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I’ve probably driven past the Alamo Plaza Motel a thousand times. When I was a kid I thought it was a cool-looking building. My grandfather used to take me to the Burger King a block away, and my dad and I used to eat at the old Hopper’s drive-in just down the street, but I’d never been beyond the Alamo Plaza’s adobe façade.

So one sweltering night in late August I set out for a closer look.

I checked in to Room 2708. I didn’t pick the room. Mr. Fanis, the night clerk, who refused to tell me his first name, selected it for me. The rate was $45, plus a $5 key deposit. I paid cash. Mr. Fanis and I conducted our transaction through a bulletproof glass barricade.

To say that my room was dirty and quite likely a health hazard would be a significant understatement. Room 2708—which I have no reason to suspect was much different than any of The Alamo’s other 89 rooms—was a combination pigsty, hovel and slum.

The room had to be close to 100 degrees when I stepped inside. The maintenance man, who doubled as a security guard judging by the badge clipped to his pants, turned on the air conditioner for me and warned me, without further explanation, to keep the curtains closed at night. The window above the wheezing AC was boarded up with plywood and reinforced with two-by-fours. Broken shards of glass from the window lay inside the air conditioner vent.

As I waited for the temperature in the room to dip into the double digits, I took a good look at my accommodations. The room had no phone. The television was unplugged and the power button had been punched out. There was no lamp, no chair, and no table. Potato chip-sized chunks of paint were peeling off the walls. Loose wires dangled from the busted smoke alarm above the bed.

In the bathroom, there was no towel, just a washrag and a threadbare hand cloth. Part of the baseboard had rotted away, leaving a good-sized hole in the wall and easy access for night crawlers. The stained sink had a steady leak, no drain plug, and only one temperature setting for the water—scalding hot.

The walls of the closet were covered with dark splotches (either toxic mold or just plain mildew, I couldn’t tell). But I held my breath just in case as I stepped inside to snap some pictures.

Since there was no telephone, room service was out of the question, so I strolled over to the lobby to look for something to eat. A sign hanging over the busted ice machine warned, “Children Not Allowed in Ice Box.”

Thanks for the tip.

Near the icemaker I found what I was looking for: a snack machine. The only problem was that it was empty except for a pack of mixed berry fruit snacks and a bag of salted peanuts. I decided not to eat.

Back in my room, I had nowhere to sit. The paper-thin, stained bedspread wasn’t an option, so I found a plastic chair outside and brought it into my room. I stayed for a few hours, long enough to meet my next-door neighbor, who said his name was Art. He wanted to know if I had a car, and he twice invited me into his room to have a beer. I declined.

I left sometime around 2 a.m. As I walked to my car, a teenager rode up to me on a bicycle and asked me to drive him to the nearby McDonald’s. The drive-thru was the only part of the restaurant open, he said, and bikes weren’t allowed. After I told him no, he became insistent, almost demanding that I let him into my car. I had to say no several times, each time a little louder than the last. Eventually he rode off. So did I.

Alamo Plaza manager Dash Patel says she has never received a complaint about Room 2708.