The Redwood Motel

The car's wheels ate gravel with a crunch. It was a Honda, a little civic built low to the ground. The rocks bounced off the metal like Pharisees stoning a flashy hooker.

She stared out the window. South Dakota flew by her on a flat horizon being steadily razed by cows. Rushmore was a distant hope advertised by faded billboards of dead men made immortal. The badlands were swirls of beautiful crooks and crannies a league down the highway, where they would do her no good.

The radio had become nothing but noise no matter what station she turned it to. She'd punched it off and let the silence buzz in her ears. It left her alone with her thoughts, which was almost worse than the music but necessary.

"I'm doing it for her."

The bobble-head dog glued to the dashboard nodded sympathetically.

"Look. I am. She's getting old. Nobody else is willing to come out here and help her."

It eyed her with a beady, mournful gaze.

"I would have been fine out there," she argued. "Denver's a good place. People get laid off all the time, I would have found something else."

She swerved the wheel and the dog shook its head reproachfully.

"Oh, shove it. It's two birds, one stone. I get help, she gets help. Nobody's the loser."

The car thumped over a rock. She cussed and the dog nodded hugely with great sarcasm.

"Man, fuck you. Everyone knows Chihuahuas have too much attitude."

She reached out and decapitated the poor thing, tossing its head on the passenger's seat. A mile down the road she grudgingly apologized and stuck it back on. Then she turned on the radio and flipped to some pop station so she could crank the volume and not miss anything by ignoring the lyrics.

It was night by the time she reached the hotel. It was an old relic from when people still believed in road tripping. Slamming the car into park, she hopped out and shut the door, staring upwards as a chill took to the air and made her breath a white mist. Just a little reminder that winter was chasing the heels of fall.

She left her baggage in the car. It was a statement. She didn't have to stay there. Everything was being done to help the old lady sitting in that dingy little office. This was all a charity effort offered by a Good Samaritan.

"You're so full of bullshit Sam," she muttered as she pushed the door open.

A bell over the eave chimed shrilly to announce her presence. Sam looked up at it hatefully as her great aunt hollered from the back, "Be right there, be right there!"

Out she came. Other than a few wrinkles and a few pounds, she looked like she always did. Her gray hair was yanked back in a bun so tight it looked painful. Her plump, five-foot one body was disguised under a print of faded pink roses. She wore lipstick to prove she had lips and silvery eyeshadow that made her look eccentric.

They regarded each other and Sam felt the pressure of a power struggle building.

"I told you I didn't need your help."

"You said you'd think about it. Two months ago. And it looks like you do anyway; there are no cars parked outside."

Synthia wrinkled her nose. "It's off season."

"Exactly. Off season. You've got dead season."

The old woman gave her a disgusted look. "And what are you going to do about it, then?"

"Well, fix your sign for starters. This is the REDWOOD motel, right? Your lights are so broken outside they just say R.O.O.D. Which is honest advertising I guess."

Synthia fumed. It took little imagination to see steam coming out of her ears. "I'm very gracious to my guests. I have no need for tramps."

Sam rolled her eyes. "I'm not a tramp."

"You are. Look at you. Covered in tattoos. Your hair's cut so short you look like a man. Your tits are falling out of your shirt."

Laughter bubbled up in Sam's chest. "Most people don't consider a tank-top whorish, Synth."

"Synth-ee-aah," she snarled, thin rip raising. She looked like an angry rat. "The least you could do is respect me on my property, Sam-anth-aaaaah."

She reached up and kneaded the space between her brows. She'd taken some Tylenol on the road, but it clearly hadn't been enough. "You want me gone? Fine. You should know your bills are so behind they've started calling Mike, though. They're hounding your own kid for cash because they're too embarrassed to tell you how bad it is."

Part of her felt bad for laying that on her, but it had to be done. She turned to go as the words took a second to simmer.

"Wait."

She did.

"Your father didn't raise you right."

"Mmmm," Sam hummed nasally.

"I brought him up good. Godly. Then he married your mother and she led him off the narrow road. Look what's come of it. He's raised a lesbian."

"I'm not a lesbian," Sam said dryly.

"You were in the army."

"National Guard. To pay for college. Jesus, woman, what's that got to do wi-"

"You will not!" Synthia roared, "Take the Lord's name in vain UNDER MY ROOF!"

Sam had had enough. She whipped towards Synthia and pressed her nose right up into the woman's face, watching her eyes widen in shock.

"Listen, sweetheart," she said lowly, "You want my help, I'll help you. But I got other prospects. I have things to do. Places to be. Now I'll respect your boundaries and play this thing as close to your wants as I can, but you've got to hold up your end. Be nice to me, I'll be nice to you. Treat your neighbor as you'd want yourself to be treated. As I recall, that's in your favorite book too."

She was floored. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water and it was pretty obvious no one had stuck up to her that way before. It threw her off and Sam enjoyed it. She immediately decided it was worth it even if it meant getting kicked out before getting started.

The shock turned into a glower. Despite their height difference, somehow Synthia managed to look down on her. "Fine," she grated. "But don't you try to use my bible against me. That's the devil's way."

"Aye aye, cap'n. Where should I put my stuff?"

It took her three tries to get the card to register. She kept sliding it through the electronic scanner too fast. With shaking hands she passed it over. "Room 307," she said. "No smoking."

"I don't smoke."

The woman's 'yeah right' followed her through her eyes, boring into her shoulder blades as she walked back to her car.

Sam locked the door behind her once she was in the room. It was pointless to do but it felt right. Even after eight hours of being alone in the car, it was still bliss. The whole ordeal was going to be absolute hell. Already she was second-guessing her move, but she had to get away, just for a little while. Denver was painted with unpleasant memories. They lingered on street corners like old gargoyles. Charlie breaking up with her because she was away for months at a time. The hospital where cancer flogged her mom to death. It was time to change, to metamorphose and do some real soul-searching. To do that she had to breathe.

Walking to the wall, she took out a nail and her toolkit and hung her diploma up. A BS in interior architecture and design. The acronym was fitting. She'd landed more jobs from her electrical training in the Guard than from the degree, but they weren't the ones she wanted. Her heart wasn't in them. She wanted to make things beautiful.

"Because I don't feel beautiful myself," she said dramatically, pouting at her reflection in a nearby mirror. She laughed and took out a bottle of cheap red wine, pouring some into a glass and raising it in a toast. "To new beginnings and so on and so forth," she muttered. "Hurrah."

Flopping back on the bed, she knocked back a few swallows and pulled a face. She looked at a painting of Jesus on the wall cradling a lamb and smirked.

"Hey big guy. I hear you're really good with this stuff. Little help?"

Snorting at her own joke, she set the glass aside and kicked off her shoes. "Iiiii'm going to hell," she sang at the ceiling.

She didn't drift off until dawn was peeking through the dusty blinds.