The Jacksonville Motel
By Vickie Williams

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Uncle Julius never sought psychiatric help before. He simply thrived on his ideas, his creations, and his mechanical designs, convinced the world had stolen them from him. In his mind, he was the rightful inventor of the hula-hoop, the electric socket, and every small-motorized tool sold in big box home improvement stores.  

He was no longer the young Korean War sailor in the photo on my grandmother’s mantel in the home they shared together. Nor was he the enraged man who once burglarized my father’s house with a crowbar.  

Now, he was just Uncle Julius, a man of grand stories and unwavering beliefs.  

Years ago, in 2005, my older sister Brenda and I found him standing outside a mental institution in the scorching Florida sun, wearing a winter coat with his boots tucked under one arm, a crumpled brown paper bag of medication under the other. His holey knit cap dangled threads, and there were hospital slippers on his feet and a large grin on his face.  

He gently spoke like the whispering song of a bird, “They were just letting me stay here. I was tired and needed a place to lay my head. Now, I can check on my motel. That’s what it was.” 

“Uncle Julius, we’re here to take you home, back to Cleveland,” Brenda shouted just in case his hearing aid was turned off. 

Brenda and I had taken the Greyhound bus from Ohio after I received a call saying the police had picked Julius up on suspicion of menacing and somehow my number was in his wallet.  

Julius had driven a U-Haul truck all the way to Jacksonville, Florida – determined to reclaim the Jacksonville Motel. 

A cab ride later, we arrived at the U-Haul storage facility, rented another truck, and packed his things for the trip back to Cleveland. Our plan was to ship his possessions though Greyhound, turn the U-Haul truck back in, take a taxi back to Greyhound then head to Ohio.  

As we pulled up to the Greyhound station, Julius pointed. “I used to own this, ’cha know,” he said, his voice soft and brimming with pride. 

“That’s what it was. I used to own this bus station back in ’53. I sold it, though.”

Once inside Greyhound, we’ve learned it was against their policy to ship any weapons, so Uncle Julius refused to check his belongings: a mix of garden tools, a fishing 
net, and, of course, a rifle. 

Instead of going with our original plan to ship his things though Greyhound and return the U-Haul truck, we found ourselves driving to 901 Main Avenue, where the Jacksonville Motel stood abandoned, its windows boarded, its glass doors chained shut. 

Julius stepped out of the truck, gripping his garden tools like a worker returning to his neglected land. He peered inside the glass doors. 

“Brenda, I love him, but I will not go to jail for him. If he breaks one window, I’m leaving.” I said, gripping the steering wheel ready to pull off. 

“And don’t forget we still have that rifle in the back of the truck.” 

Julius suddenly rattled the doors and then stepped back. He picked up a rock then circled around.  

“If he breaks those glass doors, I’m out of here,” I warned again. 

Instead, he sighed, tossed the rock into the air, caught it, and placed it in his pocket.  

He slowly spoke, “Okay, let’s go. I’ll come back later to finish the landscaping. It’s a shame my landscapers didn’t honor the contract. That’s what it was. I’ll do it myself.”

We drove back to the Greyhound bus station. Brenda handed me a note, saying she was calling the police to help get rid of the rifle. 

Minutes later, two officers arrived.

“Are you Julius Morman?” one asked. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I’m Officer Wilson, and this is Officer Mathis. We understand you’re carrying a concealed weapon?” 

“I have papers,” Julius said. “I’m licensed, and it’s not concealed. It’s right here in this carrier.” 

“Is it loaded?” 

“No, I keep my ammo separate.” 

“Can we talk outside for a moment?” 

As the officers led him away, Brenda turned to me.  “Why does he claim things that aren’t his?” 

“The doctors say schizophrenia, dementia, maybe. But I remember grandma saying once that he trusted someone to submit his mechanical drawings to the patent office. Instead, they stole his ideas, and he hasn’t seen them since.  I think he’s been taken advantage of.” 

“You don’t believe he owns the rights to everything he says? He wasn’t even born when some of those things were invented.” 

“I know. But anyone who isn’t in their right mind would chase a dream that isn’t theirs. Like the time he broke into Daddy’s house screaming he’s coming to evict us.” 

“That was because Daddy borrowed money from him back in the 60’s to put toward the closing cost.” 

“But Daddy paid Uncle Julius back!” 

“Maybe Uncle Julius forgot.” 

The officers interjected, “Ladies, we don’t have legal grounds to take him in. But the rifle can stay at Greyhound for thirty days before it’s destroyed, not unless a local relative claims it.” 

Uncle Julius occasionally chuckled to himself. Brenda and I signed a statement confirming his instability and authorizing the rifle’s storage. 

Not long after we returned to Cleveland, Julius was admitted to the VA hospital’s mental ward. 

He still held onto the thoughts of owning inventions and properties.  They were all still real to him.  

All his worldly possessions were discarded except for one thing - an old newspaper clipping sat on my grandmother’s dining room table, untouched. A red circle marked an ad for the sale of the Jacksonville Motel. 

Until the day he died, he never stopped believing. And every time I see a hula-hoop, an electric socket, or a small tool in a big box home improvement store, I wonder.

What if, just once, he had been telling the truth?


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Vickie L. Williams is a playwright from northeast Ohio.  Her plays were staged for readings, workshops, and productions at Cleveland local theatres, in New York, and in Cambridge, Great Britain.  She is a Puffin Foundation and an Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Award recipient.  Vickie has earned a B.A. in communications and has contributed works to several anthologies.