American Road
Out on the old highways, weaving through forest and mountain, wide spot towns and lonely pit stops in the shadow of Interstate exchanges, there’s one thing these lost highways, these local, state and federal roads, bring to mind: The sharp focus of freedom. A free people, a free country, and the ability to drive, drive, drive in any direction for hundreds, thousands, of miles. Nothing ahead but the unchanging landscape of pick-up trucks, pepperoni rolls, Indian tacos, two eggs, scrambled, hash browns and bacon. Nothing out there but a destiny to be shaped, a few bottomless cups of coffee, and choices to make. Come to a town, fall in love with it, settle down. Nothing ahead but the immortal life of the wide open, the pioneer land. Drive, they say.
But, just as quickly, there’s another thing that the old highways of America remind me of: My absolute slavery.
Slavery to the dollar, to my boss, to the bills, to the cost of the car I’m pushing through those weaving roads. To the inevitable return, to the commute into the center of an unforgiving, poisonous city. Dreams crashing against breakers. Papers to be shuffled, emails to be sent, words like this to be written in a tiny screen down in the corner of my monitor. The boss always watching, always hovering in the door. Are you working? Are you wasting your time writing? Are you lying, are you cheating? An hour of work spread throughout an eight hour day – life wasted amongst the waterheads, the lost souls, the people who have come to believe in their slavery, or have given up hope. What does the American road mean to them now, in their darkness?
For days after time on the highway, I feel the twists and turns in my arms. My foot twitches as I gear down to pass through a forgotten town. Reduced speed limit ahead – 30 miles per hour of small town Americana. A church, a few houses, a gas station that belongs on a withered post card. There and gone, bring the car back up to 60, follow the yokels past dirt roads and distant farmhouses, homesteads still alive and breathing in the 21st century. Up the mountain, down again, ears popping.
In the far distance, blasting through rock and forest, the Interstate is a glittering snake. A pull off with a gorge down one side lets you stare across the endless forest, balding Appalachia, a strip mine, farms, a tiny town, bypassed by that snake weaving below. Silence for long minutes until a lonely car rolls by. Locals, lost tourists, fellow aficionados of the old highways. 122 East, 50 West, 29 South, 40 West, 1 North. Cities, towns, nothing. I forget how to do my job as the road fever runs through me. I forget how to log into my antiquated computer crouched in my busy little office. I forget the code to get through the doors. I forget what my desk chair feels like, what the phone sounds like, what all the reminder notes say. I forget who my co-workers are; I can’t remember what my boss looks like. The dead, the lost, underground or burned up. The empty road roars beneath my tires, or I stamp it with my feet outside the Lakeview Motel, the Squire County Motor Court, Hunter’s Diner, Jennie’s Diner, the Old Lane Motor Inn. Where’s the best place for a cheap dinner? What’s to do around here?
In the night is silence. In a strange bed, in a dirty and empty motel, there is nothing but country darkness. Maybe a freight train wails in the distance, maybe the road is home to a few cars. Guests may arrive late – car doors slamming, hushed voices, ghosts outside my window. A few flicks through the TV channels, no pay channels available, sometimes just antenna reception. Nothing to do but sleep and dream of the road. On and on and on, double yellow, no passing zone. Reduced speed ahead. Railroad ahead. Stopping at an unmarked crossing in the middle of cornfields and watching a mile of boxcars pass by. All alone, leaning against the hood, crickets all around. Summer sun on cracked, fading asphalt. Christian music on the only radio station without static.
On the way home. Back to my bed, back to my shower, back to the routine. Good coffee, comfort, ritual. Back to work, high-steps over rain puddles to the Metro, punch a clock and sit down. Feel the highway in blood and bones. Watch over my shoulder for the boss, the nosy co-worker. Do nothing all day. Just send checks… That’s the motto. Keep the money coming in and turning right around to the credit cards, the insurance, the loans, the cell phone, the rent. Not a penny left at the end of the day. A thousand stories from a thousand waitresses and cashiers in my head – I came here, I loved it, I stayed.
Smiles in small towns.