(In December, when part of this article was published, I counted the pages out loud like Miss Greengross taught us in the 5th grade. Somehow, on the way to the office, one page escaped. So now with your forbearance, I will try again to tell the story of being in Vista.)

At this writing, I am in Vista, California, a small town in northern San Diego County. Not small like Mertzon, but small for a community 30 miles from the Pacific Ocean between such populous giants as San Diego and Los Angeles. The motel management agreed to allow me inside the office to write as long as the door stayed locked by a deadbolt and I agreed to keep out of the way of the office work.

The word processor appears to be a standard unit, however, the desk is behind thick protective glass. The reception area is so cramped a gangster and his moll would have to squeeze in a mighty small space to rob the place. The sonar system on the door bongs an extra loud alert upon opening. The owner and the clerk scowl through the heavy glass, demanding not only a credit card be passed through a slot under the glass, but also photographic evidence that the card and the holder match to approve credit.

The desk chair demands a stiff-backed military posture. However, no support is needed to keep me upright, as I sense that close to the cash drawer is a loaded German Luger pistol, or a double-barreled sawed-off shotgun. I can tell by the intimidating manner in the management treats the public that robbing this joint is going to involve more than a misdemeanor hearing in Justice Court and be more like the crossfire in the opening volleys at O.K. Corral.

I committed a serious breach of the State of California's landlord's code this morning by asking to change the 20-watt energy saving florescent bulb in the bedside lamp up to, say, a glaring 60-watter so I'd able to read the headlines of the Los Angeles Times in bed. I further explained that I have to be able to see to tie my shoes in the morning. The front desk denied the request on the grounds that non-smoking rooms require less light than smoking rooms, because of the absence of pollution.

I asked the lady at checkin if it was safe to walk a few blocks to eat in the only restaurant open on Sunday night. She said, "Yeah, I guess so. Things have settled down here a lot since two high school kids were shot in a gang war in front of my place last month."

Security questions of room clerks are a waste of time as they are trained to be noncommittal on the subject of the guests' off-premise safety. The best approach is to case the neighborhood on your own. If the financial district consists of pawn shops and bail bondsmen, for example, mail your traveler's checks home in a self-addressed envelope and tape your credit cards inside your shoe tops.

Should the security chain be broken loose from the motel door at checkin, ask to be moved to the second story. Limit jewelry to imitation pearl-handled pen knives, or gold-plated ballpoints, and keep them in the hotel's safety deposit box. Excessive oil on the parking lot, or an old car with two flat tires parked by the swimming pool means shorten your stay. If, after looking about, the only recreation center you find is "Tony's Adult Movie World," and "Maudie's Oriental Spa," relocate until the city fathers have time to tidy up a bit.

The walk to the restaurant was safe. The kitchen was the dangerous part. Named "Green Dragon of China," the egg rolls tasted like they had rolled downhill in an Easter egg race. The egg drop soup had, indeed, been dropped. The steamed rice was so dry, the chopsticks stuck in the bowl. After dinner, I gargled two jiggers of soy sauce and seared my taste buds with dashes of hot Chinese mustard to restore my palate. (Oriental etiquette permits discreet gargling. Gentlemen, however, are expected to shield their mouths with their companion's fan; ladies, under more lenient restriction, may use anything handy from a kimono sleeve to the cook's apron to cover their mouths.)

One sidelight apart from the meal: on the top of the menu, bold letters proclaimed: "English Speaking Staff." Upon ordering, the young oriental waitress motioned to the manager, her mother, to come. She bowed and said, "Buenas noches, señor. Quieres uno traigo o una cerveza?" Distracted by the long list of choices, I failed to notice she was speaking Spanish until I overheard the old boy in the next booth say, "Damn, Chinese sure sounds a lot like Spanish." And she did sound Spanish-speaking, calling crepes tortillas and rice arroz.

Before the first draft ended, the room clerk told several seedy looking hombres the motel had no weekly rates. At each bong of the door, I crouched behind the monitor screen. It would have been a waste of breath to ask if the thick glass was bulletproof, or how long the gangs were going to stay settled down. One thing for sure, I wasn't going to drag out my stay to find the answers.