
"What in the world are you doing?" I asked incredulously.
We had just pulled away from the pink resort, en route for a quick cup of coffee before the next group of checkins. The place was deserted, but for the Christmas tree proudly standing sentinel on the white trash patio.
As we drove towards Palm Canyon, a white male slunk out from between the hedges surrounding an empty lot.
"What's that guy doing?" asked the motelier. "I don't like his looks. I think I'll drive around the block and come back by the place."
He looked okay to me. Khaki shorts, plaid shirt, shaved head. About like every other young white male in this 47 percent gay male town.
But when we pulled up outside the white trash patio, the previously locked gate was ajar and the perp was inside the gate, holding a can of pop and a bottle of water.
"I was just getting some water," he said. "Do you want me to put it back?"
"Yes," said the motelier. "I sure do."
On instinct, I aimed the camera at him.
The speed with which he covered his face indicated to me that he was not unbknown to the police.
Why I can't stop: The goddam lag in both my reflexes and my camera.