There is nothing but static on the radio and I drive that way for a long time, the volume on low and the heat on high. Occasionally I’m encouraged by a ‘pop’ or a ‘click;’ twice there seems to be some sort of background jingle but, with so much white noise, I may be making it up. At least once I definitely hear a man’s voice but my surprise keeps me from understanding what has been said, if anything was said at all.
The way is forested, now, and lonely. It’s just past noon but a gray sky means it might as well be dusk. A rain drop falls every couple minutes, splattering on my windshield. The clouds can’t seem to make up their mind as to whether I’m here or not, as to whether it’s worth raining now or waiting a while for more like me to come.
I wouldn’t mind the rain.
I pass another sign: ‘For Information Tune Radio to 980 AM’
I check the radio, run a pass-through of the 970-990 range, and settle again on 980’s static. The truck has been on cruise control for nearly fifteen minutes as we wander smoothly around gentle curves and over small hills. The radio cracks again, buzzes, and then fades back to static. I tap the dash affectionately. There is no reason to rush.
‘For Information Tune Radio to 980 AM’
‘What kind of information, though? That’s the question you should ask yourself as you drive through Somerset Forest on your way across I-90 and see the many signs and their humble offering. We live in the information age, there are more words in the air than flies, than birds, than leaves falling from the trees. Sometimes we are informed against our will and that may very well be the case for you in Somerset Forest. If you’re reading this, be warned.’
I’m not sure I believe in the idea of forbidden knowledge. Secrets, sure. I understand why people keep secrets. I’ll also accept the idea that there’s plenty of information out there that I don’t necessarily need, that would just take up mind-space and offer no real benefit. Hell, I recognize that some of that information might concern things I’d rather not know; this trip alone has provided a fair share of regrettable experiences. That’s trauma, though, that’s something different entirely. I’m thinking mind-rending knowledge- Book of Genesis type stuff. If we’re talking about an idea that’s universally harmful to the extreme, that can’t be forgotten or rationalized away- I call bullshit.
And I think I’m in a pretty good place to judge.
By all accounts I follow in the footsteps of my future self, led by a book that I am destined to write. Much of what I have seen so far has suggested that the book itself is not a prank, that it has been written honestly and about places that are very real. It could be that my name was attached by the man who handed it to me, that he was able to manipulate a photo for the author credits so that I look more mature and less tired. Cleaner. He could have done the same with any book.
If I’m to assume, though, (and I do, sometimes) that what the man said was true and that a path of some sort has already been laid in front of me… well, you would think that would have taken more of a toll.
The clouds part for the sun and its light filters sideways through the trees. I lower my sunglasses, one hand on the wheel, and squint my eyes against the sudden strobe, the forest’s shadows on the pavement. The road is clear and straight.
I think mortality is the giveaway, or, I agree that it is. I’m certainly not the first to think it. We should be much more fearful of our own mortality than we are; it is inevitable and often more imminent than we assume. We already know that we will die and if that’s not enough to rend minds I doubt anything else can. Humans have evolved to be fantastic endurance runners. Maybe some of that has gone to our head- maybe we run from thoughts too. We are the great rationalizers, our comprehension wired with a kill-switch.
The radio quiets down and I think I hear the man’s voice again. It’s too garbled to make anything out; I raise the volume and slide the tuner back and forth, coaxing the distant-sounding words up and out through the speakers. Without understanding any one word I recognize the sound of a commercial, a tone that only seems to exist in advertisem-
The road pulls out from under the truck, a sudden, sharp turn. The world spins, the sun and the earth orbiting me in mad directions. There is an impact and I’m gone for a while.
Nobody finds me in the meantime.
The sun is setting when I open my eyes again. There is a great deal of pain. The windshield has shattered and a tire rests at an odd angle in front of me. I hang awkwardly in my seatbelt, the truck lying on its passenger side. I reach out and turn off the blinker. The radio still plays static; I hadn’t noticed until now.
My left arm is very broken, my hand draped limply over my stomach. I can’t seem to move any part of it. I try to adjust my shoulder and, when that doesn’t work, I try to pinpoint the trouble. Somewhere, distantly, I recognize that I may have entered shock. I try to remember if that’s something that can be solved, or even recognized, internally. I wouldn’t know where to begin.
A part of my forearm next to the elbow has emerged from the skin. A skeletal part, a great sharp piece of bone. It hurts the moment I see it. I wonder if it shouldn’t hurt more and then it does.
I start to cry.
It’s difficult not to despair, reader. I’ve found it difficult, even under normal circumstances, not to despair.
Circumstances have worsened exponentially.
My truck is as broken as my arm; it, too, holds up its skeleton to the fading light. We are united in a grim toast.
I pass out again.
I recognize the static before anything else. I try to open my eyes and realize they are already open. It has gotten dark, dark except for the dull, back-lit tuner. I remember, suddenly, why I woke up.
Somebody was laughing.
“Hello?” I try to say, the best I can do with a dry throat.
There is nothing. No footsteps or birds or anything.
And then the man’s voice on the radio, lost in the thick static. The tuner has been knocked to the left, its needle hovering near 972 AM. With a great deal of effort, I reach out my hand and adjust it to the right.
“-ggested to approach corners cautiously and to be aware of wildlife that may be crossing the road, particularly at night. Please do not throw cigarette butts or other waste from your windows as you enjoy the natural beauty of Somerset. Thank you for visiting!”
The voice fades into a jingle and then picks up again.
“Welcome to Somerset Forest! You’re tuned to 980-”
I close my eyes. The voice sounds familiar, some D-list celebrity doing charity work for the park service. I run through sitcoms and commercials in my head. I try to remember what audiobooks I’ve listened to recently, what commercials I’ve seen.
“…recommends flashing you lights when approaching dangerously narrow…”
The pain comes back in a burst. I wander in and out of shock. It’s impossible to concentrate- I consider and forget a hundred ways to save myself.
“…recommends flashing…”
My right hand can’t seem to find the seatbelt mechanism. I wonder what the short fall to the passenger side would do to me if I was able to free myself. I take a deep breath and hear the ragged wheeze of my lungs. The truck is quiet, the radio lit but silent. The man’s voice returns after a moment.
“Owner of the blue pick-up,” it says and it chuckles, “Heh, heh, heh.”
It’s difficult to tell how much of this is actually happening.
“Owner of the blue pick-up, why don’t you go ahead and flash those pretty lights of yours?”
-traveler
