“I hope we can find something to take home,” he said, as he and Anita entered the area and began walking around with their heads down, searching for a memento or two that might be added to Gerald’s collection in their basement—perhaps a doorknob, or a room number, or some other small identifiable item.
But the demolition crew had pulverized everything beyond recognition, except for a few chunks of green-painted stone that had lined the walkway along the parking area (Gerald had painted them himself, and he selected two pieces for the trunk of their car) and also a strip of electrical wiring that had been connected to the tall red sign that had spelled out the name of the motel.
“That’s where we met,” Gerald said, referring to an afternoon in 1983 when, while he was up on a ladder changing the lettering, he had called down words of greeting to Anita, who was then strolling along the sidewalk pulling a wagon bearing her young sons.
“You then also asked for my phone number,” she recalled.
“Yes,” he said, and added, “It’s too bad we didn’t get here earlier, when they began wrecking this place. We might have gotten a piece of that sign.”
They walked around slowly through the lot for another fifteen minutes, keeping their heads down but finding nothing more of interest.
They were both wearing dark clothes—Anita a black print dress with low-heeled shoes, he a black suit with a white shirt and gray silk tie. Neither was wearing a hat, and Gerald was perspiring and also complaining of fatigue.
“Let’s go home,” Anita said.
“Yes,” he agreed, turning, taking her by the arm and heading back toward the gate. “I’ve seen enough.”