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Lawnmowing and hedge trimming for two weeks in summer. Payment to be negotiated in person. Please call... Seeking blue-eyed stud with good humor and plenty of cash. Please call... For sale: two Doberman Pinschers. One male, one female. House trained. Please call... March 17th, a fine of $250 was issued to...

Tom closed the paper and laid it on the desk, frustrated. He rubbed his temples slowly, allowing his mind to drift. What other way could there be to pass the time. No matter how many hobbies he pursued or vacations he took, his thoughts still strained in the same direction. A fierce, determined desire pumped beneath the surface of his conscious thought. It undermined every choice he made. He could not identify or explain it.

He grabbed the room key of the motel. He opened each drawer and checked to make sure there wasn\'t any object meant for him to see inside. Only a Bible was present. He grabbed the black leather book and quickly fluttered the pages. He examined the title page. He held it by the binding and shook it to see if a slip of paper would fall out. Nothing.

He grabbed his plain suitcase and opened it. He shuffled around placing every disposable one-use item he could in it: moist towelette packets, mini-soaps, mini-shampoos, a pen, a yellow note pad. He made the bed. He was about to walk out and close the door behind him when the newspaper entered his mind. he had nearly forgotten. He extracted page thirteen from the other large, unwieldy sheets. They tumbled off the desk and landed on the floor in a clutter. He grunted. He resisted the compulsion to fix the mess. he walked out and shut the door.

The clerk was middle-aged and bone skinny. Her stringy bags provided a curtain to shield her bulging blue eyes from the mid-day sun. She would hardly look at him. She must not have thought much of him, with his business suit. There was just enough dialogue to complete a transaction--words of the flavorless, dull sort that don\'t bear mention anywhere but over the counter.

Tom laid the briefcase down in the passenger seat. He adjusted his mirrors. He lowered the sun-visor. It was fearsome bright outside--fearsome bright. He buckled his seatbelt. He was gone. Only the disheveled, massacred newspaper on the floor remained to serve as a memory of his presence. And that bugged him. He should\'ve picked it up when he had a chance. Damn.

Miles passed by quietly. They rolled underneath quietly. Not even a whimper. Only the engine hummed with its quiet regular hymn. He could\'ve pressed onward except for the onset of a migraine. That sun probably set it off--the glaring, grinning, laughing sun which made the horizon shimmer. He pried open the glover compartment and retrieved a bottle of medication. He had all sorts of them, for various ailments--imagined and otherwise. Doctors and psychiatrists always enjoyed imposing these pills on him. It made them feel special. Needed. They did indeed have a purpose. He swallowed. He drank from a thermos which he kept tucked under his seat. He opened a moist towelette and wiped his face. He resumed driving.

Those green signs on the outskirts of each town that listed population were very amusing to him. He always tried to imagine how many faces were attached to that white number. What sort of people were they? Hospitable? Lively? Dog-tired? Laid back? What were their dreams? He parked his car in a suburban street and walked. He delivered a stiff wave to every child he saw on a bicycle. They started back at him and quickly disappeared around a corner. He must have painted a lonely picture to anyone who gazed out their kitchen while doing the dishes. He didn\'t feel it though. In the back of his mind, he was searching for a signal. Eventually, he gave into his stomach\'s grumbling and returned to his car. Supper time had long since passed by.

They were giving out miniature jig-saw puzzles with every kid\'s meal at the burger shop. He bought two meals. The pimply-faced teenager handed him two small cardboard boxes. One had a picture of kittens on the cover; the other had a hot air balloon. He assembled them while he ate. There was little satisfaction to be gained from either. Each puzzle had twelve pieces, so he had twenty-four pieces total. He disassembled both finished puzzles and put them back in their boxes. He walked up to the front and asked for different puzzles. The little punk refused in a squeaky voice. Tom sat down and watched the little children play in the play pen until he was asked to leave.

He didn\'t stop again until the next morning. He marched inside a grocery store and purchased a newspaper. He set it down on a table and placed his briefcase by the chair. He went to get a pastry and coffee. He glanced over top stories, entertainment, sports. He took a bite. He turned to page thirteen. Parent needs babysitter on weekends. Six to midnight, Sat. and Sun. Five dollars per hour. If interested, phone... He clenched his teeth. Everyday was a repeat of the last. He carefully disentangled the sheet from the rest of the worthless rag and placed it in his briefcase. The coffee had filled his bladder and he went to the bathroom. When he returned, the paper was gone. An uncomfortable feeling swelled up from the pit of his stomach. This was two in a row--unacceptable. How could he be so foolish? He stormed out and sped out of the parking lot in a foul mood.

A shabby, ragged old map unfolded inside his head. It was a trusty map which rarely led him down dead ends. He had a mental check list of each and every town which he had visited when he was still whole. When he wasn\'t being eaten away. He had compiled this map, this record, by scraping through his old journals. He was reaching the end of hope, the edge of his reason. His hands grew cold, clammy, shaky as he drew nearer to his destination.

The town had changed greatly since his last visit, as had many others. It was a skeleton of itself. The downtown area had been sucked dry and the rind was spit back out. Every structure seemed to be succumbing to anemia and neglect. People had forgotten their cares for a moment, none-the-less; the carnival was in town. The carnival--with all its archaic, gaudy pomp--was here, just as it was back then. Tom wandered onto the fairgrounds, his eyes blank and mouth agape. Grimy striped tents shuddered in the wind. The carousel gently rotated on its axis, the speared animals slowly moving up and down. The Ferris Wheel carried its passengers up to the heavens and back down again. He grew increasingly less able to discern between past and present. Memories manifested themselves as ghosts, dancing over his retinas.

Tom sat down and took out the first paper. It was the only paper that he had kept in its entirety. Somewhere inside, there was a key. A puzzle. A riddle. An excuse to return to what he used to be. He needed to bridge the old self with the new. He turned to page thirteen. Parent needs babysitter... Six to midnight... If interested... It was the same message. The same phone number. A horrid revelation surged through his frail, worn body. He opened his briefcase and removed a stack of aging classified ads. Parent needs... Memorial for aging Veterans would like donations... Entertainment desired at... Telephone operator position open for fledgling independent business... Original articles on local environment solicited... Memorial... Handiwork around the house... Lawnmowing and hedge trimming... Please phone if interested: (402) 582-6377.

He was consumed. He attempted to leave, but was swimming against a current of complacent revelers. He pushed against them, cursing as he did. He had to get to a phone booth. The distance between him and his goal stretched out farther and farther with every foot step. He had left his briefcase behind. By the time he found a booth, he was out of breath. He composed himself, stepped inside, and dialed. Blood rushed to his ears while he waited for a response.

\"We\'re sorry, this number can longer be reached...\"

He collapsed in despair. He succumbed to a fit of rage. He bashed the receiver against the walls. He clawed at his hair. In his unadulterated anger, he failed to see two black suits emerge from a car and approach him.

\"Hi there Tom. How ya\' been?\"

He looked up, startled. The bullet pierced his skull. The pair dragged him by the feat and loaded his corpse into the trunk. The car slowly drove off.