Iowa vs Iowa

	Midnight turned with gunshots in the distance — single cracks, slow but rhythmic like a striking hammer, then a fast succession, then nothing beyond the drawn curtains. 

I listened from a Twin Cities outskirts budget wondering if I should poke around for a day-off reservation somewhere more quiet between there & KC, but the time & route was loose enough to just freestyle it on the way. 

	The Saturday morning interstate led to & from in a daze of infrequent traffic.

First attempt to pull off was a desolate county road Super 8 with an attached lounge I’d stayed at years before. It had been an interesting night, but something seemed off this time: the parking lot was empty — the only gas station was closed — no cars on the road. It was just mid-afternoon. Even the giant sky had no breeze. I got back on the four-lane.

An hour later, I took an impulse-exit north of Des Moines. 

The off-ramp ended at a cluster of two-stars, one next to a restaurant. 

I’d sworn off Red Roof since a bedbug incident in Louisiana, but the dining option was ideal — Montana Mike’s Steakhouse.

The blind-stop rate was good enough & I got a first-floor at the end of a hall. I checked the bed for signs of life. Across the room, another door, wider. It opened to an alley. 

Directly across about twenty steps away was the Montana Mike’s entrance. To the left, a pair of hoary longhairs passed a joint between the motel & the steakhouse. To the right, a sparsely-filled parking lot with a dark sedan idling alone at the far edge. 

	The lounge was through a door past the dining room. Behind the bar, flatscreened football: Iowa vs Iowa.

A woman sitting a few stools away was drinking from a tumbler filled with the same color as one of the Iowas' uniforms — neither pink nor purple, yet both. She was sharing a plate of wings with a man behind a pint glass glowing neon green. 

Pat Benatar piped “we belong together.”

The cocktail special was Vodka Venom. 

I asked the bartender about the two Iowas. 

The purple/pink tumbler woman answered instead while holding a wing, explaining the purple/pink team was a tech school & said her husband is a trucker & they never miss a game, chewing, “But, you can root for whoever. They’re both Iowa.”

I ordered a beer & beer-battered pickle spears with a spicy-ranch dipper.

The woman stood up. The trucker asked if she was alright. She said she needed the restroom & walked away.

The flatscreen crowd roared at a whistle. A few at the bar moaned.

The trucker looked around, then told the bartender he was going to check on his wife.

The bartender said, “Yeah, she’s had a few,” then set a beer down in front of me.

The bar crowd cheered at something.

The trucker returned without the woman & continued to watch the game. 

The bartender brought my spears — extra dippers.

The trucker asked about another drink.

A younger guy came in & sat near me. The bartender asked how long he was in town for this time & if he was eating or drinking. He said “Just drinking,” & smiled a few missing teeth. 

The woman came back & whispered in the trucker’s ear.

The bartender asked the woman if she wanted another drink, answered “Oh, I'll be naughty and have another one.”

The trucker scratched his wife's back while they laughed, heads touching for a moment.
	
The bartender described another green drink to the trucker while mixing it: “This is a vodka with melon, but I like a double Captain & Dr Pepper.” 

The woman said “As long as it doesn’t give you a headache. I’ve never once had a hangover when he gets drunk.” 

The younger guy said “I’ll get one of those captain pepper things.”

The game continued. The couple got quiet, occasionally shaking their heads. Another purple/pink tumbler arrived.

	A flatscreen marching band played — an Iowa won. Fifth straight Iowa over Iowa, according to the couple. 

The trucker took off his wedding band & put it on the woman’s pinkie like a renewed vow or a lost bet. She held out her hand, shook it & laughed until the ring fell to the floor. The trucker picked it up from under another barstool & put it back on his finger as she leaned in. Her drink was empty. His full. She left towards the bathroom again. 

The younger guy talked hunting with AR's & told the bartender that unmarked cops were staking out the bar parking lot, then ordered another.

The woman returned. The couple walked out as one in a joint sway with the trucker’s hand in the woman’s back pocket.

A waitress from the dining room came in & sat at the bar, counting bills. The younger guy told her he’d given his number to another waitress last time he was in town & she’d never called him. 

The waitress stopped counting, looked at him, then started over.

He turned to me & grinned upper incisors parenthesized by canines decaying to resemble half moon eclipses as he said, “I'm a road whore.” 

	After midnight again, I was back at the motel, poking around for another reservation. A review read "My wife set me up and sent me to prison illegally. My time now.”

Freestyle.