The whole point of this journey is to take it nice and slow, seeing the country and talking to people along the way, but every now and then, it's a bit of fun to cover some ground on the interstate. It's a whole other kind of driving, this interstate travel. With the cruise control on and some good tunes, it's really just a few hours of mind-wandering. You barely have to steer, the roads are so straight. I took I-20 east out of Dallas, through Shreveport then veered northeast to Greenville, Mississippi. I drove through town checking out the motels; it was a little stormy out and very muggy. There was no way I was sleeping in that tent. The first place I checked was full, and as I was leaving, three clean-cut, well-dressed young black men entered the motel office. They got the same story I had heard and joined me in the parking lot. We spoke briefly; thinking they might be more familiar with Greenville than I, I asked them if they knew of another decent-but-cheap motel nearby. They didn't, and we moved on.

I finally chose another inn that seemed reasonably clean and well-kept. The office was locked but two older men were sitting inside, chatting. They unlatched the door and let me in. We talked rates and I was just about to register when one of the black men I'd encountered at the last place came to the office door. The man behind the counter motioned him over to a security window, declining to open the door although he had just done that very thing for me. He told the young man, rather abruptly, that he was all booked up.

It's possible, I suppose, that he was telling the truth but this was the biggest motel on the strip and there were no more than ten or 12 cars in the parking lot. I guess all those registered guests could have been out on the town, but it was 11 o'clock at night and Greenville is not exactly Fun City, if you know what I mean. I didn't like this scene a bit; in fact, I found it hard to believe I was witnessing it. This is 1992, for God's sake. Does this crap still go on? I mumbled some excuse and got the hell out of there. No way this jerk was getting my hard-earned green. My only regret is that I didn't tell the guy what I thought of his business practices before I left.

I should mention, in an effort to be fair, that when I finally settled on a motel and told the old lady behind the counter what had happened, she offered a fairly plausible explanation. It was high school graduation night in Greenville and, traditionally, many of the young folks booked motel rooms to throw parties. She refused to allow this at her own place, as they were often drunk and destructive. Her profit margin was small enough already, without the extra overhead. She offered that this might be the explanation for what had transpired at the other motor court.

Well, maybe. I hope so. This much is certain, though: they allowed me into their office without hesitation, while making the black man speak through a window. So, I'm still glad that I didn't give them my business and I don't think you should give them yours, either. If you ever find yourself in Greenville, stay anywhere but the Alamatt Motel.

Continue on the American Odyssey.
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