On The Road

If it seems like I've been away from these pages for a good long time, you'd be correct. You see, I've been on the road for a while now, plying my familiar course between SF and Chicago, trying to better understand this hollowed out ideal of youth. Or, relative youth, at the very least. Anyway, I fashion myself a rugged driver. A machine known for passing up rest stops and piss breaks at an alarming rate. I've been known to slap myself awake until my cheeks are a rosy hue and my eyes are nothing more than red shocks of madness. I prefer driving alone because I can achieve a calculated degree of voluntarily induced hysteria. Here is my look back:


Day One: San Rafael to Salt Lake City (728 miles)

I woke up early and played trucks with my nephew for the last time in the foreseeable future. His tiny grasp on this world probably afforded him the joy only a child can know, as for me, I was knotted up with a wistful knowing that we wouldn't be playing basketball or throwing rocks into the stream or playing "tackle the uncle" for a good long while. My sister brewed coffee. I said yes.

I set out around 10am to miss traffic. The northern California heat grew steadily until I hit the Sierras and then the gathering elevation evened it out. These early hours of the trip were somewhat heavy on my heart. I saw exits for Napa and Sonoma, both places I've spent napping alongside one of the few true loves of my life after an afternoon of wine. As I approached Reno I thought of my brother and our midnight run across the border for Hold'em and free Heinekens and deep jostling belly laughs. It felt as though I was leaving this fertile valley of California fondness and into the desolate dessert of Nevada unknown. I hit Reno around 2pm. I rubbed my dashboard and pressed on.

Nevada was a five hour winding road with no AM radio presence or apparent upside. I can see a room full of balding white policy makers years ago shouting at each other, "If we dont legalize gambling, who the hell is going to come out here?" They were right. I decide to listen to the first two hours of my On The Road audiobook. I was a little wary because it was being performed by Matt Dillon, but I must say that I was pleasantly surprised. I heard he was portraying a young Charles Bukowski in the upcoming Factotum (one of my favorite books) and after my initial skepticism, I am now firmly onboard. Anyway, I watched as the towns passed, Winnemuca, Elko, Wells as Sal Paradise decided to begin his journey from the other coast. We'd meet in Nebraska as I'd eventually find out.

Sunset across the expansive salt flats of western Utah, running on the glowing earth as the sky lit up the world ten different colors, the glistening lights of Salt Lake City dancing with possibility in the distance. That two hour stretch was a great calm after a restless first day behind the wheel. I turned on the basketball game as I hit the city limits, Stevie Nash scored ten straight points with 4 minutes left, the Mavs kept turning the ball over and gave away Game One. Comical. I can see the floppy haired Canadien getting carried off the court in my mind. Time for bed.


Day Two: Salt Lake City to Lincoln, NE (880 miles)

I slept in until 9am to miss traffic once again, but also because I was given the King-sized suite with kitchen, Jacuzzi and free cookies (they were on a tray, it was glorious) for a measly 50 dollars. This favorable outcome came about because I was directed to a non-smoking single room late the previous night, however the room wasn't made up and it smelled like it was hot-boxed by three dozen potheads feverishly smoking brick weed until they couldn't hold their heads up anymore. For having to witness this, they gave Daddy the Rainman suite. Life works sometimes.

I pop up through what's left of Utah and soon I'm running along the dusty straits of Wyoming on I-80. I pass small towns and wonder what the world must seem like to a sophomore in high school in Lyman,WY. Does he have notions of greatness? Will he ever have to understand the terrors of a New York City subway map? Will prejudices he assumes as commonplace someday be the barrier that prevents him from meeting a best friend? Now, I'm not judging or condemning a whole state because of a stereotype or a hate crime that happened in Laramie, I'm only imagining what small town rural life must amount to at times. Here's the thing, I just feel like the "heartland" of this country is so isolated and so polarized that it has no connection with the soul of this nation. For the most part, it seems like a lost connector of minds that harvest and pick and spit without instigating progressive thought or belief.

Anyway, I hit Cheyenne in the mid afternoon and post up on an Arby's for some curly fries and a Jamocha (the most underrated beverage of our generation). I'm sitting there, waiting for my order in this empty place, watching the young boys and girls cajole and mimic each other in some terrible mating ritual never conceived of before. Terrible humor, worse hair. And I can't stop watching it. It got me to thinking, what happens when it gets to Real World 47 and they have nowhere else to go but Cheyenne? Aren't cast members going to get into bar fights daily? Will there be cow tipping? How much cow tipping will there be? Will their job be to run the new Baskin Robbins in town square? Ok, I'm officially giddy.

Nebraska was a non-event. One long road that gobbled up my will to live. I finally grabbed a Motel 8 room in Lincoln around 10pm, drank a six pack of Bud and expired in a ball under the air conditioner.


Day Three: Lincoln, NE to Chicago (523 miles)

The shortest day. The day I arrive. The easiest day? Not by a longshot. As Olivia put it, you feel like that scene from Monty Python and The Holy Grail where you see the character running and running and running and then you see the wide shot of him and hes still two hundred yards away. This is how this whole day felt.

I was on the road by 7am so I could hit local traffic like an asshole. I was into Iowa by 9am. Okay, so the vistas afforded by I-80 havent been beautiful since Utah. I want to turn off and see the Field of Dreams. I want to swerve into a corn patch and kill a scarecrow. I want to get the fuck out of this place. At this point I'm on my fifth and final 2 hour section of my audiobook. Sal has been up and down, left and right. He's seen the swamps of Louisiana and the vineyards outside Bakersfield, CA. He's been through foolish Denver nights and suffered with crooked cops in the foothills of Virginia. I've been on the same goddamn road for three days and I'm starting to see cross-eyed.

I hit Des Moines and the countdown begins. I start leaving cryptic messages on peoples machines. I tell people I'm going to fly around the world in a balloon one day and drop pamphlets all over the world about something or other. I'm going to buy stock in Sexiness and then get a gym membership. It doesnt matter, I've lost it at this point. I text people "Fort Hancock, TX" when I hit Davenport because Andy Dufresne said to Red, "Thats where Im gunna cross... Right on the border..." I swipe my gas card ten times and begin bargaining with the machine before the family of four in their minivan starts to stare. I crack a big, over-wrought smile and finally get it right. I take the squeegee from the bucket and whistle the tune from Deliverance as I get the bugs off the windshield. Nothing short of a nuclear assault is going to keep me from the city. The lights. The smells. The people.

I hit Chicago city limits at 3pm on a Friday. Traffic. I doesnt matter. I play Frank as the buildings come into view. I open the windows, turn off the cold air and sweat an honest Chicago sweat. Sticky backs on seats, matted hair and a fuckin maniacal smile. I pull the car into the dock by four. I come into my parents apartment, turn on the TV, slump into my favorite red canvas chair and watch the Cubs blow a two-run lead in the ninth inning to lose to the Braves....

AHHHHHHHHHHHH.....

Sweet Home, Chicago...