Desert Inn

I knew going into 2016 it would be my last year as a Florida resident, so, for my birthday, I wanted to cross something off my Florida bucket list: spend a night at the Desert Inn Motel.

For the first several years of my life, we lived not too far north of the Desert Inn. We’d pass it going to visit grandparents in Okeechobee and sometimes (don’t tell my teachers) I’d skip school to work cows with my dad and we’d pass it.

I have a couple memories of going into the restaurant as a kid, where dad would probably have a beer and I’d have a Coke.

There was a wooden “Indian” (maybe more than one) and dad told me it was Kaw-Liga from the Hank Williams song, which scared the shit out of me ’cause, in the song, Kaw-Liga is a wooden Indian who’s (spoiler alert) alive. I kept a close eye on Kaw-Liga.

The restaurant also had a few fake spiders up near the ceiling suspended on fishing line that the person behind the bar could drop onto tables, which I still think is brilliant.

So, on February 6, 2016, my girlfriend and I drove to the Desert Inn Motel.

Some quick Desert Inn backstory by way of Wikipedia:

• it’s located on a corner in a town(?) called Yeehaw Junction, just off the Florida Turnpike. Its closest neighbors are pastures and gas stations.
• “as early as 1889 it was a barroom and brothel for cowboys and lumber runners.”
• “didn’t install full service water and electricity until 1978.”
• “added to U.S. National Registry of Historic Places in 1994.”

In perfect Stephen King storybook backdrop, when we drove down it was a dark and stormy night (I’m not kidding). There were maybe five people in the lounge: the bartender and what felt like a couple regulars and a traveling couple. It had all the makings of a Christmas movie or Twilight Zone where a bunch of strangers get trapped someplace and have to learn a lesson or figure out why. If I remember correctly, they were watching a presidential debate.

Kaw-Liga was still there, keeping an eye on us. The spiders were still hanging around.

We had a couple beers and I asked the bartender if they had any rooms available.

Above the lounge was a historic brothel suite that was storage at the time, but the new owners were hoping to reopen it as a preserved museum. Out back was a single row of more modern day motel rooms. We got room 11 for just under $40.

The room was sparse and felt more like a Bible camp cabin that hadn’t been updated in thirty years. The bathroom went sink, toilet, and then you walked around a little wall to the left into what felt like your very own trucker or YMCA shower, private and smaller, obviously, but the layout was weird. Reminded me of Carrie.

We bought some beers and playing cards from a gas station and settled in.

I’d heard that, due to its history, the Desert Inn was haunted. While I can’t say for sure, I can say, while we were playing cards, we heard a jingle near the door and looked over to see the chain lock swinging back and forth. Not like someone was trying to enter, more like someone on the inside went to lock it and missed.

As far as I know, we were the only ones staying at the motel that night, other than the bartender who had a room a few down from ours.

There was also an Exit sign on the door in case you forgot where you’d come from.

Sleep was fine and the next morning we turned the key in at the restaurant and I had one of the best cheeseburgers I’ve ever had.

This morning, December 22, 2019, around 3:15 AM, a semi-truck hauling orange juice slammed into that restaurant, which sounds like a Florida Viking funeral. The building looks like a total loss.

I’m sure it has something to do with being three days till Christmas, but seeing a picture of a semi-truck through a building I’ve known for as long as I could make memories, one that’s seen over 100 years of memories being made, I got a little knot in my stomach.

We’re not irrational, we know nothing lasts forever. What throws a wrench into that knowledge is when some things do seem to last forever. We take them, and everything else, for granted like we often take people for granted. “We’ll visit next year” / “We’ll call them next week.”

If this possibly-haunted ghost town saloon story has any moral at all it is DON’T. WAIT.

Check out the thing you’ve always wanted to check out, visit the city you’ve always wanted to visit, call the person you’ve been meaning to call. Tear through that bucket list until it can’t hold a single drop of water.

All of this is temporary and, while every piece of it might not end unexpectedly, demolished in the night by a tractor trailer, one way/day or another, it all goes out.

So do the things, make the memories, and, good or bad, try to remember where you came from so that, when a new door opens, you don’t need an Exit sign to remember where you’ve been.

Merry Christmas.