This is a chapter from a book I am finishing entitled "GS455." The book will describe a cross-country trip I took in 1998.
In the next few days, the chapter will keep changing; I will add and subtract. Footnotes are marked with an asterisk and number (*1, for example).
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new england's tollways attest to our society's zealous pursuit of efficiency, cleanliness, and boredom. I say boredom because tollway developers bypass all ordinary roadside diversions - parks, small towns, ma and pa souvenier shops - for shorter driving time. count these tollways as losses for the lovers of backroads diversion, split-ends in the hair-weave of american roadways. so what has emerged in place of small-town - big road junctions? how has america decided to make up for the boredom it has created? commercial clutterings known as interstate 'islands.' Today's highway driver can take a shower, eat frozen yogurt, play computerized trivia games, or ride a mechanical horse, all while filling the gas tank. highway islands have successfully consolidated all roadside necessities, serving up an uncomfortably indulgant fun-feast for road-weary fathers, restless children, and sarcastic college students. clustered roadside commerce has arrived in these wondrous pleasure domes.
there exist no differences from one island to the next. they have each been designed according to the specifications of former U.S. Architect General Wally Gropius(*1), who sought to keep each each island unadorned, simplistic, and thoroughly boring. Perhaps he reserved all diversion for the island's interior. the lobby certainly provides its fair share- a heaping wall of vending machines offers minutes worth of window-shopping. driving gloves, combs, sewing kits, maps, car deodorizers, dog biscuits, panty hose, temporary tattoos, perfume, and electronic baseball games all tease the window-shopper. After browsing the machines, one can rest on the lobby's vinyl pea-green love-seats; they squeak in direct proportion to the sitter's weight, movement, and irritability to noise.
considering the tollways' high speeds and direct cross-country routes, they could've been called 'highly effective,' a phrase usually reserved for cavity removal. indeed, the experiences had much in common - both were orderly, sanitary, and not recomended without the use of prescription painkiller. in other words, the tollways lacked the reckless unpredictability essential to any road-trip. one need not anticipate animals running across the highway, small, family run fruit stands, or flower carts.
all cars sped and roared, driven by some higher purpose- to get to New York City. I slipped into their high-speed migration, a stream of souls eager for the big city's cures and diversions, those seeking to be either lost or found in the anonymity such a city provides. curious to see the seven boroughs myself, i continued towards the supreme monument to civilization and technology. New York presents visitors the jewels of human endeavor - the finest art, music, and films; the latest, greatest technologies; the tallest buildings; the best food; the fastest pace. A culture crawling out of its petri dish, grabbing a microphone, and performing a comedy routine.
It seemed only appropriate to present New York with what I considered the pinnacle of human development - my GS455. Approaching the city, I decided to test my driving -- navigate the 5'o clock swamp (new york rush hour) without slowing down. Absurd, but I couldn't deny myself. Call it naivete or stupiditee; I used those very words myself, several seconds after slogging into the mess.
i hit the city at 60 mph, engine roaring hard, cars squeezing in closer, maintaining speed despite the shrinking maneuverability. traffic doubled every mile until every empty inch of road vanished; bumper to bumper at 70-mph. i needed to drive the car delicately, perhaps not the GS455's strong suit. all cars were now interconnected, in a way- with such limited space, one accident would trigger 4 or 5 others.
still, many drivers (me included) continued pushing, threading spaces less than one carlength long. a complicated process- they turned their car nearly perpendicular to the flow of traffic, spun between two cars, and hit their brakes in a flurry of tire squeals and a plume of burnt rubber, thus righting their wheels and assuring neighboring motorists that they would not need their insurance today.
Inevitably, the traffic slowed from a number of delays- a five-car pileup, highway construction, a rash of cell-phone drivers alternating sentences with unsure stabs on the brake pedal. In fact, the traffic halted several times, during which cars sat still for minutes at a time. It seems that highway pileups bring out the capitalist in all of us, for along the halted highway, through the lines of traffic, men emerged seemingly from nowhere, peddling flowers, newspapers, candy, cigars, cigarettes, combs, soap, highway debris, and license plates. The peddlers had chosen their marketplace well; not only did they have a captive audience (literally), but their isolation from conventional commercial laws allowed them freedom to raise their voices, threaten potential customers, or even puncture tires. A fairly convincing sales pitch.
More creative men hustled off their sobriety, begging drivers to open their hearts and their wallets, with all proceeds promised towards tonight's intoxicants. I inferred this from their cardboard signs, which read, "I need money to get drunk." One man came up to my car window and yelled, "I want beer, gimme some money so I can go get beer." His speech sprayed a drunken saliva-dew on my partially opened window. I gave him a smile and rolled up my window completely; he shot me the finger.
One man peddled himself, an auction based either on desperation, humor, or drunkenness (I've found the three can be interchangable). "Take me for $15," his sign read. No takers, apparently, and for good reason - the man hadn't slept in days, hadn't shaved in months, and hadn't bathed in years - exactly the man you'd expect to be selling himself by the highway. If he had possessed even an inkling of business sense, he'd know to brighten his sales pitch, toss in a little humor. A little deodorant couldn't hurt either. And maybe, while he's at it, he could shake the exhaust grime from his beard.
by and by, i reached the eye of the storm. washington d.c. i really felt it approriate to draw the trip to a close here, since i saw america's dissatisfaction with clinton in every town, county, backroad, driveway, byway, and skyway. i overheard it on mountain tops, in totem pole preserves, in national forests, gas stations, and , from the workers of these places- gas station clerks, park rangers, janitors, eco-tourists, hotel maids, cocktail waitresses, car washers, dish dryers, . for the most part, these interactions lasted less than 10 seconds. i asked them their opinion on clinton, they would shake their head, or wrinkle up their face in consternation, or show some other sign of concern, and gradually confess their displeasure. some people cursed, threw their hands up as if to say, "beyond me, my friend," then clasped their hands above their head, laughed, pulled their hands back down, and clapped them repeatedly, never stopping their laughing or cussing. these people didn't seem surprised by his behavior, only surprised that the incident surfaced. they didn't take the incident too seriously.
one particularly amused man told me, "cain't blame 'im fer messin round on hillary, she idn't much to look at. not dat monica's a real peach, either." he thought that clinton should've forgotten monica and hillary and pursued al gore's daughters.
some spoke in quiet, firm voices.
i found myself fighting back cynicism, trying to be surprised by the president's behavior. i figured that a visit to d.c. would clear up my feelings on the subject.
i saw it on picket signs yelling "impeach!", i saw it written on bathroom stalls and warehouse walls and sold inside shopping malls as presidential dartboards and punching bags. i heard old drunks smash their fists against counter-tops, shaking their fingers at vacant air, slurring a speech about the Good Old Days ("whatever happened to honor in this damn country ... hiccup").
i stayed in a seedy hole-in-the-wall hostel called the student center; i won't go too far into the details because i don't want to scare you, dear reader. actually, the amibiguity of my comments will probably end up scaring you just as much. oh well. i arrived into a poor, poor area, with about 10 or 11 people sitting at the hostel entrance, each one aged by a bleak street life - begging for dimes and nickels, sleeping on concrete, eating food other people have thrown away. i didn't feel so much scared by these people as sad for them. I gave them whatever change i had and went inside.
Soon, loud noises came up from the street and i didn't go back outside for the rest of the night. about 2 dozen men started yelling right outside my window, with one voice overpowering the bunch. "WHO HAS THE POWER?" he yells it over and over. i almost respond sarcastically, but instead attempt to sleep. again, i said 'attempt.' after several hours, the men outside took a break, with a verbose, repetitive, unintelligible woman taking their place. she more than made up for their absence.
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Footnotes :
*1 = a made up name. Actually named after prominent figure of the Bauhaus who had nothing to do with roadside rest areas.
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