Chapter 1

Checking Out

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I’m broke, broken and cold as hell. 
      And it’s Monday. 
      Again. 
      So here I stand, toes pressing the curb through second-hand sneakers. Leaning into the icy gusts of passing traffic I wait for the eight eleven local in this has-been, rustbelt city. This bus, number forty seven, is a hulking reminder of a bygone era. It gulps diesel fuel by the gallon and farts thick, acrid exhaust on every grade or at the least exertion. When the snorting beast finally arrives, it splashes grimy, four-lane gutter wash on my frozen ankles.
      Perfect.
      I would give anything for a decent set of wheels and a future. But I have neither, except in wistful moments when I allow myself a brief indulgence of hope. But don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t.  I did this to myself.

      Without thinking I run my fingers over the back of my neck where a small, intricate design is etched neatly into the subcutaneous layers of my skin. The tattoo is a mystery. 
      It all started a little over six months and three thousand miles ago. I wasn’t conscious at the time so I can’t tell you the full details of what happened or why. All I can say is that I have always had a knack for adventure, mostly those that are not of my choosing – and cheap whiskey.  The latter being definitely of my choosing.
      With a raucous hiss, the bus kneels and delivers me to my destination - the Hotel Macungie Falls. I shed my coat, and settle in for a long shift at the front desk. The Mac, as it is known by the locals, is both my workplace and safe haven. Much like a discarded Sunday paper I found myself on the doorstep of the Mac, carried by the winds of fate. Or so I thought at the time. 
      Yesterday, as I turned twenty eight, what little luck I had ran out. I checked into a room at the Mac to hide out for a day or so. Last night my rusted, ‘86 Corolla passed effortlessly into Toyota heaven without a whimper. It gave up the ghost in the front parking lot of the hotel, dwarfed on both sides by identical, oversized Ford 450 Super Duty pickups bearing the obnoxious logo of a national waste management firm. I swear the brutes beat the crap out of my little Japanese car in the middle of the night when no one was looking. Just for the fun of it.  
      Bastards.
      The hotel needed a clerk and I needed to eat. So, here I am, pressing the clutch of life to the floor and coasting. I have discovered one good thing in this God-awful place. I’ve set my sights on a certain waitress named Melissa. This girl has an alluring smile, long curly hair and perfect legs that make her uniform beg for forgiveness as she glides across the room. Melissa works on Mondays in the hotel’s restaurant.  
      And today is Monday – again!