‘Off I-11 and not but an hour’s drive from Boulder City, Nevada there stands ‘The Slim Vacancy’ and its signage. The building itself is squat and cozy, made private via frosted glass rather than blackout shades or tinting. A smell like smoke lingers outside and low conversations are sometimes heard within. The sign stretches high above the horizon, buzzing red at dusk.
The single-page website for ‘The Slim Vacancy’ details only the exclusivity of the establishment and spares no words for the business’ purpose. Membership is based on a first come, first serve basis and is limited to just six members at a time. A neon sign indicates the current membership status and, as one might suspect, it reads ‘no vacancy’ more often than not.
Interest in ‘The Slim Vacancy’ waxes and wanes. Following its re-discovery, small crowds will sometimes gather in the lot and wait for an unlikely vacancy to occur. Nobody will stop visitors pressing their noses to the windows or their ears to the walls and nobody will response to loud knocks or calls for emergency evacuations. It’s said that the wood with which ‘The Slim Vacancy’ is constructed will stand up to fires and axe-blades, that the glass will bend but not break. It’s said that vacancies occur with no fanfare and, occasionally, with little indication of what may have been the catalyst. Of the 12 recorded vacancies, only five involved someone stepping out the door.’
If Shitholes’ author couldn’t get inside ‘The Slim Vacancy,’ I don’t hold out much hope for Hector or myself so imagine my surprise when the sign appears in the distance ahead and indicates a vacancy. I press the upper bounds of the speed limit but there’s no other traffic to speak of and no vehicles in the lot when I arrive. Just like that, my excitement becomes suspicion.
I keep Hector close as we reconnoiter the building, not entirely convinced that we won’t have to make a run for the entrance as soon as another car pulls off the interstate. Lights are on inside and, though a shadow passes by the frosted glass, it is absolutely quiet.
Several minutes tick by. I dither out front and tell myself that sometimes good things happen. Sometimes a man and his rabbit get lucky.
A squeal of tires breaks the spell. A car has swerved down the exit and aimed itself at ‘The Slim Vacancy.’ I scoop Hector from the ground, grab the bag from the bike and dash toward the building. I knock but get no answer. The door swings opens when I try the knob.
The growing engine noise is entirely blotted out by the door behind me. The inside of ‘The Slim Vacancy’ is stiflingly warm and it smells, nostalgically, of old cigarettes. A man’s head appears from a doorway. He’s leaned back in a wooden chair.
“Come on in,” he says.
‘The Slim Vacancy’ is a house, it turns out. A house with six small bedrooms. The man and two women are seated in a den, playing Graycards on an old pool table and drinking. The fridge is stocked with big-box staples and a dryer churns laundry near the back.
“Basement’s chock full’a stuff that won’t go bad,” the man, Brent, tells me, “And the owner comes around once in a while to replace things.”
Brent is a failed DJ. The women are sisters who claim to be ‘on the run.’ I ask about the Graycards and they say they found them on a shelf with several iterations of Monopoly. I ask about the owner and they all struggle to describe the person they’ve seen countless times.
“So what’s special about this place?” I ask.
“It’s free.”
The front door slams open and two more women hesitate on the threshold. I see the speeding car cooling off outside- their car. Like me, they seem thrown by the ease at which they’ve scored entry. The taller of the two steps forward.
“Is it… safe?”
I look around and shrug. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Brent confirms, “Sure. We’ll deal you in.”
At maximum capacity, ‘The Slim Vacancy’ seals itself off. Hannah, who has been inside for nearly a year, shows us a screen situated in the hallway closet that monitors several external cameras. On them, we see that the sign now indicates ‘no vacancy.’ The rest of the tour is simple. The three of us take bedrooms, all of which are more or less the same. Brent explains a complicated tap in one of the bathrooms and they all take turns confirming that ‘The Slim Vacancy’ is basically a comfortable place to squat as long as there’s a spot open.
“I was here a few years ago,” Brent recalls, “Vibe was different, then. A real party house. This guy, Devon, decides he’s going to make a beer run because he’s had enough of the house stuff and, just a minute after he’s gone, a guy named Arnie pulls of the road and takes his place.”
“Why’d you leave the first time?”
“Arnie was a real drag.”
The three long-term residents have already eaten but they offer us some cold pizza and a round of drinks. After a muted ‘cheers’ the six of us head off to bed. The room is comfortable and quiet. Hector falls asleep in his kennel and I doze off a little while later.
Sun filters through the frosted glass in the morning and the smell of frying bacon creeps under the door. I rest, for a while, and as soon as I consider that this is the sort of place that grows on a person- the sort of place that threatens my travel- a silhouette passes outside and a wild possessiveness clenches my chest. Leaving means giving up my spot and I’m not ready to spurn luck so soon.
Brent is tapping at the monitor when I peer out of the room. He’s got an apron on and a spatula in his hand and he looks relieved to see me.
“Would you watch this for a moment?” he asks, “I gotta flip the pork.”
A man is pacing outside. He stops and looks up- waves in the general direction of the camera. It occurs to me that he’s been inside before.
“That’s Arnie,” Brent says, back from the kitchen, “Lucky you three showed up when you did or we’d be stuck with him again.”
“I don’t plan on staying long,” I warn him, “I’ve got some work to do.”
“Tell you what, buddy. You wait Arnie out a week and I’ll cook you and your rabbit a week’s worth of breakfasts. Whatever you’re doin,’ it can’t be so urgent you didn’t keep you from spending the night on the fly.”
Hector, still clumsy with sleep, hops from the bedroom and a comfortable lethargy stirs in my chest.
“One week,” I tell him, “And if Arnie’s still here after that, it’s your tough luck.”
-traveler
