Once a month, he would check into a local motel for just a few hours. He would enter the motel room, turn on the television between channels so that only the hiss of white noise filled the room. He would lie on the bed and imagine himself in some serene place within the reproduction of whatever painting was on the wall. On this night, he is in a Chinese garden walking among the exotic flowers. He passes a beautiful woman who takes him by the hand and leads him down a pathway. Suddenly there is a crashing sound jarring him back to reality. Yes, he thought, my old nemesis… the ice machine.