<\/p>\n
Out on the old highways, weaving through forest and mountain, wide spot towns and lonely pit stops in the shadow of Interstate exchanges, there\u2019s one thing these lost highways, these local, state and federal roads, bring to mind:\u00a0 The sharp focus of freedom.\u00a0 A free people, a free country, and the ability to drive, drive, drive in any direction for hundreds, thousands, of miles.\u00a0 Nothing ahead but the unchanging landscape of pick-up trucks, pepperoni rolls, Indian tacos, two eggs, scrambled, hash browns and bacon.\u00a0 Nothing out there but a destiny to be shaped, a few bottomless cups of coffee, and choices to make.\u00a0 Come to a town, fall in love with it, settle down.\u00a0 Nothing ahead but the immortal life of the wide open, the pioneer land.\u00a0 Drive, they say.\u00a0 <\/span><\/p>\n But, just as quickly, there\u2019s another thing that the old highways of America remind me of:\u00a0 My absolute slavery.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Slavery to the dollar, to my boss, to the bills, to the cost of the car I\u2019m pushing through those weaving roads.\u00a0 To the inevitable return, to the commute into the center of an unforgiving, poisonous city.\u00a0 Dreams crashing against breakers.\u00a0 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.\u00a0 The boss always watching, always hovering in the door.\u00a0 Are you working?\u00a0 Are you wasting your time writing?\u00a0 Are you lying, are you cheating?\u00a0 An hour of work spread throughout an eight hour day \u2013 life wasted amongst the waterheads, the lost souls, the people who have come to believe in their slavery, or have given up hope.\u00a0 What does the American road mean to them now, in their darkness?<\/span><\/p>\n For days after time on the highway, I feel the twists and turns in my arms.\u00a0 My foot twitches as I gear down to pass through a forgotten town.\u00a0 Reduced speed limit ahead \u2013 30 miles per hour of small town Americana.\u00a0 A church, a few houses, a gas station that belongs on a withered post card.\u00a0 There and gone, bring the car back up to 60, follow the yokels past dirt roads and distant farmhouses, <\/span>homesteads still alive and breathing in the 21st<\/sup> century.\u00a0 Up the mountain, down again, ears popping.<\/span><\/p>\n In the far distance, blasting through rock and forest, the Interstate is a glittering snake.\u00a0 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.\u00a0 Silence for long minutes until a lonely car rolls by.\u00a0 Locals, lost tourists, fellow aficionados of the old highways.\u00a0 122 East, 50 West, 29 South, 40 West, 1 North.\u00a0 Cities, towns, nothing.\u00a0 I forget how to do my job as the road fever runs through me.\u00a0 I forget how to log into my antiquated computer crouched in my busy little office.\u00a0 I forget the code to get through the doors.\u00a0 I forget what my desk chair feels like, what the phone sounds like, what all the reminder notes say.\u00a0 I forget who my co-workers are; I can\u2019t remember what my boss looks like.\u00a0 The dead, the lost, underground or burned up.\u00a0 The empty road roars beneath my tires, or I stamp it with my feet outside the Lakeview Motel, the Squire County Motor Court, Hunter\u2019s Diner, Jennie\u2019s Diner, the Old Lane Motor Inn.\u00a0 Where\u2019s the best place for a cheap dinner?\u00a0 What\u2019s to do around here? <\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n In the night is silence.\u00a0 In a strange bed, in a dirty and empty motel, there is nothing but country darkness. \u00a0Maybe a freight train wails in the distance, maybe the road is home to a few cars. Guests may arrive late \u2013 car doors slamming, hushed voices, ghosts outside my window. \u00a0A few flicks through the TV channels, no pay channels available, sometimes just antenna reception.\u00a0 Nothing to do but sleep and dream of the road.\u00a0 On and on and on, double yellow, no passing zone.\u00a0 Reduced speed ahead.\u00a0 Railroad ahead.\u00a0 Stopping at an unmarked crossing in the middle of cornfields and watching a mile of boxcars pass by.\u00a0 All alone, leaning against the hood, crickets all around.\u00a0 Summer sun on cracked, fading asphalt.\u00a0 Christian music on the only radio station without static.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n On the way home.\u00a0 Back to my bed, back to my shower, back to the routine.\u00a0 Good coffee, comfort, ritual.\u00a0 Back to work, high-steps over rain puddles to the Metro, punch a clock and sit down.\u00a0 Feel the highway in blood and bones.\u00a0 Watch over my shoulder for the boss, the nosy co-worker.\u00a0 Do nothing all day.\u00a0 Just send checks\u2026 That\u2019s the motto.\u00a0 Keep the money coming in and turning right around to the credit cards, the insurance, the loans, the cell phone, the rent.\u00a0 Not a penny left at the end of the day.\u00a0 A thousand stories from a thousand waitresses and cashiers in my head \u2013 I came here, I loved it, I stayed.\u00a0 <\/span><\/p>\n Smiles in small towns.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[352],"tags":[353,161],"class_list":["post-2535","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-gsarchive","tag-gs-archive-2004-2008","tag-travel"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2535","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2535"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2535\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2643,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2535\/revisions\/2643"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2535"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2535"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2535"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}