Accessing ‘Sky Dakota’ with a vehicle is expensive and time consuming with a vehicle, but not so expensive as trying to find a place to stay and what is time, really, except an opportunity to relax in what passes for my house? The only vehicular access to ‘Sky Dakota’ is a chrome and oil-smelling industrial elevator, a spot on which has to be reserved in advance. Lucky the ‘Deep Dakotans’ didn’t hold me up after that murder, I suppose. That would have been a waste.

Ironically, darkness is my first impression of ‘Sky Dakota.’ The elevator itself is pitch black and, for obvious reasons, I’m not encouraged to run the engine during the hour’s ascent so I don a headlamp and page through the Guide and wonder what happened to all those paperback books that I’ve picked up at gas stations and read halfway. Sometimes I worry that the Guide grows via the consumption of other texts. Sometimes I worry if it’s jealous and makes them disappear, regardless of personal gain. Sometimes I worry I’ve given too much life to the Guide, and sometimes I worry that I’ve underestimated it as a living thing. It grows, doesn’t it? Surely I should be done by now. 

In fewer words, the travel authority of ‘Sky Dakota’ suggests that elevator users in need of a toilet are welcome to relieve themselves onto the surface Dakota below. I don’t plan to but, having consumed my body weight in diet soda on the way over, I give into the urge as soon as I feel like I’m out of view of anybody who might be hit. From this height, it would disperse right? I can’t be the only one that has felt a drop of water fall from a clear sky. 

I fall asleep in the camper with a clear conscience. 

‘As the toileting situation suggests, ‘Sky Dakotans’ don’t think much of their terrestrial brethren or of people who decide to come and go, residents or otherwise. The travel authority communicates this in a number of ways, including an insistence on being the original Dakota despite having not been heard of or seen by any continental citizen before the year 2013. ‘Sky Dakota’ claims to be richer and happier than other Dakotas, which it refuses to name on paper. It claims to own large swaths of sky that should belong to the federal government. It claims to have donated Mt. Rushmore and the Nekoma Pyramid to the lower states. It concedes the Crazy Horse Monument to Earth, its completion now long overdue.’

I wake when the elevator jolts to a halt. The door opens and I’m surprised to find that ‘Sky Dakota’ looks a lot like the Dakota I departed from. As my eyes adjust to the light, I see a printout, newly attached to the camper’s windshield with adhesive that won’t easily peel off. It explains that my plates were run during the ascent and my background made me ineligible for entry into ‘Sky Dakota,’ citing legal incidents and low moral character. They’ve included a snapshot of me sleeping in the camper, presumably at the top of the elevator. ‘Sky Dakota’s’ cloud-capped towers are reflected in the passenger seat window. My mouth is wide open and I’m drooling onto my shoulder. Soda cans litter the floor. 

I’ll get into ‘Sky Dakota’ someday. 

But it’s going to take some doing.

-traveler

I panic when I come to and bash my head on the quartz just like I was trying not to. Someone is whispering nearby, so close that I suspect they must be in the hole with me. They’re not- they may be at the rim. I finally remember where I am and scramble out of the whole before a goat puts me under again. I check my phone and see it’s only been a few minutes. I snap near both my ears a couple times to get a sense for what damage has been done. They seem well enough. 

The quartz is thinning to veins again when I find the body- the body of a man- hung over the railing. Blood stains puffs of down that emerge from a sporty-looking vest he’s wearing. His mouth is stuffed with cloth and tied in a gag. He must have been stabbed. Nobody in ‘Black Elk Depth’ would have missed a gunshot. 

I worry for a moment about what to do and remember, belatedly, to check the path behind me and ahead in case the attacker is still nearby. Beams of light reach me from across the rim but the way above is dark. I think about calling for help but remember the danger of someone being at the summit. I worry that digging through the man’s pockets for a phone or a wallet will be implicating. I can’t carry him, so I don’t. 

I do leave a note, keeping it vague and indicating only that I’ve found the body and will reach out to the police when I regain cell service at the top. I place the note a few turns lower than the body to give the people behind me a head’s up, like a physical content warning. There’s no way around it except the way we came. 

I have a long time to think about the murder on my way up to the rim. I wonder if the man’s blood will dry or drain into the summit. That would be a nasty surprise for anyone coming later. I wonder if I might have saved the man if I moved faster. Maybe I would have been killed, myself. The goat might have saved my life and I have no way to thank it and any thanks it would understand would make it too friendly. I worry that I’m becoming too jaded for kindness. 

This has worried me for some time. 

I do call the police when I reach the surface. I ask if I should stay and they assure me that I shouldn’t. The ‘Deep Dakota’ plate is still parked when I leave. I wonder if it’s the victim or the perpetrator or just someone out taking a long piss in the stone desert that surrounds us. 

Headed back to the interstate, I turn on the radio and am surprised to hear the same sugary pop that’s playing above. I turn it off and exit to the surface in silence. 

-traveler

‘A thorn in the side of anyone in the business of selfies, ‘Black Elk Depth’ is more an interesting situation than a place. The physical opposite of a hill, the ‘Depth’ is more hole than canyon, winding down to a point at which a single trim human can stand: the opposite of a summit. Here, one can sense the wide open space above them and see the dim light cast upon the stone ceiling of ‘Deep Dakota’ from nearby cities. One can hear, with maddening clarity, the breathing of those travelers walking behind them and those trudging back up toward the rim. Conversations between hikers are frowned upon. The din at the summit becomes maddening over the volume of a whisper. It’s said a man stubbed his toe halfway down ‘The Depth’ once and burst the ear drums of a woman at the bottom. These are just stories, though.’

I have donned closed-toed shoes and have no one with whom to whisper as I begin the four-hour descent into the ‘Black Elk Depth,’ still wary of those flesh-eating mice, though rumor assures me they rarely leave ‘The Dark Prairie.’ There are a few other cars parked at the rim, only one of which sports the peculiar matte-black license plate of ‘Deep Dakota.’ The numbers reflect in my flashlight- only five, all said. The population of ‘Deep Dakota’ is less than half that of both surface states combined, but it’s been stable for decades. People rarely move below the surface. Deep Dakotans rarely leave. 

My descent is slowed by a herd of white goats that have chosen today to chew on the low shrubs that sprout inexplicably, and only occasionally, from the rocky pass into ‘The Depth.’ They aren’t known to be hostile and are, actually, the opposite at times. Feeding a white goat makes the herd friendly and tends to make slow progress slower. I pick my way around them, careful to hug the wall despite the railing that separates me from a very quick descent indeed. They hardly stop what they’re doing to notice my passing. One bleats a goodbye and I wonder if anybody at the summit was harmed. I packed ear plugs, just in case. My hearing is about the only sense that I haven’t blasted into numbness so far. 

Thick quartz veins begin to appear in the stone beside me in the third hour of hiking. My knees are tired already and I have the whole ascent to look forward to as well. It’s said that ‘Deep Dakota’ is rich with gold deposits that the local government refuses to mine. The state always has money for infrastructure, however, and it rarely takes federal aid. 

The walls and floor are entirely quartz by the time I reach the summit. The crystal is slippery underfoot and I grip the railing. A fall from here wouldn’t kill me- not right away. I try to see if I can spot someone at the summit in the periphery of my light but can’t tell. Other lights from travelers above and across cast long shadows and muddle my vision. It would be easy to get turned around, here, despite there being only the one path. My ears pop. 

If there was somebody at the summit before, they’re gone when I reach it. The Guide described the summit as being fit for a trim human, which I am. It didn’t mention that it is also a whole, six feet deep and tight to the shoulders. I lower myself in carefully, afraid of bashing my teeth on the quartz. Once I’m settled, I realize I forgot to put in my ear plugs. 

A goat bleats somewhere a mile above and I black out.

-traveler

‘It’s like the lyrics say, ‘When the sun and moon don’t shine no more/and horizon’s lost its way/down I go to Deep Dakota/down I go to stay.’

As far as I can tell, no song exists with those lyrics but the Guide bases the majority of its several-page entry for ‘Deep Dakota’ on the overall down-note of this imaginary ditty. It spares a few sentences at the end to mention overall cheaper gas prices, looser liquor laws, and the snow-white skins and furs of animals that spend their lives underground (and are, apparently, forbidden to hunt). There is also a note on how to reach ‘Deep Dakota.’ No ritual or secret pass, here, just an exit on the highway, notable for offering no hint as to where it leads or what a traveler might expect pulling off there. 

Given the dark brush with which the Guide paints ‘Deep Dakota’ I’m surprised to see that a few cars merge into the exit with me and that, despite the eerie tone of the lyrics above, other vehicles are in fact returning to the surface in the opposite direction. A semi hauling a tank of milk emerges and sets me at ease. ‘Deep Dakota’ can’t be so alien if they drink milk like the rest of us. 

The exit leads to a long downward spiral, wide enough that I hardly feel my body pulled toward the left of the cab. Fifteen minutes later, I finally spot the place where the road dips into the ground. I slow and turn my headlights on, briefly seeing what appears to be the reflective eyes of a herd of animals. My attention is drawn away by the sudden pull-off of a car behind me. The driver stumbles out to the curb and vomits onto the shoulder. When I look back at the animals, they’re gone. Then, darkness pulls up around the camper like a heavy blanket. 

The border sign for ‘Deep Dakota’ makes the common grammatical mistake of using quotation marks as a sort of emphasis on ‘welcome,’ as in: “Welcome” to Deep Dakota. It reads sarcastic to me and goes hand in hand with the disrepair of the sign and a striking number of white vultures huddled nearby, eating from the corpse of something that does not share their albinism. 

‘Deep Dakota’ has developed identically to its surface neighbors, combining the area of North and South Dakotas to create a massive 51^st shadow state. It’s towns and cities are identically named but with the titular caveat: ‘Deep Fargo.’ A poorly conceived mockery of Mt. Rushmore is said to be constructed just under the real-deal, but I’ve chosen to spend my time descending into ‘Black Elk Depth,’ which is the lowest point in ‘Deep Dakota’ and the height of what passes for nature. 

In order to reach ‘Black Elk Depth,’ I have to drive through the ‘Night Prairie,’ an acreage of waist-high stalagmites that is said to be home to aggressive swarms of white mice. Not a place I plan to stop for any reason, really, because it’s said the mice have learned to chew through the tires of halted cars, forcing potential prey to walk beside the interstate. Upturned oil rigs shift in the dark above me, vying for control of the oil deposits that have been sandwiched between ‘Deep Dakota’ and its surface cousin.’ 

A white dot streaks out onto the road ahead of me and I nearly swerve, remembering, at the last moment, to just strike the thing. The mice use little suicide mice to send vehicles careening into the ‘Dark Prairie.’ Even as I recall this the skeleton of an abandoned car, held aloft on the broken teeth of the ‘Prairie,’ whizzes by in the darkness. I don’t like to kill.

But sometimes I do anyway.

-traveler

There is an emphasis on safety at the ‘Jump Zoo’ that, in some ways, is very reassuring. Displays suggest that the trampolines are regularly maintained and rated at astronomically high weight limits. There are pictures of the owner dropping loaded dumbbells so heavy that the lower terminating curve nearly crushes a golden monkey in its cage below. Which brings me to my next thought. 

There’s not much emphasis on animal welfare.

‘A private collection, and not one of the nice ones, ‘The Jump Zoo’ has designed its habitats to be directly under a series of wide and angled trampolines on which visitors can bounce between exhibits. The advertised thrill, here, is that of seeming to plummet toward a lion’s den or an army of angry chimpanzees, and the animals are, by and large, very angry seeming. ‘The Jump Zoo’ prides itself on not having any of those ‘zombie’ animals, here meaning those creatures that have taken to confinement so poorly that they begin to pace. No, ‘The Jump Zoo’s’ animals are active and that activity is decidedly hostile toward the sky humans that float wildly above them eight hours a day.’

It doesn’t feel good, doing what ‘The Jump Zoo’ says is normal. I try for a while above the polar bear, hoping the adrenaline will offset the overall feelings of regret for having paid for the ticket. The bear takes some half-hearted swipes at my heels but the both of us recognize I’m far out of reach. I try, instead, for a more extreme trampoline experience: a tower surrounded by netting at the center of the park. I emerge at the top to find I’m jumping over the head of a giraffe. It flinches with each bounce. A woman joins me for a while and, in an attempt to catch a selfie, spills her drink onto the trampoline. The soda mats down the giraffe’s fur and the woman asks me if I think they’ll do a free refill. 

There is a small section of the park near the end that invites visitors to lie back under a trampoline. This is to prove that the experience isn’t quite so miserable as it seems- that the trampolines actually provide sunshade and entertainment to the animals. The area below is sexually charged in a way that makes me immediately uncomfortable. ‘The Jump Zoo’ is a wash. A terrible place for people and animals alike. 

-traveler

‘As much a journey as a destination, Alabama’s ‘Water Way’ looks, to the untrained eye, like a scourge of abandoned boats anchored loosely in Lay Lake. The truth is that ‘The Water Way’ is a beloved collection of abandoned boats anchored loosely on Lay, and it provides something like a spiritual center for struggling locals. Legend has it that the boats are wise, in the way of abandoned things, and that crossing them can grant insight not otherwise achievable by the troubled mind alone. More than this, there are a number of known ‘constellations,’ or orders in which one might cross the boats to gain specific blessings or knowledge. Some are well known, and these include the ‘Wibble Wobble’ which is said to grant mental fortitude and ‘Dunk’ which ends with a plunge into the lake itself and is said to shake loose intrusive thoughts and addictions. 

Other paths are carefully guarded, and the gatekeepers tend to lurk near the banks of Lay Lake, insinuating, but not outright revealing, the paths they believe they know. These guides of the ‘Water Way’ have garnered a certain celebrity after a widely-read memoir cited the author’s experience on Lay and how it transformed her life from something sick and petty to something healthy and generous and kind. The guides are not cheap and, despite playful infighting for the sake of show, they are united in protecting the secret paths. Recording a guide on ‘The Water Way,’ by map or by phone, is physically discouraged.

These people are experts in teaching lessons, after all.‘

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

‘The Root Garden’ is the first Wayside destination that I’ve visited that attempts the kitschy millennial aesthetic, and I wonder if it doesn’t foreshadow broader changes on the Wayside overall. Those of us who have fallen off the more civilized paths were, nevertheless, still born into the millennial zeitgeist and perhaps we are coming into what will be our fortunes. I started out losing my truck, for instance, and now that I’ve got a camper I’m almost like a homeowner. Maybe I’m hitting my stride.

‘Do you like plants? Do you like the dark? Have you ever wished you could immerse yourself in both simultaneously? If yes, ‘The Root Garden’ may be the place for you. Painstakingly built under an amateur vegetable and flower surface garden, ‘The Root Garden’ exposes those lower parts of the plants we don’t normally see to a dull yellow light that is supposed to be entirely harmless to the plants above. The roots hang from the ceiling of this basement while cottagecore hipsters recite a series of root-facts that are, by all accounts, common knowledge but are seen as contextually important and, worse, poetically significant. 

There is a bit of spiritual zeal to these youngsters, one that reeks of maybe-this-is-a-christian-thing-but-they’re-being-low-key-about-it. The employees are friendly and united in their praise of ‘The Root Garden’ as a project. They speak to each other like doting siblings and wear a uniform suitable for the prairie, but unspoiled by its brutality. As a whole, they are said to have a long-standing beef with ‘The Rot Garden,’ only two hours away by car. Historically, they are not willing to speak about this.’

I arrive in the middle of a weekday- not exactly prime time for site-seeing- and I’m not surprised to find I’m the only visitor. What does surprise me, however, is the sheer number of employees available. A woman greets me at the surface-level entrance and invites me to peruse the short history of ‘The Root Garden’ before committing to a ticket. She follows me the entire time and at a distance that suggests we might be friends- that we may have dated briefly but are still on good terms. I turn several times, thinking she’s about to say something or to hold my hand but every time I do, she seems focused on the history. 

The man at the register smiles and stares just to the left of us. They both jump when something strikes the glass entry door with a massive splat. I look in time to recognize a rotten cabbage sliding down the glass and to see a truckful of crust punks taking off down the highway and generally flipping off the establishment as though it were an avatar of the man which, even despite my general discomfort, I’d have a hard time believing.

“Was that the rot garden?” I ask and the woman shakes her head. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

There are eight similarly dressed men and women in the actual ‘Root Garden.’ They look like colonial ghosts under the warm Edison lights anchored into the dirt ceiling, and they seem to silently vie for my attention, each an expert on their own segment of the cellar. I learn all the things I already know about roots. Anytime I accidentally brush my head against the plants all eight people react at once, half saying some form of ‘guess they like you’ and the other half politely suggesting I should be more careful. Nobody in the cellar but me is taller than 5’7” I realize. They glide around like ghosts under the plants. 

Finally, when the tour seems to be winding down to an end, I’m brought to the ‘edible’ section of the garden, where the likes of onions and potatoes hang from the ceiling. One of the specter women is carefully washing a dangling carrot and I soon find myself surrounded by the others.

“We have a little tradition,” one of the men says, “Where visitors bite a carrot in the ceiling. It’s the freshest vegetable that can be consumed. Life, still growing. Still anchored in the ground.”

My body reacts negatively in a way I’m only just able to keep from surfacing. I search my mind for excuses to not have to eat this raw, albeit clean, carrot in front of eight strangers.

“Won’t it kill the plant?” I ask. 

“Yes,” the woman says. “But we’ll use whatever you don’t eat. Even the greens above. There’s no waste here.”

The sentence is pointed- at me, maybe, or at ‘The Rot Garden,’ which seems a much more likely target. 

“I, uh… I only eat meat.”

“You eat meat?” The woman frowns. “Exclusively?”

“Yeah,” I say, embarrassed to be associated with a movement I don’t know a lot about. “One of those.”

The woman’s frown twitches back into a smile. She leans in close to one of the men next to her and whispers something, her body indicating a door that hasn’t opened since I’ve been here. I assumed it was a maintenance closet. I lack the imagination to know what it is now.

“Maybe.” The man says, softly. “Can we have a moment to discuss something?”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me. “Uh, yeah, sure. I’ll go over here to the, uh, fibrous roots.”

“Yes, of course.”

I imagine there is a moment after I leave that the group comes to some decision about myself and the door and, in turning, they see only the puff of dust hanging in the air from my silent but hurried retreat. In reality, I trip on the second step up and make a racket, sliding back down to the dirt floor, and they turn as a unit, having hardly had a moment to say anything to each other, and I acknowledge their acknowledgment only with an embarrassed shrug before scurrying up the stairs and away from ‘The Root Garden’ and all eight of them arrive in time to wave goodbye in the rearview mirror as I drive away. 

Maybe there was never any danger, there, but I’ve learned to limit my curiosity where consumption is at play.

-traveler

‘Safety is a fairly fluid term when it comes to rating the safest parks in the U.S. and no choice exemplifies this subjectivity more than the number one ranking of ‘Bunker Field,’ a public children’s playground and astroturf park located far enough underground that it would remain undamaged in all but a direct nuclear strike. ‘Bunker Field’ is a proof-of-concept maintained by Bob’s Bunkers, a company that specializes in apocalyptic security for the obscenely wealthy. They advertise their willingness to take on unusual and luxurious designs without compromising on safety or efficiency and Bunker Park is the prime example. Its air is filtered and clean. Its water pulls from a deep well and can be stored for up to five years. It draws power from the solar panels on the surface and from the rotation of its merry-go-round. Its leaded walls are nearly half a foot thick, and when the klaxons start to sound, several doors will automatically seal the playground from the outside world. 

The actual physical safety of children at ‘Bunker Park’ has been called into question, however. Injuries abound, the playground taking notes from sturdy, 1950’s era designs and except that it is constructed entirely of reinforced steel, off of which children’s heads tend to bounce. The lights are designed to dim automatically when no movement is detected and local children have identified the sensors and will cover them to bring about ‘night.’ Then, they toss themselves about in the dark until someone inevitably catches a concussion on the edge of the brutalist play area or simply runs directly into the walls, which are painted in the style of Looney Tunes to look like the lush natural environment that would be cooked in a real nuclear event. Cell phone service is not available at ‘Bunker Park’ for obvious reasons, so injured kids have to be dragged to the surface before their parents or responsible older siblings can be notified. 

And then there are the doomsday guys.’

The doomsday guys clock me basically immediately and it takes them no time at all to conclude that I’m a third party. The first party is, of course, the parents with kids, of which there looks to be just two families. The 18 or so other guys probably thought they could blend in as vestigial uncles or whatever but didn’t count on there being other preppers with the same idea and now they’ve camped on the outskirts of the park with big army surplus bags and matte black rifles to protect the place when the doors come sliding down. 

I sort of thought I could pass as an uncle for the time it took me to look around the place, too, but the current demographic and the unfriendly welcome immediately pushes me into ‘tourist’ persona. I pull out a small and entirely non-functional digital camera, which people find way less intimidating than simply taking pictures on my phone, and I do my best to project an image of what I actually literally am, which is just a guy looking around. The trouble I immediately run into, however, is that the preppers don’t want me taking pictures of them and the parents don’t want me taking pictures of their kids. I try to sit casually on a bench and look at my phone before I remember there’s no service. 

Tension begins to rise. 

The parents, who were surprisingly chill about the militia guys, are suddenly standing just a bit closer to their kids. The militia guys are cleaning their guns at me. Desperate, I pull up the only game my phone seems to have installed and find that it needs an update. A child laughs somewhere near one of the walls. 

The bunker goes dark. 

I escape ‘Bunker Park’ unscathed and well before authorities arrive. News articles capture the relative chaos of the event, which involved a great deal of random gun fire and an unhelpful maze of very bright flashlight beams, all whipping around in an effort to locate me, I suppose, and eventually whoever decided it was a good idea to open fire in the dark. Only one injury came of the whole thing- a kid who ran headfirst into the reinforced concrete base of the slide on his way back to his parents. They’re quoted as being fairly positive about the park, despite the mess:

“He was going to lose those teeth anyway.”

-traveler

‘The information age has largely done away with mystery and those mysteries, those surprises, that remain, tend to be the scary, stressful unknowns that plague adulthood and leave us looking cynically in the rear-view mirror, wishing we had known a little better a little earlier and understanding, vaguely, that there are likely more cruel surprises ahead. Among the few soft surprises left is ‘The Random Button,’ located in an elevator in the U.S. Steel Tower in Pittsburgh. Locating the elevator can be a trial- it is not technically open to public use and is not among those that office regulars take normally. Travelers are encouraged to ask for the location of the restrooms and to follow the directions almost exactly opposite, which is difficult if the hired security is paying even a little bit of attention. There is something of an understanding among those who attend the U.S. Steel Tower for their daily grind- they recognize and seem to respect the need of travelers to find the elevator and will sometimes help. 

They will never enter the elevator themselves, however. 

The elevator is visually hostile. It creaks open and requires that riders open and close an inner gate. It shifts underfoot and seems to sag with any weight over 200 pounds, though a placard insists it’s rated to carry much more. There are a series of normal buttons in the elevator and two near the bottom of interest. ‘The Random Button’ is identified by an anachronistic ‘wacky face’ emoji. The button beside it indicates ’65,’ which is technically a floor above what actually exists in the U.S. Steel Tower. There is no information available on paper or online about what this button does, and such an informational black hole suggests that the result is so boring that nobody has ever cared to write about it, or is so disastrous that nobody has ever survived long enough to communicate the results. Travelers are encouraged not to press the button marked ’65.’ 

‘The Random Button’ does exactly what one might suspect: it chooses a floor at random and, when feeling playful, will sometimes cause the elevator to go up several floors and then drop down again as though teasing- as though making a decision on the fly. ‘The Random Button’ overrides whatever security might exist in the building, meaning that the elevator may stop at floors meant exclusively for maintenance staff. Some reports indicate the elevator may open onto random rooms. A busy conference hall. A bathroom stall. The fire escape at an uncomfortable elevation. These reports have not been verified, though travelers are encouraged to pause and consider their surroundings before making an exit. 

One other oddity: contrary to conventional wisdom, all signs near and within the elevator seem to encourage its use during a fire or a natural disaster. One report during such an event suggests the rider who, in their hurry, pressed ‘The Random Button,’ was deposited in the lobby of an entirely different building several blocks away and several days later, though to the rider, no time seemed to pass at all. Travelers, as always, are encouraged to pack sandwiches. 

You never know how long you might be away.

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

For all that I prefer being alone, I do reasonably well in crowds. My look is hostile and grungy enough that people don’t want to engage with me, but my frame is small enough that I don’t seem like an open threat. I have a method- one that involves looking directly ahead of me, past the faces of those nearby, and pushing apologetically through as though I have business somewhere ahead and the crowd is just an inconvenience. For the most part, people are happy to let me pass. Nobody wants to be alone in a crowd and nobody wants to be alone with me. 

I try not to think about it too much. 

‘It’s not so much ‘The Library of Forbidden Books’ that is interesting. Outside of a few old and rare tomes in their collection, the books on display are trivial to obtain online or in any number of other libraries or bookstores. No, the real actions takes place in the parking lot and in the sidewalks surrounding ‘The Library.’ This is where ‘The Ongoing Culture War’ is fought- a constant protests and sometimes skirmish that consists of a half-dozen or more factions, each protesting the availability of a book in ‘The Library of Forbidden Books.’ 

For instance, the more conservative parties take umbrage at the inclusion of sexual education books for children, even those that have been roundly approved by doctors and psychologists as age appropriate. The liberal leaning factions counter-protest for these books and, as an aside, have petitioned the library to remove children’s books that champion the so-called traditional family: straight, middle-class, gender-conforming, and (let’s be honest here), white. 

Then there are a number of smaller factions that represent the gray areas that most of us don’t want to acknowledge for complexity’s sake. There are those protesting the impingement of free speech by all parties, arguing that all books should be available and adding, in fine print, that maybe has to include those books that sexualize minors. There is a party devoted to ‘sensible’ age ranges, meaning these books should be available but just leave the kids out of it, right? There are the progressive conservatives that agree family models should be (so-called) traditional but maybe they ease up on the racial stuff and also women can win bread too- in this economy, don’t they have to? Then there are those people that arrive at ‘The Ongoing Culture War’ to, as they say, ‘stir shit.’ One particularly effective shit-stirrer nearly united the fractured parties in an effort to simply burn the library down and be done with it, but was stopped at the last moment by undercover police (who seemed to make up nearly half the crowd). 

A local donut shop has made a name for itself by sponsoring a time-out on Saturday mornings. They deliver free donuts to the center of ‘The Ongoing Culture War,’ the presence of which usually calms the crowd and facilitates a half hour of cautious, but amiable interaction between people who, moments before, were all but threatening violence toward each other. For this half hour, the crowd sets aside the many complicated signs they wave about to really broadcast the nuances of their opinions, and they eat donuts together in near-silence. 

Dan Leder, owner of Ledership Donuts, refuses to speak of this phenomenon and seems, at all times, to be under ulcer-inducing stress to not broadcast any opinions of his own. A step in the wrong direction could prove disastrous.’

It is stressful. Without anything to insinuate my own opinion on the library or on the state of the country, I worry that my nearness to one faction or another may be taken as agreement. Stopping to read a sign seems to signal skepticism. Even my far-looking tactic of navigating the crowd makes it seem like I’m ignoring those near me or endorsing those ahead. 

It isn’t until I turn to leave, though, that the vitriol comes on thick. Something heavy enough to hurt, but dull enough not to count as true assault, bounces off the back of my head and when I turn to see who threw it I find that a few of the fringe factions have registered my leaving as abandonment of their incompatible causes. I make the mistake of apologizing.

“I was just visiting!”

“This isn’t a zoo, man!” Someone shouts. 

“Take a fucking stand.” Someone else says. 

I grimace and do my best sorry, have to go face, dodging several more projectiles which, on closer inspection, are rocks wrapped carefully in cloth so as not to be injurious. Each has the word ‘shame’ sharpied across the surface. 

I return to the camper to find that someone has, rightfully I guess, pointed out that it is a gas-guzzler. A real fossil-fuel hedonist. They’ve pointed this out in spray paint on the side of the van and someone else has, in a different color, rebutted them, suggesting that the camper was very clearly a second-hand buy and a renovation and therefore is helping the earth and that most electricity for cars is generated using a measure of fossil fuels anyway. Someone else has painted a sad face under this. 

A new shame rock bounces lightly off the camper’s side. I pick it up as a souvenir and get on my way. 

-traveler