Part I

MR. STEWART IN A SNOW COVERED WOWONA LODGE

The melting ice made holes in the snow banks surrounding the restaurant, dripping slowly from the pitch of the roof, down to the eaves and finally slithering the thin icicles that had formed there on the facia. The place was warm, and warmed by a large fire and full of people who had spent the day skiing or racing snowmobiles, and it was getting very noisy. There were candles lit on the dining tables, and the chair seats were wooden but well worn and comfortable.

I sat by myself at the bar and drank slowly from a large glass of German beer and waited for a table. The dinner specials that evening included sausages and hot German potato salad and I was quite hungry.

"Can I get you another beer?" the bar-woman asked.
"Will it be long for my table?" I asked.
"Can you wait twenty minutes?"
"I have been known to wait longer," I said.
"Pardon me?"
"Never mind. Yes another beer please."
"Yes, Sir," she said.

In a few minutes she brought the fresh beer and removed the near empty one. She put a fresh paper coaster under the glass. The coaster had a large stag's head at the center, and was surrounded by drawings of tourist spots in and around The Alsace region.

"It shouldn't be long," she said.
"Well. I have you in the meantime," I said with a smile, and took a long pull from the frosted glass of beer.
"That was forward. That was very forward," she said, half smiling. "So do you like to fool around?"
"You are horrible," she said, still half smiling.
"No. Not really," I said. "I am just getting warmed up."
"Do you know any other jokes?" she asked.
"Oh, Yes. Many. I can be quite a comedian to the right audience," I said, with sincerity and conviction.
"I can never remember the punch-lines," she said, with a little laugh.
"Come out to my car and I'll teach you. It's all warmed up."
"Stop it, please."
"It's just a joke."
"But I told you, I am not very good at jokes."
"Try writing them down first. Everything that I have ever written is a joke. But because I wrote them down, I remember them."
"You are a writer then?" she asked.
"No. I sell canoes. Paddles too."
"Oh I see. How is business?"
"Slow this time of year."
"Oh, I see," she said.

As I finished the beer, the hostess showed me to my table that was near the window and from there I could see the deepening indentations caused by the melting snow-illuminated a pure white by the floodlights shining down from the rooftop. The sausages and the potato salad came with sweet cooked red cabbage, rolls, butter, and a good local mustard.

When I finished the meal and paid the check, I found my coat on the peg near the front door by the bar. The bar-woman with who I was speaking to earlier, saw me getting ready to leave and came to my end of the bar.

"You're leaving?" she asked.
"Yes, important business, I'm afraid."
"Will you come back later?"
"Perhaps," I said, "What time to you get off?"
"Whenever you would like me to," she said smiling.
"I have my car just outside. Then again, there is the men's room"
"Pardon me?"
"Did you sneeze?"
"Excuse me?"
"You are excused, dear girl."
"Are you a little drunk, or something?"
"Yes, I am something."
"So are you coming back?"
"Yes. Yes of course. I just need to see this man from Mozambique. Big order, you know."
"Seriously? I can't tell when you are talking straight"
"Never mind. I'll see you later then," I said.
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye."

Mr. Stewart left the restaurant and walked the short way back to his cabin. He had no car, and after all, he was not just then interested in women.

Part II

MR. AGNEW VISITS A RESORT IN SOUTH LAKE TAHOE

The melting ice made holes in the snow banks surrounding the restaurant, dripping slowly from the pitch of the roof, down to the eaves and finally slithering the thin icicles that had formed there on the facia. The place was warm, and dimly lit but warmed by a large fire and full of people who had spent the day at the casinos, skiing or drinking iced Crème de Menthe in hot tubs and it was getting very noisy. There were small red candles lit on the dining tables, and the chair seats were wooden but well worn and comfortable.

I sat by myself at the bar and nursed a double martini, surrounded by the four olives from the previous drinks that I had ordered, and waited for a table. The dinner specials that evening included a petite filet mignon with cottage potato's and vegetables for $9.95. As I finished the last of my drink, the attractive female bartender, dressed in a tuxedo shirt, tie and black polyester pants approached me.

"Care for another?" she asked.
"Another?"
"Another martini."
"Oh, sorry. I was lost in thought."
"Are you from around here?" she asked.
"No. Are you?"
"No. I just work winters here so I can ski for free. I am from Tucson."
"Now that's a nice deal."
"Yes. I work nights and ski all day. Do you ski?"
"No. Bad ankles. Rotten luck."
"That's horrible," she said, moving closer and leaning on the bar.
"Yes. I can still do other things, however" I said.
"Such as?" she asked smiling, leaning closer.
"Comedy, for one. I'm a writer." I said.
"Truly?"
"No. That was a joke, as is most of my writing," I said, convincingly.
"What is it you do then?"
"I sell Sherman William's Paints," I said.
"How is business," she asked.
"Slow."
"Oh," she said.

Just then the hostess approached me with menu and took me to my table, after I paid my bar tab with a good tip for the bar-woman. I was seated at a table near a group of very loud skier's, and one of them, a tall, dark hair man in a reindeer sweater, leaned too far back in his chair-falling clumsily on the hardwood floor. The whole crowd laughed when he fell. I ate my dinner along with a half bottle of Mouton-Cadet, and the steak was very good.

When I finished the dinner and paid the check, I found my coat on the stag horn coat rack near the front door by the bar. The bar-woman with who I was speaking to earlier, saw me getting ready to leave and came to my end of the bar.

"Are you leaving so early?" she asked.
"I could come back." I said.
"That would be fine."
"What are you doing after work?" I asked.
"I don't know. I have a hot tub though."
"That would be fine," I said.
"Are you from here? I forget."
"No. I am staying at my brothers' home for a few days. Agnew is the name"
"Oh, I see."
"Yes."
"You're not married are you?" she asked.
"No. Just divorced in fact. Just didn't work out."
"I'm very sorry."
"Don't be. She's a certified lunatic."
"So many people getting divorced these days. You know?"
"And so many lunatics."
"Well. We seem normal."
"It's still quite early though, now isn't it?"
"I get off at twelve."
"And what time do you finish here?"
"Huh?" she asked.
"See you at twelve then," I said.
"OK. Goodbye for now."
"Goodbye."

Mr. Agnew drove the few short miles to his brother's home. He had enjoyed the conversation with the beautiful bar-woman, but was not quite ready to date again. He entered the house, opened a beer, and watched an old movie on the television.

Part III

MR MCCONNEL ENJOYS THE SITES NEAR ASPEN

The melting ice made deep holes in the snow banks surrounding the bar, dripping slowly from the pitch of the roof, down to the eaves and finally slithering the thin icicles that had formed there on the facia. The bar was warm, and warmed by a large fire and full of people who had spent the day skiing or snow snow-shoeing, and it was getting very noisy, and very close. There were lit candles on the dining tables, and the chair seats were wooden but well worn and comfortable.

I sat by myself and drank slowly from a shot of Pedron tequila, and followed each sip with a little lime and a pull from a bottle of Miller Beer.

"Can I get you a shot?" the bar-woman asked?
"I have had three, I'm afraid," I said.
"That is a good tequila. It means "The King," she said.
"No, it means "The Boss," I said, with ascendancy.
"Oh. She said."

She was dressed in tight fitting blue jeans and a low cut v-neck T-shirt, and very pretty. She was blonde and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and held back with a harpoon beret.

"Can I buy you a drink," I asked. "Will you join me?"
"Sorry. It's against the rules," she said frowning.
"That is too bad."
"Yes, rotten. But perhaps I could after I get off?"
"Do you get off, often?"
"Huh?"
"Skippit."
"Huh?"
"What time do you get off?" I asked.
"Soon. This is the end of my shift."
"Perhaps you would join me for dinner then?"
"I can't. It's against the rules. We can't eat with patrons."
"Oh. I see," I said.

A tall waiter, dressed in blue jeans and faded denim shirt, approached me carrying a menu and showed me to my table that was near a large group of people all dressed in western wear. The men at the table still had their cowboy hats on, despite the fact they were sitting inside with several women.

I ate my meal quietly and washed it down with another beer-watching the melting snow drip from the rooftop and out onto the snow.

When I finished the dinner and paid the check, I found my coat on the wagon wheel coat rack near the front door by the bar. The bar-woman with whom I was speaking to earlier, was now sitting near the end of the bar drinking a tall iced drink, probably a Long Island ice tea, and upon seeing me, patted the seat of the bar stool next to her. I re-hung my coat and sat down and ordered a beer from the bartender that she was speaking with.

"Was your dinner good?" she asked.
"Yes. Yes it was," I said.
"Are you from around here?"
"No."
"Me either. What is it you do?"
"I'm a priest."
"Now that's horrible," she said.
"Yes. A Jesuit too," I said.
"What a shame." She said, taking a long pull from her drink.

A man who was also seated at the bar overheard us, and became very excited.

"Hello, Father. My name is Bill Dunbarton. I am a member of St. Cyril's in Chicago. Do you know it?" he said offering his hand.
"No. I am afraid I do not," I said, shaking his hand." The name is McConnel."

The man was dressed in a Harris Tweed sports-coat and khaki trousers, and appeared to be very drunk.

"You must be a Notre Dame fan. Let me buy you a beer." Dunbarton said.
"Well, thanks, that is very nice of you."
"Holy Cross man myself, Father."
"Ah! The Cornhuskers!"
"What's that?"
"Is that in Walla Walla?"
"No, that's Gonzaga," Dunbarton said with an astonished look, stood up, picked up his drink, and moved to the far end of the bar."

"I was joking, you see." I said to the girl.
"Yes, I know. You should be ashamed. What is it you really do?"
"I am trying to be a writer, but it isn't going so well, and yes I am ashamed of my writing." I said.
"Do you make a living of it?"
"No, I have a real job though," I said. "One that pays the bills."
"What is it you do then?"
"I sell canoe paint. Boat paint too."
"Is business good?"
"No, it's all dried up."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I work summers here, and decided to stay on for the winter."
"Where are you from?" I asked.
"Schenectady," She said.
"That's a shame."
"Yes it is."

The waiter brought my beer and a fresh drink for the woman, and toasted us with a shot of something.

"What do you write?" she asked.
"Mostly comedy. It's all bad, actually."
"Oh I get it. All dried up, like paint dries. That's cute."
"Yes, but all bad like my writing. When you have to write it down to explain a joke, then it's all bad, see?"
"I doubt that." She said.
"You'd be surprised," I said, taking a long pull from the cold bottle of beer.
"We get a lot of movie people up here, you know?"
"Yes. I heard that Robert Redford has a place near here." I said.
"I dunno'. But I saw Danny Devito and his wife here earlier this week."
"Do they ski?" I asked.
"I didn't ask them."
"Oh. I see."
"Yes."
"Do you have a hot tub?" I asked.
"No. Why do you ask?"
"Oh. Sorry. I was dreaming of your naked body in a hot tub, just then."
"Mmmmmmmm. Sounds nice," she said sincerely and with passion. "I have to be going soon. My five kids are with a sitter."
"Is she Irish?" I asked.
"Huh?"
"Never mind."
"I don't get you."
"You could though."
"Could what?" she asked.
"Get me. You know?"
"Well maybe another time," she said, draining the last of her cocktail through the straw and making a slurping sound in the glass. "I better run."

"Oh, I see. Well Goodnight then," I said, rising from the barstool, putting a twenty on the bar, and walking the few steps to the coat rack.
"Oh. Well goodnight. See you tomorrow?" she asked.
"I'll try. I have urgent business, however. We'll see."
"I get off earlier tomorrow. Come by."
"All right," I said.

Mr. McConnel walked the few short blocks to his hotel room and upon entering his room tried to write fiction. He was depressed because he realized that his writing read too much like Ernest Hemingway, and that the piece he had just finished sounded quite like Homage To Switzerland.

The following morning he rose early at first light, and truly and sincerely shot himself.