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herself behind the wheel. The engine roars to life and she backs up the car, slams it forward, back again, forward again—I don’t know what the hell she’s doing—the passenger door flopping open, closed, open, closed...
    “Hey! That’s my car!” I yell.
    Vivian slams on the brakes, hangs one arm up over the back of the seat and says, “May I suggest if you ever want to see your car again that you get in.”
    I take off my leather jacket before it gets all bloody and throw it in the bed. I strip off my T-shirt and wad it up under my still-bleeding nose. I climb in, lay my head back on the seat and stare straight up at the ceiling.
    Vivian looks at my wife-beater and snorts through her nose. She rolls down her window, throws the car into drive and peels out. She ignores every stop sign and stop light and I don’t think she even knows where the brakes are.
    I close my eyes and concentrate on not throwing up.
    She squeals to a stop at the Redman Motor Lodge. There’s a bright orange and red neon sign of an Indian in war gear and full headdress blinking on and off, on and off. Near the motel office is a life-size concrete teepee and it’s outlined in little blinking lights of its own.
    Vivian hops out of the car with her red bag and shoe, kicking the door shut behind her. I straggle out and collect my jacket from the back, still holding my head back and trying not to drip all over the place.
    Vivian ambles over to room number seven and is talking nonstop again. I only catch tidbits of what she talking about: “Di and I could’ve been such good friends. She was like the sister I always wanted. My brother was like my sister except he always borrowed my sweaters and stretched out the shoulders. Di wouldn’t have done that. We’re the same size.”
    She opens the door and flips on the lights. There’s one bed and plenty of cheap decor. The curtains and bedspread match each other with a cowboy bull-riding motif. Above the bed is a huge painting of a dream-catcher with a howling coyote sitting under a full moon. Another painting of a big, sad-eyed Palomino stares at us from over the chest of drawers. They’re both bolted to wall. A wagon-wheel table and barrel chairs round out the western theme.
    I plop down right on the bed and lay my head back on the pillow. I close my eyes and will myself to stop losing bodily fluids. I hear Vivian rummaging around the room and the door opens and closes. She’s gone.
    I have time to think about this situation. I never have any problem getting women into bed, it’s keeping them afterward that I have a problem with. I’m thinking I’d like to keep this one around for a while. I don’t know why exactly. Except for the fact that she’s surprising. I never know exactly what she’s going to do next. I like that. Maybe if I don’t sleep with her for a while, she’ll stick around. I’ll let her make the first move. I won’t do a damn thing until she does. I just hope she does it soon.
    The door opens. The bedsprings squeak beside me. Vivian presses a towel full of ice to my nose.
    “Thanks,” I say.
    She gets up and pulls my boots off and sits them on the floor at the end of the bed.
    “Thanks,” I say again.
    She quietly disappears and leaves me to my misery. I wonder what Ginger’s doing right now. Probably throwing all my stuff out on the front lawn and burning it. No, she’s probably not, that would mean too much work.
    I hear the shower turn on in the bathroom and Vivian talking to herself.
    I wonder if she’s a crazy person? I mean really crazy, like certifiable. Maybe she’s just drunk. Her taking a shower is a plus in my direction, right? It means she wants to make love, but wants to be clean first, right? Hell, I don’t know. 
    I ease out of bed and tippy-toe over to the bathroom door. Normally, I don’t do stuff like this. I don’t eavesdrop or pry, but if she’s truly crazy I’d like to know about it before I wake up and she’s standing over me with a