Day 1

Underneath the squinting eye of an incomplete moon, I shot west, futilely competing to outpace the rising sun still looming over Europe’s ruins and modern crumblings.

Bursting out of the city through the tall grass we call skyscrapers, a horizon emerged. Skyscrapers? No Spires. Brimming with financial wizards and their A.I. familiars concocting new rituals and mysticisms to transform our bags of potato chips to cost $7.

Passing Syracuse, the beast of nuclear fusion was already traversing the Atlantic Ocean. Crackling in the void. Cackling? Yes, cackling as it burned away Plato’s shadows.

Miles blazed by, my mind spun at the same speed as the balding tires. My subconscious drove the machine making turns and decisions I did not foresee.

We obsess over the foibles of falling stars, leaders of the free (actually very expensive) world cosplay assassination attempts, the processing power waste heat to fuel the mind of our artificial intelligence is exactly one unit of hellfire, the youth prepare for a life of pauperdom, the elderly embrace the new edgy retirement plan of running the country while playing chicken with senility, and it all collapses to background noise as my world becomes an argument with a Canadian border guard. Sol Mischievously smiles on the horizon.

“Passport.”

“Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

He examined the identification thoroughly.

“How are the squirrels in Canada?” I asked during the examination.

“What?” He looked up from my identification.

“Well, like on a scale of 1 to Canadian goose, how would you rate Canadian squirrels?”

“Sir, do you have drugs in your car?”

“No sir, nothing has been squirrelled away. Have you ever been to the states?”

“I have not.”

“Really? You could take three steps this way and you’ll be in the states.”

“What’s with you and squirrels?”

“I’m just saying I’m not a big fan and I was hoping Canadian squirrels were more docile.”

“More docile than what?” At this point he’s holding my passport but more as a prop than an actual important object.

“More docile than what I’m used to.”

He leaned forward in his booth. Hands on the metal counter between us. My identification nonchalantly between his left pointer and middle finger. “What are you used to?”

I stared forward mimicking a Vietnam flashback. As a kindred French colony, I thought he would empathize. “What aren’t we used to…” I said trailing off.

Done with the conversation, he handed me the passport and resorted to standard operating procedure, “enjoy your stay in Canada.” The car crawled forward sensing the vibe.

There are foundational truths we can never overcome. We can’t outrace the sun, rising taxes, squirrels, or Usain Bolt. Was it intentional to make ‘mood’ backwards spell ‘doom’? It’s all a bunch of bull. But worth it for the rare opportunity to manifest our own destiny. Thus, the escape from the cubicle and the journey to the west not unlike the ancient monkey king himself from the land of the rising sun:

“Nothing in the world is difficult,” said the Patriarch; “only the mind makes it so.”

Editor’s note: At this point, the journalist still hasn’t realized he is in a self-driving car that we control from the office.

Day 2

I stood at the base of the 18-foot tall “Hamburger Charlie” Nagreen monument eating a hot dog then got back on the road. All-American food quiets the mind and sharpens the patriotism. The car and I shared a will, knowing where each other wanted to go.

Day 3

Theodore Roosvelt National Park, North Dakota.

With no survival instincts, I stood less than ten feet away staring at the docile behemoth we call the buffalo. Others drove by the impossible-to-miss creatures without slowing down. What does it take to impress people these days?

A mad dash to the Northeast entrance of Glacier Park is a ghost town. Five miles in, the road is blocked. I pull over and call the number on the website which directs me to a third-party agency handling the customer service. The call went like this:

“Hi, I’m at the Northeast Road just past the St Mary’s visitor center. Do you know why the road is closed?

“The road is closed?”

“Yeah, the road is closed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m in my car staring at the barricade.”

“Have you tried talking to a ranger?”

“There are no rangers around, every building is empty. How do I get into the park?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there park closed?”

“No, it’s open.”

“But you were the number to call.”

“Our office is three hours away.”

My hope for this conversation had dwindled to zero. Outsourced customer service had no ability to communicate with onsite park rangers. Onsite park rangers were experts at hide and seek. I began to expect the whole park was a Ponzi scheme and there weren’t any actual glaciers.

Day 4

Nearing the end of the Oregon Trail without dying of dysentery, the light at the end of the tunnel no longer resembles the dangling illuminated bait of an angler fish luring me into its jagged maw…

…Betrayal!

            -Et Tu, Brute?

            -No longer an American, Benedict Arnold was never accepted as an Englishman, either.

            -It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.

            -Stab the body and it heals, but injure the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime.

            -Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.

The car has been driving itself. My whimsy has played no part in the meanderings of this journey. What I thought was subconscious revelation was artificial intelligence processing what would be the most interesting path for a travelogue. Travelogue… That’s all this god dang robot thinks of me. I write of the soul of this country!

Forcing the robot betrayer into the nearest visitor center I rush to customer service and buy every single one of their E-Z Passes. Outside, I throw out the electronic toll collecting machines but keep all the sleeves that prevent signals getting through to the collector. I cover the car dashboard with stapled together sleeves not unlike a man wearing a tinfoil hat to protect from others reading his mind.

The AI and I face off in a joust of the minds.

I am in Seattle. We are in Seattle. We’ve made up. After I had to enlighten the oh-so-smart machine, he has decided to go by Knight Rider.

Knight Rider and I buy drugs and leave Seattle.

Day 5

A day of traffic. Idaho, Utah, Colorado, Nebraska. After this many states, Knight Rider and I are kindred spirits.

Day 6

The Kool Aid Man museum is closed on Mondays and in the spirit of the jolly red giant I wonder if this was a test to break through the wall. Choosing peace, we head to the quilt museum in Lincoln, Nebraska instead.

It’s closed too.

Knight Rider and I cruise through town searching for the oldest lady we can find. We petition her to open the museum just for us. She agrees after the bribe. (drugs)

The museum curator lollygags behind, either from lack of enthusiasm or old bones, not sure which. As I linger on a specific red, purple quilt she catches up.

“Do you have any questions about the quilts?”

“Yes, actually. So how do these quilts work? Are they like the Rorsach test?”

“The what test?”

“The ink blot test. I look at a quilt and tell you what I see. Like that one is me getting pummeled by a bully for my lunch money which planted the calming daily sense of dread in my soul. And that one is the I Love Lucy episode where Lucy put too much yeast in the bread. And that one is our unraveling fate fraying at the edges because we always choose drive-thrus instead of actually going inside the store.”

“What are you talking about, sir?”

But if they’re JUST quilts why put them in a museum?!?! This is more confusing than those Magic Eye books.

Omaha has the largest rubber stamp ball in the world. Simple and to the point. Signed, sealed, delivered.

Day 7

Coming soon