The shimmering curtain of late summer heat maintained an uncertain distanceas I raced along the narrow ribbon of pavement. I had long since tired of themirage and its equally illusive accomplice, the maddeningly flat terrain thatstretched on forever in all directions. Together they poked and prodded at myimagination until I began to wonder whether I was really moving at all or simplyfrozen to the spot as the unchanging world rushed past.So when the billboard loomed out of the haze inviting me to Grab a cold one atWalt's General Store and Feed Emporium (just five easy miles east of thehighway) I took the exit without the slightest regret for the detour. There wasnowhere I needed to be, no one waiting anxiously for my return; just the end ofanother long and mildly fruitful sales trip through the farm belt.The wind swept through the open window as I sped past fields of corn and soy andsunflower, leaving a long trail of dust to slowly settle back to earth. In oneof these fields I noticed a young man driving golf balls into a plot of cutcane. What caught my eye was the intensity the youth displayed towards thepractice session, and the odd fact that he seemed to be hitting an entire bushelof balls instead of a mere bucket.Welcome to Morely, Population 89 another sign announced as I entered the tinytown almost hidden beyond it. Beneath this someone had scrawled: The smack-dabmiddle of Nebraska. The entire town consisted of a single block and the eightbuildings that graced its parallel walks. Locating the general store was not adifficult task, especially since the proprietor had painted one whole side ofits rusting tin roof with: "Walt's, Where You Can Get Just About AnythingYou're Lookin' For.""Yeah, right," I muttered as I left my car and climbed onto theweathered porch.I stepped through the screen door and revised my initial estimate of the place.It was much bigger than it appeared from the street, and the first thing I sawupon entering was a wide assortment of computer hardware, each decked out withthe latest and greatest features fresh from the fertile valley of Silicon.Surrounding this high-tech display, Walt had carefully arranged an ensemble ofstuffed prairie dogs posed with various musical instruments. Their bright, beadyeyes glittered with mockery.

My interest piqued, I began to wander down the aisles. Most of the shelvesseemed devoted to the ordinary staples found in any backwater store, yetsprinkled here and there among the everyday were other, less pedestrian wares.An Italian espresso machine tucked innocently between the Coffee Mate and theFolger's Crystals caused me to linger for a moment, as did the vintage WWII U.S.Army Air Corps parachute that was trying very hard to blend in with the rest ofthe sporting goods. I strolled past a saxophone, a speargun, a jackhammer, atelescope, a fax machine, and a lobster trap that reeked of brine and seaweed. Ahijacked New York City parking meter, its red violation flag waving impotently,lured me down an aisle to gawk at a rather shocking array of women's lingeriemodeled on, of all things, old milk cans with faces painted on their batteredskins.But by far the most interesting item that Walt had to display was the huge polarbear rug that had been tacked across the back wall. Dangling from a shiny clawwas a small tag claiming that the rug was once the property of Errol Flynn andthe site of many a risqué romp with an assortment of Hollywood starlets. Istepped back and pitied the once majestic brute, finding it hard to imaginewicked old Errol writhing naked on the snow-white fur with Monroe, or Mansfield,or whomever, clutched in a drunken embrace.I suppose the idea was for someone to purchase the rug and carry on thetradition, but the bear's hazy glass eyes had an odd glint to them, as if tosuggest that they had witnessed enough fornicating, thank you very much, andwould like to be left to hang in peace. Even the carnivorous mouth managed toexpress its contempt for the rug's sordid past, frozen not in a snarl but rathera grimace of distaste.Eventually I happened on a wall cooler with a beat up surfboard listing casuallyagainst its side. I pulled out a root beer and made my way back to the counter,which was manned by an acne-ravaged teen-ager who had watched my progressthrough the store with interest.

"That all, mister?" the kid asked, clearly implying that only a foolwould leave the place with nothing but a soda pop, especially with Errol's rugof iniquity just waiting to