‘Not technically open to the public or even legally witnessable, the country’s ‘Helium Depot’ has recently become something of a traveling Wayside attraction. Until now, the exact location of America’s helium stores was confidential, though it wasn’t exactly a secret people were dying to know. With the secret out, a great deal of effort is being put into reminding the public about the civic duty of looking-away-when-asked.

But it’s hard to look away. 

‘The Helium Depot’ appears to be constructed of some very strong and very light metal alloy- a warehouse that was untethered to the ground by the precious gas it once stored. With helium supplies running low, ‘The Helium Depot’ has entered the demented frenzy of an old birthday balloon, choosing not to fly or fall but to hang, morose, at varying altitudes between the sky and the ground. It rides a wind current through the middle of the country, having torn loose from its foundations during a recent storm and attempts to restrain it.

‘The Helium Depot’s’ little collisions have caused a great deal of damage as it passes slowly through Nevada and petitions for compensation are met with a waggling finger. Nobody is supposed to know about ‘The Helium Depot.’ That’s the law.

Requests for clarification on the legality of publishing this entry were answered by a man with a no-nonsense attitude and an unusually high voice who could not speak to the legal status of anything he couldn’t legally know about. 

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

You would think there would be more graveyards in the guide. They seem to fit the vibe and famous graves do make a lot of the more skewed-from-traditional roadside itineraries. Pretty or creepy gravestones. Celebrity resting places. Loci for regional urban legends. There’s a draw, sure, but most just don’t have a lot going on.

And they don’t usually have bathrooms.

‘The Rose Garden’ makes the cut for its being contentious, though the conceit does it some favors. The gist is that some long-dead rich man lost his daughter, ‘Rose,’ and developed such a grand resting place that he thought it should be shared. The form of this largesse, was such that he worked with local lawmakers to mandate that all further Roses and Rosalines meeting their end on county soil be interred in ‘The Garden.’ It wasn’t a lot, but over the years, ‘The Rose Garden’ has grown.

‘Nobody’s arguing that it’s not a nice place. For a rural cemetery, ‘The Rose Garden’ is ritzy up to the point of bad taste. It’s been renovated several times, more recently with touches in gold and glossy red enamel that are meant to evoke velvet furniture but land, instead, on laminate diner booth.

And there are rosebushes, of course.

The money set aside for upkeep of ‘The Rose Garden’ has been invested in several strains of the flower that bloom in the winter. The cemetery is red, even after a snowfall, and this tends to have a negative effect on the human psyche. Red like a rash. Red like something that wants you to know its venomous. Red like blood under the surface of the skin, which may be the most painful image to manifest in those who come to grieve the long dead.’

There is a dead Rose in the county now, her body in limbo. It’s became a national story as soon as the government seized her and the family threatened to dig her up if she’s not placed in the family plot out of state. The burial is scheduled and ‘The Rose Garden’ is set to be off limits in the days to come, preventing sabotage and protest, so my visit is hurried. The other visitors seem angry, like they want to break something but understand that the grounds are sacred despite themselves- that some people have been buried here willingly.

I’d say there’s a 30% chance that by the end of this, someone else will be dead.

-traveler

‘No attention was given to the small dedicated space allowed to the jar of ‘Over-Millenium Oats’ in the unnamed local museum of Lassater, Minnesota until it began to glow. The phenomenon was first noted in 2022, shortly after the museum re-opened following an extended Covid-19 lockdown. The museum’s sole security camera holds a view of the parking lot and had been non-functional since 2016, so there remains no clear understanding of when the ‘Over-Millennium Oats’ illuminated and whether or not there was a catalyzing force. Many suspect it is a hoax- a prank meant for locals that inadvertently went viral.

Rabidly viral.

There is a certain subsect of people that believe overnight oats are a panacea and a subsect of the subsect correlates length of containment with alleged health benefits. This small, but very enthusiastic, population sometimes pushes their oats past a week- past a month. Sometimes a sort of fermentation occurs. Often, the oats rot into a slurry.

Nobody has gone on record as having left their batch for as long as the ‘Over-Millenium Oats,’ which, if the museum is to be believed, were jarred in 1935. Daily, the oats grow brighter. The unnamed museum flickers like a jack o’lantern in the night. If the current pattern persists, travelers may soon need to don protective glasses to view the oats.

The ‘Over-Millennium Oats’ may yet be taken by some tendril of the government that specializes in the study of strange and dangerous thing and it might prove to be a relief. Several private attempts have already occurred, half-baked burglaries by a population that seems no more physically healthy than the rest.’

My grandmother used to can and she used mason jars much like that which houses the ‘Over-Millennium Oats.’ It’s one of the bigger sizes- 32 oz maybe, and its lid is bulged further than I am comfortable with. Whatever’s happening, there’s a lot of pressure inside.

A woman stands near the display, authoritative and bored.

I step nearer until a shift in her stance indicates that I’ve entered a zone where she is now forced to see me as a potential threat to the ‘Oats’.

I stop. “Can I ask you questions about this?”

She seems both relieved and annoyed. “I’m not an expert.”

“Is there an expert available?”

She doesn’t respond to that.

“Is it warm?”

I’m surprised when she reaches out to touch the glass. “No.”

“You’ve never touched it before?”

“I’m not supposed to touch it.” She seems to remember this as she says it.

“What do you think would happen if you eat it?”

The woman shrugs. “They hired me because I’m not very interested.”

I nod and let her lapse back into a glassy-eyed middle-distance.

A sketch on the wall indicates a much grander opening ceremony than I would have expected for the opening of a jar of oats, planned to occur on the final day of 2035 (because the exact date of canning is not recorded). The sketch itself dates back to the early thirties and, the longer I look the more concerning it becomes. There are men in what appear to be hazmat suits in attendance of a parade at the center of which is the jar. The ‘Over-Millennium Oats’ are balanced precariously on a platform by itself, the central float. Lines indicate that it is glowing brightly and onlookers peer at it through blackened opera glasses.

They look despairing.

A sneaky looking man shifts in the crowd, reaching vaguely toward the ‘Over-Millennium Oats.’ A bird caught in the illustrated illumination has died and is plummeting toward the concrete. A regal politician awaits the parade and marks its end. He sits in a simple chair and has a spoon in his hand. He’s patting his stomach like he could eat, but isn’t starving.

A sign indicates this will take place in Washington D.C.

I’ll be sure to avoid it.

-traveler

‘Hard to say what the intention behind ‘We Don’t Wash It!’ was at the outset. A generous read is that it was a lazy, if honest, cash-in on an initial lot of old junk that the owner, Susanne Shoulders simply didn’t want to clean. A generous read is that it was the sort of store that operates at the lowest bar, providing capitalist balance in offering, also, the lowest price. 

Whatever it once was, it is not that anymore. 

‘We Don’t Wash It!’s’ inventory is now largely compromised of women’s clothes, worn just long enough to satisfy a largely male customer base. 

And it ain’t cheap.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

‘Jim’s Lightly Used Mannequin Outlet’ is a business that suffers for the specificity with which it describes its wares. I noticed it right away in a sign at the front that claims ‘NONE OF OUR MANNEQUINS HAVE BEEN USED FOR SEXUAL PURPOSES (verified to the best of our ability)’ and if that fine print wasn’t quite enough, a second hastily scrawled sign attached indicates ‘All fringe cases have been marked.’ 

I notice this tendency to overshare again in the follow-up signs inside. One example: ‘This mannequin was acquired from an independent lingerie vendor and contains wear marks on the crotch that are in line with consistent dressing/undressing but also there is a stain. Further discounted -15%.’

“Hey!” Someone, maybe Jim, is watching me from across the aisle.

I look behind me in case I’m mistaken but see only the collected and lifeless crowd of the mannequins. “Yeah?”

“No loitering near the sex figures.”

“I was just reading the tag.”

Jim stares me down so I move on.

‘If you visit ‘Jim’s Lightly Used Mannequin Outlet’ you may remark that Jim doesn’t seem particularly keen to actually sell anything- that his hostility indicates a reluctance to part with any of the many, many female forms that gather in this, one of the countries dark corners. You would not be the first to think this.

Public records suggest he has tried many times to have the store legally transformed into a church and has been rejected because he is unwilling or unable to describe exactly the sort of worship he plans to conduct. Not unlike the subjects of his mania, the shape is there, but the details are scant.’

Jim tries to fool me several times by dressing in a beige zentai suit and posing as a mannequin himself. He is not model-shaped, however, and I begin to suspect he likes being caught. Maybe he wants me to accuse him of something so that he can angrily throw me out. I try my best to ignore the whole situation and feign interest in purchasing several highly priced models, but this only fuels a sort of hysteria that I sense building in the man.

He tries to convince me to buy from a cart of miscellaneous limbs and panics when I pull one from the bottom, insisting it isn’t supposed to be included among the sale items and that it may have been ‘contaminated by the touch of a man.’ Over the next half hour, he convinces himself that I was the man that contaminated it, most likely, and I’m back to claim ‘my prize’ in front of him. 

I’ve run from dangerous places and I’ve been chased out, but ‘Jim’s’ stands as the only Wayside destination where I’ve been asked to leave. 

-traveler