The Meeting (part the first)

I’m in a hotel room somewhere, New Mexico, I think. There is a lamp on over there on the nightstand, but the curtains are drawn, and the lighting is dim. The room smells vaguely of over-ripe bananas, but I am due to escape this luxury, I know. The phone rings. I answer it. The voice on the other end of the line can only be described as creaky, but it knows exactly what it has to say, and the tone indicates that it should not be questioned.
“Go to the office. Pay your bill, tell them you’ll be checking out. Ask for directions to the diner in town. Be there in a half hour. There is a car for you in the parking lot. The keys are under the seat.”
The line goes dead. I put the phone back on its cradle. Looking around the room, I spot a pair of jeans and a faded black t-shirt which appear to have been tossed onto the chair in the corner. I put these on; they fit well. There is something in the back pocket of the jeans, a wallet. I take it out and open it. It is empty except for a sheaf of bills. I count them quickly. Almost a hundred dollars American. My gaze returns to the nightstand in search of a clock. The alarm clock flashes 12:00. I decide that it doesn’t matter, since I don’t know how far it is to town anyway. With nothing apparent to pack up, I open the door and walk out into what looks to be about midday sunshine, with a burst of dry heat accompanying it. I squint up into the cloudless sky for a moment, then look down at the row of doors that make up the front of the hotel. The last one looks to be the office, and I move towards it. A bell clangs against the door as I open it. Behind the desk, a large, rotund man with a strange sort of male-pattern baldness reads a magazine and ignores my entrance until I speak to him.
“I’m, uh, ready to check out,” I say, and my voice sounds foreign to me, as though it’s been too long since I last used it.
“What room?” the man says without looking up.
“Uh, six,” I say, clearing my throat.
Finally, the man puts his magazine down and punches a few keys on the ancient computer on his desk.
“Forty-two fifty-nine,” he says gruffly. I fish a couple of twenties and a five out of my wallet and hand it across the counter to him. He grunts and gives me my change, which I accept.
I scan the walls quickly in search of a clock and locate one. It is a few minutes after noon. I turn back to the man at the desk, who has picked up his magazine again.
“I hear the diner in town is a pretty good place to grab a bite,” I offer, hoping to prompt a response. The man grunts. I try again.
“Is it very far into town from here?” This gets yet another grunt, but finally some more words.
“About ten minutes that way,” he says, pointing down the road that runs in front of the hotel. “It’s a straight shot, you’ll find it.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say, and start to go back outside when one more thing occurs to me. There are two vehicles parked out front, a candy-apple-red sports car that is positively gleaming, and an El Camino of indeterminate color that looks like it ought to be up on cinder blocks in somebody’s front yard. Once more, reluctantly, I turn back to the man at the desk.
“Is, uh, that yours?” I ask, pointing at the sports car.
Two minutes later, I’m digging under the seat in the El Camino, trying to locate the keys. Finally, I find them amidst a scattering of papers and other miscellaneous trash, and moments later, the car roars to life and improbably pulls out of the parking lot and onto the road.