The Haunting Memory of the Beautiful Boy Who Lived at the Motel

I still look for him every day.

Photo by author

The boy is panting, his jacket flung wide open. He does not wear a hat or gloves, but I wear both. He’d burst free from an in-progress Cops and Robbers game in the park. This park is across from the old motel, a tired white building perched on a prime real estate block near the beach. It looks like a long rectangular box, identical in shape to the plastic hotels we used to buy with Monopoly money.

“Can I pet your dog?” The boy’s breath punctuates each word. His eagerness makes it impossible for me to say no. He coos as he strokes Polly’s brindle brown fur. Two of the boy’s friends hang back, reluctant to come close. The littlest boy with a baby man-bun waggles his palm at me, “I’m allergic,” he says.

The dog lover’s name is Aidan. His words effervesce into questions: “What’s your name, girl? Are you going for a walk, girl? Huh, girl? Yeah, you’re going for a walk!”

“That’s Polly,” I offer.

“Polllyyyyyyy,” he echoes.

Every afternoon at about the same time, my fur baby and I stroll past the old motel, with its black-and-white letterboard telegraphing its current beef with the town council.