‘Washington’s ‘Wash’em’ or ‘The Largest Carwash in the World’ holds the record with an enthusiasm that likely works against it. The nearest competitor, currently located in Korea, is less than a quarter as long as ‘Wash’em’ and takes takes only a half hour to compete. ‘Wash’em,’ on the otherhand, is ever-expanding and the most recent reports suggest traversing the tunnel can take up most of a day.

‘Wash’em’ makes a lot of claims about the length of its carwash, indicating a very thorough understanding of modern cars as well as an appreciation for those vintage models that come through (this being a little tongue-in-cheek, being illustrated with a 2013 Camry). It claims that bleeding edge AI has been plugged into a database chock-full of car facts and allowed to wield of a state of the art visual recognition system to allow for a unique and tailored cleaning experience each time. It will, for instance, take note of novelty antannae toppers and attempt to clean around them, rather than whip them off into the wet, colorful void of its maw, as a lesser carwash might do. It is able to pinpoint and understand the difference between, say, wood sap and bird feces and even the difference between feces left by various species of bird (the literature does not indicate why this would matter exactly). The AI has been programmed to seek out ‘WASH ME’ messages written in dust and to preserve that small swath of filth while writing ‘done and done’ or something of the like beside it, tucking a little wet towel behind the rear wiper so that the driver, annoyed and maybe begrudingly amused, can finish the job.

Reports that the AI will sometimes write other, more concerning messages in the soaps suds and dirt of windshields are vehemently denied by the owners of ‘Wash’em’ and by its team of programmers, none of whom have ever been sighted at the car wash itself. 

‘Nothing to worry about inside the ‘Wash’em,’’ press releases read, ‘Head on in and see for yourself. Just, maybe pack a sandwich and some water.’

I have exactly two buckets in the camper and they are both already in use, keeping drips at bay. I have eaten through half my food. Consumed three-quarters of my potable water. I’ve been in the ‘Wash’em’ for two days and I don’t know how much longer the camper will stand up. 

Another impact shudders through the left wall and the metal creaks and strains under pressure. It’s dark except for the prismatic light leaking in through the towel I’ve taped over the windshield. A scrubber passes over the ceiling and a seam across leaks green foam that quickly resolves into an apple-smelling detergent of some kind. Brushes skidder underneath and the floor begins to warm. The last time the ‘Wash’em’ applied hot wax, the floor became too hot to stand on for half an hour and it fused the legs of my favorite plastic chair to the rug underneath it. I grab a sleeve of crackers from the cabinet and move on to the couch to wait it out. 

Several times I’ve heard voices on the outside of the camper. Calling for help. Calling for me to join them. I wonder what would make me desperate enough to leave- to risk it out there rather than in the safety of the camper. A buckling hull, maybe. An empty water tank. The voice of someone I know. Another day and I may be an entirely different person, willing to do desperate things to-

Oh, nevermind. It’s finished.

-traveler

‘Hardly a single attraction, in its current form, Chamber, Illinois has officially given itself over to the life of F.G. Williams, a former resident who passed away in 2017. Among the many Williams exhibits, one might puruse ‘The Williams Museum,’ which exists in the man’s former home and archives his belonging in the rooms where he left them. One might take the F.G. Williams walking trail, which consists of a circuitous path around town, hitting the liquor store twice, and takes up most of a day for several hours-long sits on local benches, where one is encourage to pass out or weep. If the time is right, one might engage in the F.G. Williams Pageant, an event that consumes the attention of the entire town’s population for months previous as they decide upon which theme of Williams’ life they will be highlighting and how, through song, dance, and short plays, they might convey those themes to the baffled outsiders who sprinkle the bleachers when ‘Williams’ Month’ begins in full. 

Casual fans will be impressed with the library’s collection of Williams’ works, including the original written copies of ‘The Long Lonely’ and ‘Dying Cat,’ two of his darkest memoirs of life living alone. A Williams’ gift shop exists as something of a black sheep on the edge of town, selling booze and tasteless t-shirts and doing what it can to remind people that F.G. Williams, while around, was kind of an asshole and that nobody in the town did a thing to help him.’

I’ve only read Williams’ first book, The Bleak Years, so I enter chamber with something of a handicap in understanding what all the hype is about. It was a tough read, only because I’ve battled with the same feelings that eventually killed Williams. I recognized myself in some of his writing and stopped while I was still in the mood to self reflect and well before I began to ruminate. I don’t know how the people of chamber can live with his stories year-round.

Several statues of the man slump about town, his sad eyes and wild hair captured in metal and stone. I drive past the cemetary where his plot is obvious by its decortation. I see several Williams look-alikes stalking through the park, and wonder if they’re outside fans or residents preparing for the pageant next week. I’ve chosen to skip that, instead, paying an exhoribtant price for what is basically a depression-themed AirBnB, advertised as being ‘in sight of the Williams’ Museum.’

When I pull into the driveway I’m greeted by yet another F.G. Williams, who stalks out of the door and unhelpfully directs the camper up near the garage. 

“You’re late,” he grumbles. I check my watch and see that I’m actually early.

“We don’t need to do the acting part if that’s cool,” I say and the man immediately straightens, removes his beard. 

“Ah, all right. I, uh. My wife’s from here and we just moved into town. Still getting a feel for it.”

“Seems sad.”

“Wait till you see the inside.”

The house is a mess. Empty pizza boxes and beer cans litter the kitchen. Several cat boxes are crammed into the bathroom. Clothes litter the floor of every room.

“This is all clean,” the man explains, “We replace those pizza boxes every week or so in case the cardboard smell is too much. We get a lot of complaints about the cleanliness, actually. Not real enough or what have you, but we can’t just put people in with rats, can we?” He pauses long enough that I wonder if he’s looking for an answer. “Anyway, these rooms are modeled after ‘The Williams House,’ down the street there. You’ll recognize the mess. These are all Williams’ brands. Local pizza place named a pie after him even before he was gone- their claim to fame. Uh, any questions?”

I kick a can gently across the floor and the man picks it up and puts it back where it was. “I’m good,” I tell him. 

There are a few copies of Williams’ books stashed in the drawer near the bed and I flip through them again, all long rants about his current difficulties and his loneliness. Occasional pointed jabs at the very people and businesses that idolize him now. As the sun is setting I begin to hear music from the pageant grounds. Three people weep and pull their hair outside ‘The Williams’ House’ while their spouses film. I close the shades and turn it for the night. 

It’s what Williams would have done.

-traveler

Not unlike ‘The Cactus Maze,’ I’ve been holding off on visiting ‘The House in Reverse’ for a year or two, but a recent announcement- that ‘The House’ had changed ownership and would soon be implementing a reservation system, lit the fire that has finally landed me on the doorstep. Even now, I am careful. There are signs of recent activity about. Mostly literal signs, indicating that ‘The House in Reverse’ will soon be a bed and breakfast. They’re waiting on a few repairs to be finished and, reading between the lines, they’re still not sure how long that might take. 

‘Abandoned for twenty years in the unrelenting weather of Northern Colorado is ‘The House in Reverse,’ which seems to be repairing itself piece by piece rather that deterioriating, as all good and natural things should. The earliest pictures of the house do indicate a skeleton of the building- a foundation and a few men standing about. For many years, these pictures were mistaken for construction, but a closer look has indicated charring on the wood and morose looks on those men’s faces. ‘The House in Reverse’ seemed to have burned down in the early 1900s and subsequent pictures, correctly aligned, reveal its slow return to health. 

By the 1980s, ‘The House’ was standing again, though its roof was sunken in as though by snow. By the 1900s, it was dilapidated but whole. By the 2000s it was only the dated and ruined interior that kept it from changing hands.

Now, those that recognize the pattern wonder if they shouldn’t engage in home ownership. Isn’t this a miraculous house? One that repairs itself? One that only gets better at time? Those pessimists among the Wayside believe ‘The House’ is not entirely in reverse, so much as it is caught in a cycle. They believe the house will reach its perfect state and then burn again, like a phoenix, unable to remain new for more than the blink of an eye. 

And among the pessimists are those waiting with bodies, to bury in the ashes of the house and to see what its magic will do to the bones.’

I have not brought bones or any intent to meddle with magic or buy real estate. My only intent is to spend the night in the house- to witness what others have reported seeing: dust falling upward, cracks in paint healing over. I’m here to witness and to leave nothing behind. 

The doors open easily and the house echoes with my presence. I call a tentative ‘hello?’ into the dark, in case there are others like me or even the new owners. I’ve learned that, in many cases, it’s better to announce myself early on and risk an awkward encounter than to come upon somebody in surprise. I’m happy to be escorted from the premises. I’m not angling to get shot. 

Nobody answers. 

The house is empty and old. The shades on the windows and the sheets on the bed are musty. A bed makes itself while I’m not looking. A creaking stair squeals and then squeaks no more. 

I had planned to camp in the living room, thinking that the bedrooms seemed too personal and much more likely to be maliciously haunted and much harder to escape if the house begins to burn. But there is a pile of dead mice on the floor, stacked like a neat pyramid. I kick it over and find skeletons underneath and then a new mouse runs into the room and joins the pile and dies. My skin feels dry and tight. I worry that ‘The House in Reverse’ is drawing power from living things or else that its chockful of some ancient asbestos-adjacent substance that causes brain damage in mice. Both equally likely in my mind.

This is what the Wayside does to you.

I spend the night in the camper instead, making sure I’m well off the property line. 

-traveler

Autumn takes on a great deal of winter’s chill the nearer one gets to Canada, which makes me thankful for the camper on those nights that I have to camp and makes me wary on those days where snow falls early and slickens the roads. North Dakota has seen snow in the last week and it hasn’t warmed enough, yet, to have melted it. The drifts crowd the road and I find myself claustrophobic even in the oil fields where the pumpjacks move darkly against the pale ground. 

I suppose ‘The Blank Space’ has gotten under my skin already. 

‘Theoretically accessible everywhere, but practically only visible in a square-mile or so of desolate North Dakota acreage, there is an section of visible space that is entirely blank, meaning, it seems to hold no stars or planets. Even satellites tend to avoid ‘The Blank Space,’ and, though this would take a little more proving, it has been reported that birds refuse to fly across it, preferring circuitous routes around the sky hole and generally preferring not to exist in the acreage under any circumstances. 

Several videos have circulated regarding ‘The Blank Space,’ none of them particularly convincing on their own but, as a mass, certainly telling of something strange. Most record satellites that just skirt ‘The Blank Space,’ usually with a background of disappointed travelers who hoped to be the first to document something cross it. One video records the release of a captured pigeon, which hurriedly hops across the field and out of range before attempting to fly. Another is an attempt to interview a parakeet that has been trained to talk. Visibly stressed, the bird only whines for its owner.

Of semi-recent interest is the uptick in disappearances following the migration of Swifties to ‘The Blank Space,’ it having gained some popularity in lieu of the hit song that shares its name. The number of visitors to the field increased a hundredfold in 2014 and several of the people making this pilgrimage never returned, a phenomenon local police attributed to them being ‘young people.’’

Like a lot of these places, it’s easy to identify ‘The Blank Space’ by the fence that’s been put up to keep people like me out. The fence has been cut and twisted back by previous visitors, which saves me the trouble, so I pull the camper a respectable distance ahead, as though I had only pulled over to take a piss somewhere, and then I back track through the chill with my little folding chair and a thermos of coffee.

The stars are bright, tonight, and that makes their sudden absence all the more disorienting. The moon hangs low in the west, the big dipper looks twisted and small in the east, and though my astronomical knowledge is fairly lacking, I can’t seem to pinpoint any one star or planet that’s missing, per se. It’s just that hear, in ‘The Blank Space,’ they are pushed to the side. The universe gapes open where they should be, and the longer I stare the more often I feel my chair tipping forward, as though I’m resting on an invisible precipice and am pulled by some extraterrestrial gravity. It’s intriguing and not entirely unpleasent, the controlled vertigo of a carnival ride. 

I remember, a little late, that I’ve also packed my binoculars, and as I dig them out of my bag I notice a chair like mine not so far away in the field- some artifact left behind by a traveler like me. The longer I stare, the more I see: a bag, a lunchbox, and a phone on the seat of the chair. There is nobody around, as far as I can tell, and I recheck the area with the binoculars before allowing myself to scan ‘The Blank Space.’ There, high up and directly above the abandoned post, I see a body.

I don’t wait long enough to see which way it is falling.  

-traveler

‘Though increasingly difficult to experience, ‘The Marilyn Vent’ is a small piece of the Wayside wedged right in the heart of downtown Minneapolis. ‘The Marilyn Vent’ is a subterranean infrastructural orifice that looks like any other but that garnered an amount of social media fame following a post that illustrated a consistent ability to lift skirts and dresses from the legs of those people who chose to wear them. Scripted videos soon followed- people of all genders wearing billowy bottoms and acting surprised when the air from below struck them. It featured as an entry on a fashion vloggers YouTube series. It received a very small mention in Vogue as a local fashion-related oddity. 

The trouble was that the vent was located along a fairy busy thoroughfare and the increasingly large crowds of influencers were becoming a nuisance to those business people who had been walking over the vent for years on the way to work and had never so much as blushed or blinked an eye. Soon, videos of ‘The Marilyn Vent’ took on a pointed turn- men in suits walking through a careful social media setup, brushing past would-be celebrities in a way that seemed decidedly un-accidental. 

A woman was hit by a car after stepping backward and away from one of these incidents and, mindful of litigation, the city attempted to block and reroute the vent. That same day, a room full of office workers in a neighboring building were found passed out in their chairs and the vent was quickly reopened. Plans for the city’s infrastructure surfaced, looking for all the world like the blueprints of a spaceship from a movie series with deep lore. Nobody could make any sense of them and nobody could quite tell why the vent existed or why bad things happened when it was blocked or even mildly diffused.

Finally, the city came to an out-of-the-box solution: they made the vent smell bad. When that didn’t work at first, they made it smell worse, and by the time they came to the sweet spot, the vent’s stench was so powerful that walking over it risks ruining a person’s clothes. 

‘The Marilyn Vent’s’ last claim to fame was the video of a woman determined to remake the first, only to throw up halfway through the process and to have her vomit blown back up at her and into the unlucky people who happen to be around. People don’t visit ‘The Marilyn Vent’ anymore.’

–an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside