…misfortune wanders everywhere, and settles now upon one and now upon another.
-Prometheus Bound
1
The first leg of a road trip is a mad dash with no concrete destination. A throat slash through the in-between places. The asphyxiating small towns, tchotchke-ridden rest stops, and hotels at barren highway exits standing tall like forestless trees while I barrel through, caffeine-tranced over the endless red carpet that is the United States highway system.
Like a twilight race, I burst out of the starting gate under the cover of darkness speeding through the empire at 2am to eat up as much ground as possible before the bumper cars of morning rush hour awoke. I made it to Ohio before the brake pedal became necessary. Gas tank on fumes.
It’s not time but rather distance that weathers you. Dirt, grime, dusty wheels, and pulverized bugs are the sacrifice to miles. “Looks like someone can use a wash,” said an old timer at the Amherst rest stop as we filled our tanks across from one another.
Bloodshot eyes, no sleep, “I don’t have time. Everyone deserves a shot at a good life right? Look, the cartel’s after me. You’re what, seventy?” I pulled out my car key. Held it up, pleadingly. “Trade cars with me, mister.”
“Dear god,” he muttered hanging up the pump with a clunk before his tank was full.
“I don’t want to be a mule anymore,” I pleaded.
He opened his car door, the wind carried his words, “honey, honey call the cops.”
Topped off with gasoline, adrenaline, and an extra reason to get out of Ohio I yelled in a melancholy tone to the nice, old couple, “well sir I must be on my way to Detroit. Enjoy the rest of your days.” I gunned it for Fremont, Indiana.
2
Fremont, Indiana is home to a buffalo refuge tending to a herd of two hundred fifty of our nation’s true beast. I thought it only fitting to gaze upon these majestic, trundling, sneezing, harrumphing animals before witnessing the derby and the speed in which we move today. In town, on main street, talking with a sun-wrinkled old lady in a rocking chair I discovered the refuge was closed. Apparently open only Saturday and Sunday. As if a herd of buffalo required 9-5 weekday jobs to pay for room and board. Which actually sounded patriotically American.
Unphased, I assumed a small town couldn’t keep me out. Through reconnaissance on back roads I found out the access road was closed in both directions while they repaved. It was patrolled by an orange-vested construction crew on rollers. I couldn’t get within two miles. Phased, I drove to Indiana Sand Dunes National Park as a consolation prize.
After navigating a labyrinthine road system full of no public parking pitfalls, I made it to the dunes. 55-degree weather. Fahrenheit. Pale hundreds were in swim trunks and bikinis, bathing in water and soaking up weak sunrays. Could they even tan in this feeble light? Mad descendants of Vikings, I had no fear of a foreign invasion knowing our nation was comprised of folks whom found leisurely beach days in cold weather . Jeans and a flannel, I sat on the beach out of place as if I was the one who broke out of the asylum and not all of them. I read a few chapters of Antonio Di Benedetto’s Zama.
There remained the fear of dreams, which are incontrollable.
I became self-conscious and left.
I shot south to Indianapolis where I would spend 48 hours within striking distance of Louisville, Kentucky not ready to enter the horse’s maw.
3
At a bar named Tick Tock, a man named Jim downed a few drinks before heading out to his son’s high school baseball game. He dubbed the team the bad news bears. As he left, alcohol-infused, I prayed the umpire was ready for a hurricane. I wasted more time.
Eventually, I headed to the hotel to check-in and wash off the road. Clean, I laid down and died. In the morning, reborn, I decided to drive to Fairmount, population of 2,600. A quaint life surrounded by endless green fields awaiting harvest. Fairmount is home to the James Dean & Garfield Museum.
As I stepped inside, the only visitor, the curator excited for company jumped to her feet, “are you a big James Dean fan?!?”
I was there for the lovable orange cat. “Uhhh yeah,” I said. Throughout my trips crisscrossing the country she was without a doubt the most passionate and knowledgeable curator versed expertly in her subject matter. As she pointed into our twelfth glass case to bring my attention to an old phone list Jimmy had written out I wondered about the difference between museum collections and stalking. Amongst the list of celebrity friends, in capital letters was a number for an exterminator. I wondered if they would still answer if I called that number. Would you advertise killing James Dean’s rats as a claim to fame?
After a sixty minute, one on one tour, the museum received a second patron. Now alone, I wandered to the Garfield section squeezed into a small corner. Three display cases of paraphernalia with no history regarding his creation nor growth as if a $1 billion franchise was no match for a long dead actor four generations removed. If you showed everyone in the world two pictures, one of James Dean, one of Garfield, which one would they most likely recognize? What is real? What is truth? What is reality? Did James Dean like lasagna? James Dean died in 1955. Garfield lives on.
4
That night back in Indianapolis, drunk in a packed bar on Massachusetts Ave watching NBA playoffs, a weathered old man approached smiling before his first words, “excuse me, can I borrow your phone? I have to call my friend to tell him I’m here.”
“Where’s your phone,” I asked.
“It died,” he said.
“Where does your friend think you are?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, where does he think you currently are which requires correcting to tell him you’re here?”
“Sorry for bothering you,” he said still smiling stepping away.
“Is this a con?” He kept walking away right out the bar. I wasn’t mad, just curious, we all have to make a living.
The bartenders moved at a snail’s pace. To compensate I began ordering two beers at a time.
1AM. Massachusetts Ave sliced diagonally through the urban grid like an invasive gunshot. Walking, halfway to Monument Circle, a man approached. “Excuse me, can I borrow your phone, I have to call my friend in that apartment building,” he pointed, “and my phone has no signal.”
“Some guy was trying to use my phone a few hours ago in a bar over there, is this a con?”
“What? No, I don’t have a signal and I have to call my friend to let me in the building.”
“I don’t mind if it’s a con, I’m just curious, what’s the endgame here?”
We silently stared at each other for a few seconds. Without looking at his phone, he said, “oh it looks like I have a signal now.” He called someone, I continued my wanderings hearing the endless ringing of his phone call as no one picked up.
5
In Louisville I checked into the Omni after waiting behind a hundred other travelers mulling about in lazy chaos. The lady in front of me picked up her bag and put it down every shuffled step we took.
In my room, I transformed into an upstanding citizen. Showered, groomed, I threw on tan pants, loafers, a tasteful Hawaiian button up, and watch. Driving for days with a broken AC, my window remained open, left arm planted on the sill. It was five shades darker than the rest of me. Looking track-civilized I headed to Churchill Downs.
My driver immediately pointed out that he didn’t speak English then proceeded to try and make conversation the whole ride as we bounced foreign words off each other not understanding what the other was saying at all but smiling and nodding the whole time with a few, “uh huhs,” thrown in for good measure.
Ankle chained amidst human progress’s urban sprawl, Churchill Down beacons a past age.
I missed the first race but finally found my packed-like-sardines box. I had met up with a bachelor party three days into their drunken binge. I had been keeping up from a far in Indianapolis but we had finally joined forces. I observed the masses around us.
Minds with no questioning gait applied their own contrived step by step logic in picking assured winners. They’re all winners before the gates burst open. Which is really the whole point of this place. The sooner one places a bet before post the longer one can rejoice in pre-victory. Gambling is not about taking the pot. Its magic takes place before the cards fall or before the dice stop dancing or the wheel stops spinning. It is the dopamine rush of hope bought with ante or ticket. We race through life bursting through walls finding second, third and fourth winds to go on charged by the temporary hopes we purchase along the way.
There is a 5 in 1 chance a man dies of heart disease. There is a 3 in 1 shot the grey horse wins the third race. The gates burst open and we cheer until the homestretch when we begin to roar. Our rituals keep us going, fueled with hope as the curves of life hide the odds and the finish. What is real? What is truth? What is reality? Look at the sea of smiling, joyful faces. We are narrative given form.
They only let me buy two drinks at a time. To hell with the price, it is a herculean effort to dig to rock bottom. Sitting in the box, the world spins, the gates burst open as we, the American beasts leap out with blinders on racing to a finish line that never moves although the starting point always does.
At a track bar, trying to appear normal and most definitely failing, my hand shook a little holding two aluminum beer bottles as I slowly put them down. I leaned on a high top shared with a stranger in a neat Panama hat. “I don’t know how people do this every year,” I said. “One derby is more than enough for a lifetime.”
He laughed, “derby? The derby is next weekend.”
“I know, I could never have handled those crowds and debauchery. I figured my readers could just take my words and multiply by a thousand.”
Confused the drunk, “what readers?” he asked.
“Good point,” I said.
6
The last leg of the road trip I headed to Pittsburgh to see the Andy Warhol Museum and continue observing things I didn’t understand.