The Red Pens

I posted an invite the other day for folks looking for criticism, and the first brave soul has stepped up. Let's hear it for Joe Eaton at the City Paper in Washington.

Here's Joe's story. Tear it up. Let's all get better.

A few weeks ago, after the bars let out, Roscoe Nelson was sleeping on the couch in the tiny front office of the Alamo Motel in West Ocean City, Md., which he has run since 1996. Nelson sleeps light, so when he heard the banging, he got up to investigate.

Near the back of the motel, Nelson saw a man walking from room to room, rapping on windows. At 61, and with one arm, Nelson was surprisingly game for a fight. But as he approached, the man fled.

Around the same time the next evening, again asleep in his office, he heard the banging. Again, he went outside to catch the guy at a window. Again, the man ran away. The man hasn't been back since, but Nelson figures he'll probably have another chance to catch him. He has a pretty good idea what the man is looking for. It's not the $1.50 drafts at the motel bar. It's not a cheap room. Most likely, says Nelson, the knocker is after the very thing that has put the Alamo on the map—Russian prostitutes.