smell； and hear the KETV meteorologist in the other room saying； 'But now look at this low…pressure system just ing over the Rockies。'
And what would Alfie say to the farmer's wife？ That he just dropped by for dinner？ Would he advise her to save Russian Jews； collect valuable prizes？ Would he begin by saying； 'Ma'am； according to at least one source I've read recently； all that you love will be carried away'？ That would be a good conversation opener； sure to interest the farmer's wife in the wayfaring stranger who had just walked across her husband's east field to knock on her door。 And when she invited him to step in； to tell her more； he could open his briefcase and give her a couple of his sample books； tell her that once she discovered the Cottager brand of quick…serve gourmet delicacies she would almost certainly want to move on to the more sophisticated pleasures of Ma Mère。 And； by the way； did she have a taste for caviar？ Many did。 Even in Nebraska。
Freezing。 Standing here and freezing。
He turned from the field and the spark lights at the far end of it and walked to the motel； moving in careful duck steps so he wouldn't go ass over teakettle。 He had done it before； God knew。 Whoops…a…daisy in half a hundred motel parking lots。 He had done most of it before； actually； and supposed that was at least part of the problem。
There was an overhang； so he was able to get out of the snow。 There was a Coke machine with a sign saying； USE CORRECT CHANGE。 There was an ice machine and a Snax machine with candy bars and various kinds of potato chips behind curls of metal like bedsprings。 There was no USE CORRECT CHANGE sign on the Snax machine。 From the room to the left of the one where he intended to kill himself； Alfie could hear the early news； but it would sound better in that farmhouse over yonder； he was sure of that。 The wind boomed。 Snow swirled around his city shoes； and then Alfie let himself into his room。 The light switch was to the left。 He turned it on and shut the door。
He knew the room； it was the room of his dreams。 It was square。 The walls were white。 On one was a picture of a small boy in a straw hat； asleep with a fishing pole in his hand。 There was a green rug on the floor； a quarter…inch of some nubbly synthetic stuff。 It was cold in here right now； but when he pushed the Hi Heat button on the control panel of the Climatron beneath the window the place would warm up fast。 Would probably bee hot。 A counter ran the length of one wall。 There was a TV on it。 On top of the TV was a piece of cardboard with ONE…TOUCH MOVIES！ printed on it。
There were twin double beds； each covered with bright…gold spreads that had been tucked under the pillows and then pulled over them； so the pillows looked like the corpses of infants。 There was a table between the beds with a Gideon Bible； a TV…channel guide； and a flesh…colored phone on it。 Beyond the second bed was the door to the bathroom。 When you turned on the light in there； the fan would go on； too。 If you wanted the light； you got the fan； too。 There was no way around it。 The light itself would be fluorescent； with the ghosts of dead flies inside。 On the counter beside the sink there would be a hot plate and a Proctor…Silex electric kettle and little packets of instant coffee。 There was a smell in here； the mingling of some harsh cleaning fluid and mildew on the shower curtain。 Alfie knew it all。 He had dreamed it right down to the green rug； but that was no acplishment； it was an easy dream。 He thought about turning on the heater； but that would rattle； too； and； besides； what was the point？
Alfie unbuttoned his topcoat and put his suitcase on the floor at the foot of the bed closest to the bathroom。 He put his briefcase on the gold coverlet。 He sat down； the sides of his coat spreading out like the skirt of a dress。 He opened his briefcase； thumbed through the various brochures； catalogues； and order forms； finally he found the gun。 It was a Smith & Wesson revolver； 。38 caliber。 He put it on the pillows at the head of the bed。
He lit a cigarette； reached for the telephone； then remembered his notebook。 He reached into his right coat pocket and pulled it out。 It was an old Spiral； bought for a buck forty…nine in the stationery department of some forgotten five…and…dime in Omaha or Sioux City or maybe Jubilee； Kansas。 The cover was creased and almost pletely innocent of any printing it might once have borne。 Some of the pages had pulled partially free of the metal coil that served as the notebook's binding； but all of them were still there。 Alfie had been carrying this notebook for almost seven years； ever since his days selling Universal Product Code readers for Simonex。
There was an ashtray on the shelf under the phone。 Out here； some of the motel rooms still came with ashtrays； even on the first floor。 Alfie fished for it； put his cigarette on the groove； and opened his notebook。 He flipped through pages written with a hundred different pens （and a few pencils）； pausing to read a couple of entries。 One read： 'I suckt Jim Morrison's cock w/my poutie boy mouth （LAWRENCE KS）。' Restrooms were filled with homosexual graffiti； most of it tiresome and repetitive； but 'poutie boy mouth' was pretty good。 Another was 'Albert Gore is my favorite whore （MURDO S DAK）。'
The last page； three…quarters of the way through the book； had just two entries。 'Dont chew the Trojan Gum it taste's just like rubber （AVOCA IA）。' And： 'Poopie doopie you so loopy （PAPILLION NEB）。' Alfie was crazy about that one。 Something about the '…ie；…ie；' and then； boom； you got '…y。' It could have been no more than an illiterate's mistake （he was sure that would have been Maura's take on it） but why think like that？ What fun was that？ No； Alfie preferred （even now） to believe that '…ie；…ie；' 。 。 。 wait for it 。 。 。 '…y' was an intended construction。 Something sneaky but playful； with the feel of an e。 e。 cummings poem。
He rummaged through the stuff in his inside coat pocket； feeling papers； an old toll…ticket； a bottle of pills…stuff he had quit taking…and at last finding the pen that always hid in the litter。 Time to record today's finds。 Two good ones； both from the same rest area； one over the urinal he had used； the other written with a Sharpie on the map case beside the Hav…A…Bite machine。 （Snax； which in Alfie's opinion vended a superior product line； had for some reason been disenfranchised in the I…80 rest areas about four years ago。） These days Alfie sometimes went two weeks and three thousand miles without seeing anything new； or even a viable variation on something old。 Now； two in one day。 Two on the last day。 Like some sort of omen。
His pen had COTTAGER FOODS THE GOOD STUFF！ written in gold along the barrel； next to the logo； a thatched hut with smoke ing out of the quaintly crooked chimney。
Sitting there on the bed； still in his topcoat； Alfie bent studiously over his old notebook so that his shadow fell on the page。 Below 'Dont chew the Trojan Gum' and 'Poopie doopie you so loopy；' Alfie added 'Save Russian Jews； collect valuable prizes （WALTON NEB）' and 'All that you love will be carried away （WALTON NEB）。' He hesitated。 He rarely added notes； liking his finds to stand alone。 Explanation rendered the exotic mundane （or so he had e to believe； in the early years he had annotated much more freely）； but from time to time a footnote still seemed to be more illuminating than demystifying。
He starred the second entry…'All that you love will be carried away （WALTON NEB）'…and drew a line two inches above the bottom of the page； and wrote。*
*'To read this you must also look at the exit ramp from the Walton Rest Area back to highway； i。e。 at departing transients。'
He put the pen back in his pocket； wondering why he or anyone would continue anything this close to ending everything。 He couldn't think of a single answer。 But of course you went on breathing； too。 You couldn't stop it without rough surgery。
The wind gusted outside。 Alfie looked briefly toward the window； where the curtain （also green； but a different shade from the rug） had been drawn。 If he pulled it back； he would be able to see chains of light on Interstate 80； each bright bead marking sentient beings running on the rod of the highway。 Then he looked back down at his book。 He meant to do it； all right。 This was just 。 。 。 well 。 。 。
'Breathing；' he said； and smiled。 He picked his cigarette out of the ashtray； smoked； returned it to the groove； and thumbed back through the book again。 The entries recalled thousands of truck stops and roadside chicken shacks and highway rest areas the way certain songs on the radio can bring back specific memories of a place； a time； the person you were with； what you were drinking； what you were thinking。
'Here I sit； brokenhearted； tried to shit but only farted。' Everyone knew that one； but here was an interesting variation from Double D Steaks in Hooker； Oklahoma： 'Here I sit； I'm at a loss； trying to shit out taco sauce。 I know I'm going to drop a load； only hope I don't explode。' And from Casey； Iowa； where SR 25 crossed I…80： 'My mother made me a whore。' To which someone had added in very different penmanship： '