Aurora Avenue: Out With the Inn Crowd?

Inside the office that the Italia and Isabella share, Mike, general manager of both properties, holds court.He's dressed like a teenager—oversized black T-shirt, baggy jeans, wool skullcap—but with his graying stubble looks to be in his mid-40s. In an easy Southern cadence, Mike imparts the intricacies of the check-in process to a new female employee ensconced behind the front desk with a bottle of Mike's Hard Lemonade. Towering over her, Mike appears almost grandfatherly.

His transfer south from the Seattle Motor Inn is recent. At the behest of the owners, he recently moved into the apartment connected to this office, thereby making him manager, handyman, and chief security guard. According to his brother AJ, Mike is not shy about throwing punches when necessary.

Justin Renney

(Clockwise from left:) The Fremont Inn, the Italia Motel, and the Wallingford Inn have all been flagged by the city as crime-riddled Aurora Avenue properties.

Justin Renney

Charles Reidy (rear) and Erik Pihl.

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None of the employees can say with certainty how many physical altercations occur at the motel. But do they happen often? Says Charles, with a grin: "Is a pig's pussy pork?"

At 11 p.m., the foot traffic around the Italia slows to a trickle, as curfew has taken effect. Guests retreat to their rooms with whatever entertainment they've secured for the evening, and the college dorm–like atmosphere that was ceases to be.

Out of a combination of worry and frustration, Eric decides to search for Keely, who still has not returned to the room. Before he can shut the door, Mike, standing on the stoop outside the front office, issues a warning. "Y'all can't hop from room to room, they're trying to shut us down," he says, nodding in the general direction of what may or may not be a police surveillance van parked at the Marco Polo across the street.

Eric nods in affirmation, but presses on across the avenue. At this late hour, it's grown quiet enough to safely—albeit illegally—cross the normally busy, high-speed thoroughfare. Eric is headed to see Johnny, an ex-convict who stays at the Wallingford Inn a few blocks north. If Keely were looking to score, she might end up there, Eric says, or rent a $60 room of her own "just to piss him off."

For the prospective tenant whose preferred diversions require some level of secrecy, the Wallingford Inn has one distinct advantage over the Inmans' four other motels: Most of its rooms face away from Aurora, rendering them invisible to passing traffic. Inside his second-floor apartment, Johnny is wired. Stocky, shirtless, and covered in tats, he flits around the room, pausing only to puff from his crack pipe and groove to the blues-rock pouring from the speakers. He hasn't seen Keely, he says, and after taking a last pull on his pipe, he exits, leaving Eric on the couch to ruminate on his predicament.

Prior to moving to Seattle, he and Keely lived on a houseboat in Tacoma, which they lost due to what he explains was the latest in a "long line of fuck-ups." Covered head to toe with a variety of colorful, intertwining tattoos, Eric claims he was once sponsored by the likes of snowboarding outfitters K2 and Burton. Then he went to prison on a narcotics bust, but not before he lost his sponsorship to Oxycontin addiction and what he calls "general asshole-ish behavior."

In January, he woke up in a hospital bed, not remembering how he'd gotten there. An overdose of Oxy had done the job. He decided then that he and Keely were going to get clean, he says. Eight months later, they are stuck bumming lodging from strangers.

With his head dangling over the back of the couch, Eric admits that if not for Keely, he'd have gotten his shit together a long time ago. He's had enough. His parents have begged him to return home to Snohomish County, where they've guaranteed him shelter and a decent-paying job. But what would that say about him as a man, he asks, if he were to ditch Keely while she's struggling with her own addiction when she remained at his side while he struggled with his?

Hours later, Keely materializes, trying to elude Mike on her way to the Isabella. A sleepy Mike lets her slide with a weary shake of his head, and Keely walks up a flight of stairs into the dark of Room 28.

Mercedes has returned from her "date" and is sitting on a bed in the back room. Keely retreats to the bathroom for another hit of crack, and the smoke wafts gently into the bedroom. In the dim light, it's clear that Mercedes, like her friend, has remnants of beauty. But her attitude has gone foul, and her face is gaunt. There's sleep to be had.

Just before sunup, Keely returns to Room 4, where she and a waiting Eric fly into yet another muted argument. A car horn sounds outside, and Mike, roused from his apartment, stands outside the office door with an aluminum baseball bat resting on his shoulder. Keely runs out the door into the car's passenger seat, and it speeds out of sight. Eric shakes his head, pulls down his ballcap, and returns to bed.

An hour later it's daylight, and Keely still hasn't returned. Still reeling from their last crack-fueled argument, Eric is resigned to leaving her to her adventures, adding the obvious: "There are a bunch of scandalous motherfuckers living in these hotels."

vcoleman@seattleweekly.com