Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
CHAPTER 26
I went back to the motel feeling deeply hungry and unsatisfied. I watched some TV and
read a book, and then slept that fitful sleep you get when all of your body is still and
resting except your stomach, which is saying, “WHERE THE FUCK IS MY DINNER?
HEY, BILL, ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME? WHERE THE F-U-C-K IS MY EVENING
SUSTENANCE?”
HERE, APROPOS OF nothing at all, is a true story. In 1958 my grandmother got cancer
of the colon and came to our house to die. At this time my mother employed a cleaning
lady named Mrs. Goodman, who didn't have a whole lot upstairs but was possessed of a
good Catholic heart. After my grandmother's arrival, Mrs. Goodman grew uncharacteristic-
ally sullen. Then one afternoon at finishing time she told my mother that she would have to
quit because she didn't want to catch cancer from my grandmother. My mother soothingly
reassured Mrs. Goodman that you cannot “catch cancer” and gave her a small pay increase
to compensate for the extra work occasioned by my grandmothers clammy and simpering
presence.Sowithill-disguisedreluctanceMrs.Goodmanstayedon.Andaboutthreemonths
later she caught cancer and with alarming swiftness died.
Well, as you can imagine, since it was my family that killed the poor woman, I've always
wanted to commemorate her in some small way and I thought that here would be as good a
place as any, especially as I had nothing of interest to tell you about the drive from Wells,
Nevada, to Twin Falls, Idaho.
So, goodbye, Mrs. Goodman, it was nice knowing you. And we're all very, very sorry.
Twin Falls was a nice enough place-Mrs. Goodman, I've no doubt, would have liked it; but
thenwhenyouthinkaboutitadeadpersonwouldprobablyappreciateanychangeofscenery
and the landscape in southern Idaho was greener and more fertile than anything Nevada had
to offer. Idaho is known for its potatoes, though in fact Maine, just a third its size, produces
more. Its real wealth comes from mining and timber, particularly in the higher reaches of
the Rockies, up towards Canada, over 500 miles north of where I was now. I was headed for
Sun Valley, the famous resort up in the Sawtooth Mountains, and the neighboring town of
Ketchum, where Ernest Hemingway spent the last year of his life and blew his brains out.
This has always seemed to me (not that it's any of my business, mind you) a particularly
thoughtless and selfish way to kill oneself. I mean to say, your family is going to be upset
enough that you are dead without your having to spoil the furniture and gross everyone out
on top of that.
