We're hot and tired. The whole family needs a motel right now...and dinner. Rt 66 is too narrow and dark to push on toward Albuquerque.

Too bad refrigerated air is only for rich folks driving Chryslers and Imperials...cause it sure is hot here in this 53 Plymouth. We're suffering up front, and the kids are dozing off in back.

Gotta find something here in this little town. Hey--over there's a nice sign! The neon fin angles out just like a brand-new car. Paint's good and all the lights work.

MO...GOT IT! LA...WHO CARES?! Motel Whatever (Wish it said EL...as in El Cheapo.)

Right down the street is the Club Cafe that put up all those Rt 66 billboards of the Fat Man. The kids asked if we could eat there. Perfect! We get a nice refrigerated room, a meal, and then we push on tomorrow.

If I can negotiate a decent rate, no more than $5, this is where we'll stay. Looks good so far. You know what they say about motels: a bad sign is a bad sign. And this one here...this one here's a good sign.