
Jean Campbell is a 4x top writer on Medium who tackles humor, food, crime, and poetry. If you liked this article, follow her or subscribe to her stories in your inbox.
