FURTHERMORE
Norman Bates is alive and well: I know, I've stayed in his motel
PETRONELLA WYATT
Last week, as readers will have gath- ered, I was in San Diego for the Republi- can National Convention. Raymond Chan- dler lived in San Diego for some time, where he wrote of one of his heroines, `There are blondes, and then there are blondes.' He might also have written of Southern California, 'There are motels, and then there are motels.'
The first sort of motel is the cheap, chintzy kind in which one would have found Doris Day and co. chirping away in a Fifties musical — an innocuous, pink mélange of flowery 'drapes' and delicate, china figurines dancing under glass cases. The second sort is different. It smells of cat urine and cheap scent. In San Diego, I had been booked into the second sort. Only it was worse, far worse than cat urine and cheap scent. Most of you will be familiar with Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho, in which Janet Leigh is stabbed in a motel shower by its sinister owner Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins). A colleague and I dubbed our motel in San Diego the Psycho Motel.
Whatever its real name was, it was in a suburb, between a diner selling stale muffins and a garage. The Psycho Motel was arranged around a parking lot. Its walls may once have been white, but it was diffi- cult to tell. There was no lobby, just an anteroom with a formica counter. Behind the counter was a bloodless man with roped hair and egg-like eyes. Norman Bates, I presumed.
His face had a sort of moronic serenity. I discovered there was a reason for this: he was a moron, or very nearly. Certainly he wasn't playing with a full deck. Did you come here for a room?' I suppressed the reply, `No, for a hair cut.' Instead, I said that I had a room already booked.
This at least elicited a response. 'OK, maybe you have. Take a key. Room 252. Across the lot and up the stairs.' But what about my luggage — a large suitcase and two leather carriers? (My motto: always travel heavy.) 'Oh. It's OK to take it with you.' I explained that I hoped someone else was going to take it 'with me'. I was mistak- en. 'We ain't got no one who carries lug- gage.' Room 252 was up five flights of out- side stairs. It was an airless, viewless cell. There was a small glass window that was flat against the next-door building. Had I wanted to, I couldn't even have jumped. If I had stepped over the sill, I'd only have bumped my head. I looked about for the room service and mini-bar which the motel had advertised. There was neither. There was, however, a discoloured telephone. I rang Norman Bates. What did one do about a drink? `There's a vending machine at the end of the lot. But I think it's bust.' What about breakfast?' You get a breakfast coupon at the end of the day. But be careful coming to get it.'
I wondered what he meant until I saw a notice pinned to the door. It was a list of security precautions, the longest list I had ever seen. It began with, `Do not walk alone to your room.' It continued, 'Do not wear jewellery nor be seen to carry any money.' As it appeared that every room key was the same, guests were urged to use the privacy button on the door to prevent unwanted break-ins. At the end of the list, the motel said, 'Thank you.'
It was hot and heavy out, but I was too scared to take a shower. I discovered that I couldn't, anyway. The shower was bust, like the vending machine. I rang down to `reception' only to find that the telephone had croaked on me too. There was nothing for it but to visit Mr Bates. I remembered not to leave any dollar bills sticking out of my pockets and to remove my jewellery one peeling gilt bracelet.
Mr Bates was temporarily absent from his post. There was a female side-kick, per- haps Mrs Bates, an Amazon with the same egg-like eyes. I asked her, casually, why the outside window of the reception area was covered with bullet-proof glass. 'We get some trouble, sometimes,' she said. Some- times! It appeared that a good percentage of the motel's guests seldom ventured from their rooms. Mrs Bates told me that one man had stayed in his for over two months. As I passed the windows, veiled by gloomy grey curtains, an unshaven youth or a vicious-looking woman would peer out sus- piciously. Most of them seemed on the run from the law, heavily armed. Back in my room I realised I had forgot- ten to complain about the shower. It was five o'clock in the morning — English time. I decided to go to sleep. Remembering the instructions with regard to the privacy but- ton, I located the middle of the plastic doorknob and pressed hard. It fell off onto the floor. This was bad. What was I going to do when all 'these people' came in late and became 'sorta violent'?
Friends know that I am a notorious insomniac, but never had I spent a more uneasy night. At about one o'clock Ameri- can time the Psycho Motel began to stir. There was loud but indistinct shouting in which one could make out the word 'cop'. At around five there may well have been a shooting — at least, out of the night came a report that was the nearest thing I had ever heard to a pistol going off. I took three tranquillisers and put my head under the pillow.
Eventually came the misty dawn. The only thing that could be said for the previ- ous night's excitements was that they had given me an appetite. Outside, all was quiet. I descended my five flights of stairs without encountering a single opened cur- tain. Mr Bates was making finger circles in the grime on his formica counter. I told hint about all the noise. 'I didn't hear nuttin.'
So I asked for a breakfast coupon, which turned out to be a dog-eared piece of yel- low paper. The 'breakfast room' was locat- ed to the far left of the parking lot. It resembled an ancient diner, only one tenth the size, and was attended by an Hispanic with a face as smooth as a chocolate cake batter. But his eyes had the steeliness of a gangland hitman. He was the only living thing there, except for a motel cat with torn fur.
There was no food to be seen. 'What d' ya want?' the Hispanic asked. 'Could I have some bacon, please?' He grinned. 'We ain't got no meat.' He said it as if there might have been some meat, but not of the kind after which I had enquired (perhaps the victims of the night's shoot-out had already been packed into the freezer). I was offered instead a doughnut, wrapped in foil. It looked stale, but I never had the chance to find out. As soon as the wrapping had been removed the motel cat had the thing in its mouth and was away with it. The Hispanic guffawed. That afternoon I checked out. Even Norman Bates, I thought, wouldn't have stuck around in a place like this.
Previous page
