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motel. And the Shriners, subimbecilic assholes that they may be, would have been happy
to make room for me at one of their tables, and probably would even have given me some
pats of butter to throw. People in the Midwest are good and they are kind to strangers. But
here in Sundance the milk of human kindness was exceeded in tininess only by the size of
the Shriners' brains.
I trudged up the road in the direction of the Tastee-Freez. I walked for some way, out
past the last of the houses and onto an empty highway that appeared to stretch off into
the distance for miles, but there was no sign of a Tastee-Freez, so I turned around and
trudgedbackintotown.Iintendedtogetthecar,butthenIcouldn'tbebothered.Therewas
something about the way they can't even spell freeze right that's always put me off these
places. How much faith can you place in a company that can't even spell a monosyllable?
So instead I went to the gas station and bought about six dollars' worth of potato chips and
candy bars, which I took back to my room and dumped on the bed. I lay there and pushed
candy bars into my face, like logs into a sawmill, watched some plotless piece of violent
Hollywood excrescence on HBO, and then slept another fitful night, lying in the dark, full
and yet unsatisfied, staring at the ceiling and listening to the Shriners across the street and
to the ceaseless bleating of my stomach: “Hey, what is all this crap in here? It's nothing
but chocolate. This is disgusting. I want some real food. I want steak and mashed potatoes.
Really, this is just too gross for words. I've a good mind to send this all back. I'm serious,
you'd better go and stand by the toilet because this is coming straight back up in a minute.
Are you listening to me, butt-face?”
And so it went all night long. God, I hate my stomach.
I awoke early and peeked, shivering, through a gap in the curtains. It was a drizzly Sunday
dawn. Not a soul was about. This would be an excellent time to firebomb the restaurant. I
made a mental note to pack gelignite the next time I came to Wyoming. And sandwiches.
Switching on the TV, I slipped back into bed and pulled the covers up to just below my
eyeballs. Jimmy Swaggart was still appealing for forgiveness. Goodness me, but that man
can cry. He is a human waterfall. I watched for a while, but then got up and changed the
channel. On all the other channels it was just more evangelists, usually with their dumpy
wives sitting at their sides. Youcould see whythey all went outforsex.Generally,the pro-
gram would also feature the evangelist's son-in-law, a graduate of the Pat Boone school
of grooming, who would sing a song with a title like “You've Got A Friend in Jesus And
Please Send Us Lots of Money.” There can be few experiences more dispiriting than to lie
alone in a darkened motel room in a place like Wyoming and watch TV early on a Sunday
morning.
