hostel

   I buy myself a room at a hostel for the night. The woman who checks me in treats me like a long-lost family member. She clicks her pen in an excited manner as I read over the contract I need to sign before I stay the night. "Have you been to Bozeman? You're going to love Bozeman." I lie and say I haven't. Her energy makes me feel guilty for not being excited to be here. I feel like I'm letting her down. I try and encourage her with a smile, but my facial muscles are weak and unwilling. I pretend to yawn instead. "You'll love everyone here," - she smiles and I can see the origin of every wrinkle on her face - "The staff is so wonderful. Everyone who stays here never wants to leave." Christ, it's like a scene from a horror movie. She gives me the tour. The downstairs bathroom doesn't work, she tells me, cursing the plumber but beaming at me. Colorful signs pepper the hallway she leads me down. I read one. A clip art gopher tells me I'll have to pay a fee if I check out later than eleven. The hostel lady unlocks room two and shows me my upper bunk. I thank her and expect her to leave, but she takes a moment to tell me to enjoy my stay with real feeling. I feel as though she's campaigning for something. I suppress the urge to shake her hand. I'm relieved when she finally leaves. I drop my duffel next to my bed. I slip out the front door and hit the bar next door. I intend on getting tossed. 

  It doesn't take long.