‘Twisted and fused, as though by some horrible heat, the bones in Wyoming’s ‘Werewolf Fossil Beds’ are probably anything but lycanthropic. Perhaps a group of ancient men were out walking dogs when a volcano erupted. Perhaps a freak acidic geyser ended a pursuit of villagers by wolves. Perhaps the remains are an example of surreal art from some bygone age.

These are examples taken directly from signage posted at the site, which tends to champion any theory but the werewolf one. In doing so, the site has inadvertently unified werewolf-believers in their assumptions about the bones. The gift shop sells no wolf gear, a need that local entrepreneurs are more than happy to fill. Every gas station in a 50-mile radius of ‘Werewolf Fossil Beds’ sells monster plushies, and every diner serves werewolf steaks.’

A man is becoming a werewolf at the fossil beds when I arrive. It’s a fairly torturous process. And long. He stops to grunt out that he’s “about halfway there” when Hector sniffs his face. He suggests, between breaths, that when the transformation is complete, neither Hector nor I should be in the vicinity.

“I don’t know what I’ll be capable of,” he explains.

If the man weren’t coherent enough to explain, I would have assumed that the transformation was a seizure, maybe. A very pinched nerve. He’s grown no excess hair. His fingernails, hardly claws, are bitten down to the skin. In his favor, his shirt is torn in the style of Hollywood werewolf transformations and some of the sounds he’s making are borderline animalistic.

The trouble is that the man’s transformation is taking place right in front of the only informational sign available at ‘Werewolf Fossil Beds.’ It’s awkward to lean over him. Awkward physically, for me, because I’m either top-heavy with a rabbit in my hands or struggling to keep Hector away from the were-man with one foot. It’s awkward for the transforming man too, I can tell. He’s polite enough not to say anything, but his anguished spasms are less involved when I’m too close, like he’s afraid he’ll hit me as the muscles of his shoulders jerk and roll. He whimpers a few times, some primal were-cub entering the subconscious, I assume. Finally, I come to a solution.

“Could I just, uh, drag you a few feet to the left.”

“It might be dangerous,” he warns, but by then I’ve already got him by the pant legs and all his symptoms seem to move above the waist.

He wriggles and claws at the floor. He nips half-heartedly at my shoes. After a few seconds I’ve got him far enough away that we can both go about our business peaceably.

I leave before the transformation is complete.

People do strange things we they believe as hard as that man does.

-traveler

‘The Wayside is, at times, more a matter of perspective than a true, physical place. A prime example is ‘The International Travel Experience,’ which was too popular to qualify for a Wayside designation in its heyday, the 1950s, and remained a little too popular well into the new millennium- a case of nostalgia blinding its audience to certain red flags. ‘The International Travel Experience’ was something of a museum on wheels, allowing the working-class family to ‘tour the world in ten minutes or less’ by presenting room-sized mock-ups of famous destinations and sprinkling them with crude, robotic caricatures to serve as guides.

Now defunct, ‘The International Travel Experience’ rots like a corpse off the interstate, drawing gross sympathy from apologists and rightful scorn from those travelers who strive for a kinder roadside. Violence can be expected, here. The soul of the thing is not yet extinguished.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

‘While this author doesn’t disagree with the sentiment in its common context, a traveler is right to be suspicious of any business that takes seriously the adage: ‘It’s about the journey, not the destination.’ In this, the free market, the product must take center stage, or it will be met with suspicion.

Though, there is a loophole.

Sometimes a product can be so bad- a service so grueling- that those who engage with it feel bonded in misery. The camaraderie, the story, becomes the anti-product and the original purchase is relegated to a position of practical necessity, like an egg carton to eggs. That’s why this is a loophole rather than an exception, and it’s why a business like ‘Mazcar’s Magical Mashed Potato Sandwiches,’ which sports ‘The World’s Longest Drive-Thru,’ carries on in even the most hostile economic situations.

Misery begets misery, and the misery that ‘Mazcar’s’ serves up is, at least, the sort we choose to inflict upon ourselves.’

‘Mazcar’s’ is built into an otherwise unoccupied parking garage which was constructed for an exciting new outlet mall and made obsolete by the mall’s failure to materialize. Originally occupying just three rooms, ‘Mazcar’s’ sandwiches were featured in a viral video post and became a ‘whole thing’ overnight.

This, I learn from the woman behind me in line.

Truth be told, I’ve been cutting some corners in my research, favoring the practical for the fanciful. For instance, I know that the average time spent in ‘Mazcar’s Drive-Thru’ is around 10 hours, which is down from 13 when I first passed it a few years ago and represents an all-time low since the precipitating incident (what I now know was a video).

Considering the long wait time, I’ve packed a great deal of food and water for Hector and I and worked out a bathrooming solution for the both of us: a small litter box for him and an uncomfortable in-pants urinal thing for me. I’ve read the few rules that ‘Mazcar’s’ has posted regarding drive-thru etiquette and studied the strategies of those who have come before me. Most agree that the longest one can be out of line before losing their place is not so much a matter of time but of distance, that is, the distance between the front of one’s own vehicle and the back of the vehicle ahead. More than one vehicle length is dangerous. More than about 175% of one’s vehicle length is an endgame most of the time. Everyone seems to agree that the line won’t put up with a two-vehicle gap and there is a lot of frustration in a line so long. It snaps with a great deal of force.

The only other thing I learned about ‘Mazcar’s’ is that I should prepare to be disappointed. The drive-thru spirals up the center of the garage and then back down around the outside, weaving in and out of itself. Microphone sign-boards check and re-check customer orders, sometimes offering false assurances that food is being fast-tracked, other times seeming to flub details in order to test customers of their own preferences. It’s complicated and almost beautiful but the sandwiches are said to be pretty awful. Food should taste good or be easy to eat or healthy, at least, but ‘Mazcar’s’ are none of the above. Reviews say they’ve only gotten worse and a profit data suggests this may be by design. The worse the sandwiches get, the cleaner the catharsis.

I verify with a speaker to my left that my order is still #338 and that I wanted just ‘Mazcar’s Orginal:’ two mashed potato patties in a sort of grilled cheese formation. It’s the cheapest offering and the hardest to screw-up. The woman behind me tries to strike up a conversation but I pretend not to hear her. Someone honks in the distance.

It’s been three hours, now. By midnight I should have my sandwich and then Hector and I will have to risk camping on the outskirts of the garage or driving to the nearest motel, some thirty miles north. Seems like a waste to spend the money on a room I’ll only use for half a night, but then, I’ve gotten sort of used to sleeping on the ground.

-traveler

‘The origin of ‘The Essentialized Americatown’ in the Americatown district of San Francisco (and the subsequent Americatowns within those Americatowns) is commonly misunderstood as a bit of an inside joke. In actuality, ‘The EA’ was formed of such serious intentions that it passes as satire for most of the people that come to understand what it is: an unabashed display of patriotism taken to the extreme.

The first level of Americatown is, what might be termed, the ‘Las Vegas’ version of the country. Most of the nation’s monuments exist in miniature within its bounds and lawlessness is kept to the sort of guilty fun one expects in a shady casino. Americatown II (and here we’ve chosen to assign numbers though the many sub-Americatowns recognize no such tiering) is much more serious, where lawlessness is taken to a near-fascist place, where citizens are expected to obey the rules police and politicians flout. Those same police and politicians turn a blind eye on the antics of Americatown III, which is undergoing a perpetual civil war, the basis of which is both sides claiming ownership of Americatown III, which professes no allegiance whatsoever.

This goes on and on- there are other books that detail the various Americatowns in all there eccentricities. What’s important to this tome is the story of what exists at the very core Americatown (and, here, we are unsure which number to assign). It’s rumored that, in the very center of all Americatowns, there exists a loaded gun that is constitutionally above the law. Six shots with no legal consequence- that is the core of Americatown, America.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

‘The statue once called ‘The Melty Miser’ of west Alabama didn’t start out melty. In fact, it didn’t even start out a miser. ‘The Melty Miser’ was born into this world as ‘Happy Harold,’ the manic-looking mascot of a local hardware chain. The statue was erected in the style of Texas’ cement cowboys, made to loom over an empty stretch of highway and alert travelers that various power tools were available at unbeatable prices just off the next exit.

What set ‘Harold’ apart initially was his size. It’s said his signature cowlick brought him to nearly 80’ at the outset. The great irony of ‘Happy Harold’ is, of course, that his height was achieved with the use of subpar materials- seemingly some sort of thick, experimental plastic. It was only a few weeks before his features began to droop under the hot, Alabama sun.

Thus, the ‘melty.’

By the next year, ‘Happy Harold’s’ smile had inverted and his brow had taken on the unbridled cruelty of a fairy tale villain. The money bag he once held high (to indicate a celebration of what he had saved on hardware), slowly dropped behind his back, the arm twisting unnaturally, until it settled into a position that looked distinctly like he was attempting to keep the money away from roadside viewers.

Thus, the ‘miser.’

This is all ancient history, of course, because ‘The Melty Miser’ collapsed during a heatwave in 2021, his body sprawled backward in the field off the highway. Was anyone hurt? Well, that’s a good question- and one that seems particularly pointed given how quickly the owner of ‘The Melty Miser’ chose not to dismantle the Miser, or even to just let heat and gravity make a puddle out of him. The man chose to bury the Miser under a mountain of dirt and those hollow parts, kept solid in the cool earth, now form the Wayside attraction known as ‘Melty Miser Caverns.’’

The entrance to ‘Melty Miser Caverns’ doesn’t look like much but the maps I’ve located online all suggest that it roughly represents the anus of the titular Melty Miser. Maybe that’s why I loiter with Hector at the statue’s abandoned base, all shorn bolts and shattered plastic.

Finally, I push down my dignity and pull Hector into the caverns proper. We wander through the unstable stalactite fields of the groin (where visitors customarily use lighters to melt little plastic icicles from the ceiling). We peer into the psychedelic maze of the arms and squeeze through the tight passage formed by the left hand’s middle finger fusing with the money bag sometime post-impact and pre-burial (now heavily graffitied in UV-reactive paints). Finally, we emerge from between the Melty Miser’s lips and into a hollowed out room of natural earth. There, we cast our light on the excavated face of ‘The Melty Miser,’ massive and horrible in the dark.

-traveler