what can i do you for, sweetheart?
she asked from behind the screen door.
a tall mid-western beauty,
with dark red hair (not her real color)
hanging in curls
down to the most perfect ******* i ever saw.
just looking for a place to rest my head, i told her.
i'd been driving,
almost straight ahead,
when i was called to the neon vacancy sign.
the head needs rest, does it? she wanted to know.
she wore tall boots,
and were high on some drug i really wanted.
the lipstick-smeared cigarette in her mouth
bobbed up and down as she talked.
got any money on you, sweetheart?
ash rained gently from the tip of her smoke.
what's the damage? i demanded,
and she nodded to a sign next to the door.
$35 it said in red magic marker.
i pulled out my wallet as she opened the screen door.
there are other ways you can pay, she said,
putting her hands on my wallet,
as to cover it.
i gave her the money.
where you from anyway, stud?
Norway, i told her, and her face lit up.
wow, that's in England isn't it?
yes, i said.
it sure is.
she offered me a beer,
but i didn't need beer,
and i didn't need *****.
i needed loneliness,
and an empty motel,
and ***** sheets,
and black and white television.
americana.

i took off that next morning,
driving almost straight ahead,
with some regret.