Just as it happens in horror films....don't answer the door, don't go upstairs, and don't try to run - it will only get worse.
We were outside at an event on the Enfield town green. We were told to evacuate due to some pretty serious storms coming thru the area with likely lightening and winds in excess of 60 miles per hour.
Fleeing the scene, we got to our car, and made our way down route 5. The storm was supposed to pass quickly, and there was potential for the festivities to re-start. We decided to stay local and happened upon The Cloverleaf Motel and Bar. How bad could it be? We circled around back, looking for a parking space. There was an elderly man, oddly shirtless, diving in the dumpster. Should have been clue #1. We parked anyway. Per our parking location, we needed to walk by the rooms at the Cloverleaf. It quickly became clear that these were not rooms for a standard 1-2 night stay. These were residences. Tear away magnetic screens tacked to a front door opening - you know, touches of home. A few more steps and we passed by a rather unfortunate soul, clearly in need of another carton of cigarettes and a lung transplant. This was impressive. I have a chronic cough, but what came out of from behind the blackened screen scared me. As I am writing this I am surprising myself, but we push on.
Walking into the bar I see a smattering of confused faces. Who are these people that just walked in? Are they lost? Maybe someone played a prank on them? Where have they come from, and why would they be here. We sit and order drinks. Just to give you a sense of my stupidity (sometimes I can't help myself), I ask the bartender if they have WiFi. After a short bout of laughter I get my reply - Not a simple yes or no....but "It's the Cloverleaf". Enough said, my bad.
The characters at the bar are story in themselves worthy. There is the burly biker dude, who happens to ride a moped. There is the bar socialite who is moving about the bar, having meaningful conversations, all the while most of her earthly possessions are strewn about the bartop. Her purse just shy in heft of an overnight bag, her wallet, phone, money, etc - all marking her spot at the barseat she isn't spending time in. Lastly there is the gentleman seated to our right who has had just enough to drink that he truly believes his answers, coming directly from the Capt'n Obvious handbook, are not only helpful but good advice.
My advice - Don't answer the door, don't go upstairs, but in this case, run if you must. read more