A Road Trip - Part 1

It was December of 2020. The last month of the worst year in a long time. I always figured something terrible would happen in the year of perfect vision. Then again, I’m one of those who always assumes something terrible is going to happen.

The world was chaotic, as it always is. But the headlines were especially troubling. The news was one long blur of insanity, and I needed some relief. The politics had found their way into every conversation at work.

So, I decided that a road trip was in order, and took some time off work. My plan was to do a cross-country trip along Interstate-40 in my Chevy Cruze, sleeping on BLM (bureau of land management) land in the back of my car (and, of course, getting a hotel when I needed it).

I knew it would be an introverted trip, time alone to myself, away from others. Covid would ensure that. I remained in my car for nearly the whole trip, like a bubble boy only passing through.

The destination decision was simple: I decided to head west for Los Angeles. I had never been, so why not? I had always been curious how the continental United States flowed as you drove across it. I wanted to see the whole thing unfold in front of my eyes, in real-time. I knew about the plains of Oklahoma and figured it went from that terrain to a desert. And that was true enough. You get as far as western Oklahoma into northern Texas, and the land becomes arid and widens, looking like scenes out of Courage the Cowardly Dog. Those windpumps are everywhere. But before you ever see that, there's the long stretch across the volunteer state (Tennessee). As soon as you hit Memphis near the Mississippi River (you know, Elvis Presley), a wild Bass Pro Shops pyramid appears, silvery and impossible not to notice, where I’m guessing they buried Elmer Fudd. Then before you know it, the Hernando de Soto Bridge, which spans Mark Twain’s muse, spits you into nothing but crop fields. And you drive for miles again, across Arkansas, riding alongside the crops.

Just you and the crops.

You might see a crop silo here or there. A farmhouse. But that’s about it. Most of the time you stare listlessly at the back of semi-trucks.

So, I make my way to the Ozarks, straight through little rock. Not sure where the name came from, but I’m imagining it’s 1842...and some guy says, “Gosh darn it! I’ve got nowhere to go!” Then he decides where he’s standing is just fine, thank you very much, right there in the great state of Arkansas. He picks up a little rock, and says, “Right here’s just fine, darn tootin’. I’ll call it Little Rock, after this here little rock, by golly.” That's about the extent of my very literal imagination. All I know is that at some point I was all turned around in that city only to find myself driving up and down random streets, with no clue where I was, the sun setting, only to end up interfering in a drag race.

A bunch of cars were lined up in a row on a street near the highway, between a backlot with tall brick buildings. It looked like a scene from a movie; a particular movie that took place in Tokyo.

The name escapes me.

Everybody had souped-up cars, with neon lights fixed into their undercarriages, with the exception being me: the dummy with a self-effacing grin, driving aimless down the street in a Chevy Cruze and a ball cap. A dummy that was more than welcome to be there, I’m sure. Then the sun went down. It couldn’t watch I guess. I pulled into the driveway of a building in front of everyone in their cars (I’ll admit it was a subtle move for someone not seeking their attention). Now their headlights were all on me. The beeping and obscenities started. I begin to say weird things to myself, turning the steering wheel like a madman, doing everything I could to back out of that driveway with haste, making my escape to the Interstate. I thought maybe for a minute I was interrupting a film production.

That was probably the case.

I backed out of that driveway and swung around and down the nearest street that I could see, into the basking rays of the beautiful, soul-nourishing lumination of those golden arches - the great haven for all dummies lost on a road trip: the MacDonalds. I pulled into the MacDonalds and got myself a dollar Coke, I'll have you know.

My blood sugar rose,

I gained an extra pound,

and my adrenaline subsided.

Now it was back to the highway, after thumbing through routes in Google maps.

Also, It was getting late, and I knew I needed to get some sleep.

But it wasn’t over yet.

I drove for a while more, and got off an exit to get gas, then somehow got turned around again.

I drove for miles down a dirt road in the woods.

For miles.

It was pitch black outside and my headlights were the only light source I could see with.

At any moment, a crazed psycho would jump out at me and attack my windshield, I thought. After some time, I found myself riding through a small 'all-American' town: Little church. Post Office. Liquor store. DG. Youth group playing volleyball in a gymnasium. Along the streets were banners, for such and such events happening. Just a hunky dory, kinda place. And luckily, I found the route back to the highway, and pulled into a hotel in the ozarks. I had no idea I was in the ozarks until the next morning.

Tomorrow, I would get back on I-40, heading for Barstow, and then off to Will Rogers State Beach, where the Pacific was and where I could daydream and not think about the world and its problems - at least for a week or two, anyway.

- Thanks for reading.

- Part 2 coming soon.