It was a foggy start to the break. And for once, I’m not talking about the usual, self-inflicted hangover variety.
A thick blanket of actual fog obscured The City, a fact noticed immediately after my two asshole cats woke me with the pointless insanity of their morning zoomies performed right across my face. A first glance out the window made me think it was time to maybe change my contacts. Those daily disposables that I habitually wear until they decide to plop themselves off my eyeballs all on their own.
But no, it was just Mother Nature in her white robe. Bringing a rarely displayed layer of modesty to The City. Because for a brief moment, if you squinted just the right way with stale contact eyes, she looked almost pretty for once. Almost pretty enough for me to say fuck it and just stay “home.”
But a room was booked and waiting. Plans in place. Ideas simmering. I needed the rush of the road. More than anything, I needed the escape from the whole Michigan of it all.
It remained foggy for the usual grind south. For a little while, anyway. And then it was the same exits. Same pedestrian off ramp offerings. Same cookie cutter chunks of consumerism blobbed at staggered exits.
I swear at this point I could probably fucking drive all the way to Wayne’s City blindfolded.
The ghosts had eagerly lined themselves up all along that oft traveled highway, blindfold or not. Ready to pounce. And pull at the triggers. Or pick at the scabs. But I anticipated their intentions and chose to just fucking ignore them for once. There was better real estate in my head worth exploring. And I didn’t want to roll through the City of Wayne with the stink of decomposition clinging to me.
It was bad enough that I was smoking too many “on the road” comforts. The ones pulled from a yellow box gently crumbled in the haste to launch.
I knew she’d be disappointed in me. But I needed that burn to help push me down the road. Because I was just a nervous Michigan fox dodging and weaving his way through the Indiana wolfpacks.
Besides, the last time tires actually stopped in her zip code, life imitated the art. On that random Sunday in the heart of her city, despite what was listed in the playbill, she was the beauty. And I ended up being her beast. So it didn’t seem prudent to even attempt to stop. Because I’m not sure my apology even stuck.
So I pushed through a familiar twist of highways, suddenly further south than I had been in years. Because up until that point, it had always been about heading north. In all honesty my least favorite of the cardinal directions.
Especially now.
But there were some benefits to being that far down under the veiny, asphalted ballsack of Wayne again.
I found it disgustingly comforting that Huntington still smells like hot hog shit. And that the signs advertising Uranus in a hilariously embracing manner still line the highway. Especially the ones highlighting the benefits of their fudge factory. Right above the billboard touting a fairytale.
Then I was a fox caught in the land of bunnies. First, the terrifying metal incarnation propped up outside the churning factory of a mega-conglomerate. Then just as quickly, a fleet of semis emblazoned with the blue mascot of a bread company seemed to swarm up out of nowhere. The mascot of what just happens to be the official bread of the Indianapolis Colts.
Don’t ask me how I know that. Or why a professional football team even needs to endorse a loaf. I guess anything for a buck. Yeah, that’s what I said (that’s an Indiana joke, so please forgive if you are unfamiliar and it reads like gibberish).
Breaking left before the hassle of 465, that multi-laned monstrosity looping around Indiana’s butthole, the road melted into music and heat.
Though it felt like summer, considering part of the day was 90 degrees, the trees know that winter is coming. And have only just started their transition, leaving them with the appearance of old broccoli.
Angled fields were filled with brittle corn. Some half harvested, others waiting patiently for the combing combines. Other fields gleamed gold with soybeans not yet ready for gathering. Sometimes, there were both, divided by a ruler straight Indiana State route road.
Eventually, the fields receded into more wooded terrain. And then the road began to twist and turn unpredictably, when not undulating up and down in stomach-churning, roller coaster fashion. It was a clear indicator of having transitioned truly into Southern Indiana where pavable real estate is at such a premium, it’s best to remain on guard for one lane bridges.
When I hooked right, slinging out of the roundabout that nobody ever seems to understand how to properly navigate, I rolled through the
blasted rock face leading down to the river.
And my destination.
A quick pass left at Main. A left turn up a ginormous hill that made the car whine and I had arrived at one of the few places where I was the closest to content.
Typewriter on the balcony table. The mighty Ohio running strong under the bridge. And the whole of a charming downtown waiting to be explored.
I have to trust that the universe will show me what’s next.
Because I know that story is out there.
And I’m ready to write happy things.
