Among Autumn by the Wayside’s myriad appendices is a section that sets destinations aside and considers, instead, the agencies that try to bring order to the Wayside and the factions that frustrate them. I’ve memorized this section to the best of my ability because if somebody is going to give me trouble, it is inevitably a member of some loose organization that claims a moral authority in the realm of traveler behavior.

And, look. I’m not opposed to following rules- even arbitrary ones. I just need to know what they are ahead of time.

This brings me to ‘The CBA’ or ‘The Cleanest Bathroom in America,’ in name if not in title.

‘The Wayside is generous in it’s use of the word ‘best’ and, for the most part, the American traveler is not so bothered by a little roadside hyperbole if it means cutting to the heart of what a business believes is its finest quality. Those who do take umbrage might be members of the fringe group ‘Actual Best’ which, like any standard-setting agency, is respected or reviled depending upon how closely one’s own tastes align with theirs.

‘Actual Best,’ is something of a mystery, having no digital presence whatsoever and a scant trail of physical records, mostly in the form of the ‘Actual Best’ award certificates. Unlike most standardizations, the certificates are not annual. When a restaurant advertising the best cheeseburger in America starts to cut corners, an agent of ‘Actual Best’ will appear to remove the certificate by any means necessary. The swiftness with which these agents appear after a colleague is arrested or killed has led some to believe ‘Actual Best’ is more a possessing spirit than an organization of actual people but, like most crack-pot theories, very little can be done to verify or debunk the notion.’

‘The CBA’ exists in the back of a large, but otherwise unassuming gas station. It’s certified by ‘Actual Best-‘ a fact that’s hard to miss given an ad campaign that crosses the borders of two states and leans hard into bathroom cleanliness where, really, they must do most of their business in gas and esoteric jerky meats. It all makes a little more sense when one realizes that internal signs for ‘The CBA’ forgo a straight shot to meander through the aisles. The gas station, unnamed as far as I can tell, doesn’t have a lot else going for it.

Hector and I follow the signs for full immersion in the experience and also to work up the need to pee which, I suppose, amounts to the same thing. I gather a candy bar here and a small jar of pickled eggs there and find a basket holding system near the restrooms for people like me who might, otherwise, remember that they came to use the restroom and put everything back.

Things go wrong fairly quickly after that.

My first clue should have been the separation of ‘The CBA’ from other clean-looking but mostly mundane restrooms. I assumed this was for those who wanted to skip the line and were okay with a restroom that was slightly less than the cleanest in the nation. My second clue should have been the speed at which the line moved through ‘The CBA.’ No bathroom line moves that quickly. The third, fourth, and all clues after that were likely included in the guidelines posted outside the door, which I failed to read because a spritz of pine-scented bathroom deodorant spooks Hector such that he becomes an undulating leather sack of rabbit bones, trying to work his way from my hands. I have good intentions going in, thinking that of all the rules, unwritten or otherwise, those who curated ‘The CBA’ probably wouldn’t want stray animals milling about on their immaculate ceramic.

Hector calms a bit inside ‘The CBA.’ It’s hard not to. ‘The CBA’s’ cleanliness presents like a tangible static. It’s difficult to look at- bright and overwhelming and smelling of aerosol and asthma inhaler. Air purifiers hum quietly in the corners. Calm music plays overhead. The door closes behind me with a sharp click and the exit sign beside it lights, pressing me to act or get a move on.

I stumble forward.

The water in the toilet sparkles cleaner, no doubt, than the mildewy sludge I have sloshing about in my bottle. That maybe should have been my final clue. ‘The CBA’ is too clean to have seen regular use.

Something crashes outside, startling me mid-pee. I crane my neck and press harder, having read somewhere that it wasn’t healthy to stop- not for anything. A second crash aligns with an impact on the entry door. Frantic knocking follows. Someone is shouting on the other side, their voice muffled.

Operating on sheer habit, I shout “Occupied!” and zip up and then, probably unwisely, check my hair in the mirror.

The hair check ends up being in my favor for, at that same moment, both doors collapse inward with a press of bodies. I end up behind the exit as gas station employees attempt to wrestle the ‘Actual Best’ certificate from a woman that I have to assume is an agent of the titular group. As soon as they have her pinned, a huge man flings himself inside, dogpiling the woman and the employees alike and snatching the frame from all of them. He’s grabbed from below before he can retreat and the fight carries on.

Hector and I slip out before any more ‘Actual Best’ agents materialize and it’s then that I notice the fairly large ‘For Display Purposes Only’ warning above ‘The CBA.’

So… my bad, I guess. Undoubtedly my bad.

-traveler

‘Though each has its curiosities, none of the nation’s ‘Little Italys’ are so curious as to warrant inclusion in this humble guide. Also absent are the handful of ‘Tiny Italys’ which, while certainly being strange as a concept, are all fairly mundane in practice and safe, overall. The northwest’s ‘Truly Miniscule Italy’ comes close, it being both very strange and mildly dangerous, but what danger does exist faces entirely inward. It’s just so small that a visitor could topple the place with an uncareful brush of their fingers.

The only Italian variant to be featured here is ‘Particulate Italy’ which, at the time of publication, hangs in a cloud outside of Springfield, Missouri and seems to be floating west on a leisurely breeze. ‘Particulate Italy’ is a destination that visits you and it’s worth adding any one of the many websites or apps that track ‘Particulate Italy’ to your rotation of electronic devices for it tends to be an unwelcome guest. Why? Well, that involves a short history.

‘Particulate Italy’ was created in the early 2000s, a product of the ‘everything must be smaller’ trend that prevailed at the time. Vancouver’s ‘Microscopic Italy’ (since lost), had held the record for the world’s smallest ‘Italy’ for nearly a decade by then and, daunted by the undertaking that would be involved in challenging Greenland’s ‘Gargantuan Italy,’ bored American scientists decided to create the smallest ‘Italy’ possible with the technology available at the time, hoping to score a much-needed ‘win’ for the States. After some trial and error, and using methods since classified, these scientists produced a fine dust that, on very, very close inspection, turned out to be ‘Particulate Italy.’ A short time later, these scientists died, their lungs filling with blood.  

The absolute lowest bar to qualify for an Italy variant is the inclusion of an identifiable landmark and ‘Particulate Italy’s’ claim is staked on an extrusion that looks a bit like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. This ‘Particulate Pisa’ has led to a great deal of trouble since ‘Particulate Italy’ was released from the lab and the problem is twofold:

When ‘Particulate Italy’ is inhaled, the ‘Particulate Pisa’ has a tendency to hook into the lungs and sort of wobble about with each attempted breath, tearing thousands of little holes in the delicate tissue meant for transferring oxygen to the bloodstream. The secondary issue has to do with the way ‘Particulate Italy’ moves through the air which is, in a word, erratically. ‘Particulate Italy’ floats across the nation like an American football rolls across a field, making sudden, unexpected turns for reasons that cannot always be calculated in time to adjust predictions. Those website and apps that track ‘Particulate Italy’ do their best to pinpoint its location, but their primary purpose is to highlight fairly large zones where ‘Particulate Italy’ mightbe, so that the residents of those areas can be evacuated in time.

It’s recommended that travelers avoid ‘Particulate Italy’ when possible and that proper respiratory gear be donned if a visit proves unavoidable.’

-traveler

‘In 2007, Edmond Bell discovered the entrance to a cave network on his land and, despite a lot of good advice from a number of reasonable people, he decided to map the cave with nothing but a flashlight, a daypack, and enough rope that he could tie it off at the surface and find his way back as necessary. This worked for a week or so, by which time he was able to report that the cave moved gradually downward without branching for as far as his rope would take him. Bell paused for a week to order more rope and to devise a reel-like system to release it so that he could ‘safely’ carry on past his current dead end. He entered the cave on June 23^rd and has not resurfaced. The cave system has been gated. Stern signage recounts an abridged version of this same story, using it as a case study for adventurous stupidity. Edmond Bell is most likely dead, after all.

But.

But the thing is, Bell’s reel is still turning at the same slow pace that might indicate a determined man’s trudging steadily forward into the dark. It stops at night, sometimes for a few hours, sometimes for a full eight, but it always picks up again, churning rope into the cave. You’re asking, couldn’t it be a quirk of nature? A body dragged along by some underground river? A trick of heat and wind? A hoax, even- a separate reel deep inside that eats up the slack?

Could be. Sure.

You’re asking now about this seemingly infinite supply of rope. That’s the special draw of this destination. Visitors bring rope to add to the reel so that Edmond Bell, whatever’s left of him, doesn’t get stuck on his journey into the earth.’

Hector and I arrive at ‘Edmond’s Reel’ around three in the afternoon with a length of rope I picked up special from a hardware store half an hour down the road. The woman there asked if I was going out to ‘Edmond’s Reel’ and gave me a skeptical look when I told her I was. I haven’t decided, yet, whether the skepticism was in response to my buying the cheapest length of rope that could support the weight of an adult man, or a broad skepticism regarding the whole enterprise.

These things still nag at me, even this far down the road.

‘Edmond’s Reel’ isn’t turning when I arrive but it groans to life after a few moments, as though whatever tugged the rope had been taking a breather. A sign nearby, likely placed there by the Rangers, details the use of the additional reel, which has been erected anonymously and allows for visitors to add line without interrupting the feed from ‘Edmond’s.’ The instructions are simple but I’ve never been very good with rope, so it takes me a while to get everything tied together and spun.

When I turn back around I see that ‘Edmond’s Reel’ has halted again and it’s a full minute before I realize his line has disappeared between the bars, severed from the creaking contraption that kept him anchored for over a decade. I rush to the entrance of the cave and watch the rope pull into the thick shadows beyond the gate. It disappears without a sound.

When I turn, I find Hector nibbling idly at the length of rope now drooping from ‘Edmond’s Reel.’ He stares back, daring me to point a finger, claiming, with innocent rabbit eyes, that the rope pulled loose on its own and he’s only making the best of a difficult situation.

I wonder, though. These things nag at me, even this far down the road.

-traveler

‘Retired, now, after many years of service, the mystery solving kombucha mother, known affectionately as ‘SCOBY,’ can be found souring the water of a two-ton tank off I-295 in New Jersey. ‘SCOBY’ is kept alive by the grace of the state where, in the nineties, it served as an unorthodox mascot for local law enforcement. ‘SCOBY’ was wheeled about in its tank, visiting elementary school classrooms in the mornings to tremble at the though of the audience considering recreational drugs, and to crime scenes in the evening, where it shuddered and gulped over bludgeoned corpses and stolen art.

It might be noted, here, that ‘SCOBY’s’ communication is limited to twitch-like movements and brief gurgles. At the outset, these were interpreted by the group of teenagers that discovered it and who, after hundreds of crime scenes and long media tours, dispersed. Only one of the original five remain in the state and he has refused contact with ‘SCOBY’ for nearly a decade.

‘SCOBY’s’ collaboration with the police ended when it exposed a deep corruption at work among officers. It quickly became a mascot for anti-police factions and, rather than make a martyr of a mushroom, the state placed ‘SCOBY’ in its current limbo with a signboard that sidesteps its history by describing it only as ‘the largest kombucha mother in the state.’ Attempts to communicate with ‘SCOBY’ through the glass have widely failed. It has instead become a sort of inactive pilgrimage site for those wronged by the police.

Admission is charged on the basis of donations. Visitors receive a bottle of ‘SCOBY’s’ kombucha for every five dollars spent. Connoisseurs maintain that it is nearly undrinkable and witches claim that it makes for incredible results in the magic of truth-telling.’

At some point in the previous year, a local police department donated a plaque to ‘SCOBY’s’ tank. It says ‘FEEL FREE TO TAP THE GLASS.’ ‘SCOBY’ doesn’t acknowledge me when I pry it away, but it feels good to do it.

-traveler

Three days. It takes three days of eating french fries and elephant ears and hot dogs- of paying grossly inflated carnival prices- before I give in and get in line for ‘The Inevitable Rollercoaster.’ And it’s not even the food, really. I’ve survived on worse diets for longer stretches of time for no better reason than poor mental health. At the end of three days, it’s the music that does me in.

‘It’s a bit of a misnomer to call it ‘The Inevitable Carnival’ just because it’s home to ‘The Inevitable Rollercoaster.’ The fact of the matter is that a traveler need not interact with any part of the enterprise but the rollercoaster in order to escape. It’s easier to pay for tickets and stand in line than it is to, say, sneak through the grounds and commandeer the ride, but there seems to be no standing obligation to be lawful in one’s actions in order to find one’s way out of the quantum looping carnival-shaped phenomenon that can be said to exist both everywhere and nowhere at once.

For the sake of describing it however, we’ll say that ‘The Inevitable Carnival’ appears like any other traveling carnival one might spot on the horizon, all flickering lights and tinkling music. There, at the center, is ‘The Inevitable Rollercoaster,’ which stands much taller and spreads much more widely than any mobile rollercoaster should. Once one spies ‘The Inevitable Rollercoaster,’ it becomes impossible to leave its outskirts. Practically, this means every road and highway will loop back around to the carnival grounds, reappearing on the forward horizon as soon as it’s disappeared from behind. The cycle is broken only after riding ‘The Inevitable Rollercoaster’ and with no particular fanfare. In fact, riding anything else afterwards feels like an anti-climax.’

The thing is that I hate roller coasters and really all carnival rides. I get motion sick in the back of cars and on boats in anything but the stillest waters. I get extra motion sick on carnival rides and the sickness, there, is so much more public. So, while Day 1 at ‘The Inevitable Carnival’ can be reasonably written off as me doing my due diligence in confirming the inevitability of it all. The following two days are dread and hard-headedness and unceasing carnival music which rides the wind to my camp at the furthest point of the loop, where I can look every direction and see ‘The Inevitable Rollercoaster’ towering in the distance.

At the end of the third day I smuggle Hector into one of the little rollercoaster carts and when I warn the ride operator that I sometimes get sick she puts me in the back, saying that the ride goes fast enough that I’m unlikely to vomit forward with enough force to spray even the person in front of me- that, if I know what’s good for me, I’ll turn my head to keep from choking on throw-up that hangs in my esophagus, caught between the momentum of the coaster and the strength of my stomach contractions.

It’s the best advice I’ve received in a long time.

-traveler