Those in the know call this place the “Bait Motel” because it caters to the most despondent and struggling of Los Angeles’ denizens. The official daily rate is fifty dollars a night, but most of the patrons can’t afford it. Instead, they pay in blood to the vampire landlord and his pals. It’s a typical cheap Californian motel; a two-story square of rooms encircles a lukewarm and usually dirty pool. The stucco was probably once white, but is now a dingy gray; the Spanish tiles on the roof are chipped and speckled with bird droppings. The rooms are uniform in their grunginess: a double bed, a floral bedspread, one cheap art print above the headboard that’s nailed to the wall. The bathrooms are a tight squeeze with a small shower, commode and sink. There is no television nor wifi.
Interior rooms:
Dingy gray carpet match the dingy gray bedspread on the double bed. The walls are a pale yellowish beige that was maybe once white, but has been stained by cigarette smoke over the years. A small table and two chairs, a cheap no-name 30” flat screen with basic cable, and a tiny bathroom with a shower barely big enough for a full-grown man give truth to the words, “you get what you pay for.”