Hector and I manage to take a road all the way to ‘The Heart of the Forest.’ It’s new asphalt- the smoothest ride we’ve had all year except for all the distractions. Things like gingerbread houses. Like lurking men in hooded cloaks. Like beckoning animals and women with backwards feet. Like spring-fed ponds with treasure sparkling in its bed. Like birds singing in such a way that they might be speaking words.

That sort of thing.

‘Say what you will about it being cheesy or overdone, ‘The Heart of the Forest’ served as the inspiration for all those weary tropes that seem a little too familiar- a little too on the nose- in this, the civilized 21^st century. One might as well say that the moon is cliché for hanging in the sky, given all those times we’ve seen it visited, colonized, and blown up in films. Nobody would suggest the moon needs to build upon what it already has going.’

We stop at the center- the heart of ‘The Heart’ I suppose. The Rangers have set up a safe-zone there, paved all over in cement and park benches. Heavy duty garbage cans form a perimeter, way more than would ever be necessary. A sign suggests they disrupt the narrative pull of ‘The Heart of the Forest’ just by being out of place. I’ve read, elsewhere, that they’ve got to change the perimeter out every once in a while, since ‘The Heart’ has a tendency to evolve and push out some fable about elves that lure children into dumpsters or what have you.

There’s a rattling in one of the cans as soon as I think about it. I try not to think about it and the sound dissipates.

The Rangers’ signs offer all sorts of warnings about ‘The Heart of the Forest,’ mostly harping on the Red Riding Hood “don’t leave the path” sentiment. That’s the trouble with the Rangers. I’m not sure they have ever understood what exactly they’re dealing with. As soon as they tell visitors not to leave the path, they sow danger on the peripheries. They create a new branch of the Wayside.

-traveler

‘The practice of shaking one’s hair out into the grass operates with the common assumption that a bird will use the hair to build its nest- a straightforward, circle-of-life type excuse for a fairly benign practice. And it’s true, only, it’s not true the way people think it is. The specific, truer-truth is that birds as a species don’t engage in this practice. The truest-truth is that there is exactly one bird that collects hair and fingernails for its nest. Hair and fingernails is all it uses.’

The nest of the Fingernail Pigeon takes up the entire rooftop of a towering hotel on the outskirts of Omaha. The hair and the fingernails droop down over an old neon sign and clatter in the wind like swarming insects- like tiny, percussive wind chimes. Tumbleweeds of hair and nails are said to be found at far as fifty miles away. Hector and I encounter our first just a few miles from ‘The Nest.’ It claws lightly at my jeans until the wind changes. It rolls off toward the highway to be crushed like a dry beetle.

The hotel only begrudgingly acknowledges the existence of the Fingernail Pigeon, which is considered endangered despite proving to be functionally immortal over decades and decades of sightings and the occasional botched poaching attempt. I ask for a room with a bird’s eye view, which is sort of code for wanting to see the unspoken thing. They charge $10 more for the privilege and throw in a pair of old binoculars.

The guide ‘Birds to Watch and Birds to Watch Out For’ describes the Fingernail Pigeon as being ‘somewhere in the middle’ of its titular scale. It’s been known to swoop down and tug and at egregious hangnails and it occasionally makes a play for hair that hasn’t naturally fallen, but neither case has ever resulted in more than a minor injury. And there’s just the one Fingernail Pigeon, so it’s likely not in most people’s general vicinity anyway.

On the other hand, it’s not a particularly rewarding ‘watch.’ It’s an ugly bird, its feet pink nubbins and its feathers crooked and frayed. It’s often seen carrying hair and fingernails tangled about its body. It tends to stare back, after a while.

This last part I find very true. I get an eyeful of the Fingernail Pigeon in its nest early on and go back to the bed to read for a while. Hector engages it from the floor, staring up until it, eventually, stares down. It’s funny, at first, but over the course of an hour the Fingernail Pigeon climbs through its nest of hair and nails to sit just outside and stare back with the sort of blank malice one sees on mannequins. When I try to close the shade, it flutters its wings against the glass, tapping and scratching.

The hotel refuses to let me change rooms.

I try to ignore the quiet standoff in the corner and eventually I do get some sleep. When I wake, the Fingernail Pigeon is gone- off to find more hair, I suppose. Hector has fallen asleep on the floor and he’s slow to rise and stiff around the joints. The rabbit’s getting old, I think. Too old to be picking fights.

-traveler

‘Not many of the Wayside’s stopovers lend themselves to the online experience, but ‘The California Manual Library,’ which boasts an impressive print collection of nearly every English manual to date, really ought to have been digitized years ago. For one, it’s a fire hazard resting tenuously in a state that is on fire for most of the year. For two, its collection, though somewhat mundane, is unrivaled. It is the American Library of Alexandria, waiting to be lost. For three, and like many Wayside attractions, few people ever visit ‘The California Manual Library’ on purpose, meaning that its practical value has been relegated to a semi-interesting restroom stop off the interstate.

Rumor has it that ‘The California Manual Library’ resists digitizing due to an amount of forbidden knowledge that, on the open web, might call the wrong sort of attention to itself. It’s the author’s opinion that anyone who would want to do it harm would have lit the match decades ago.’

I’m halfway through a ream of paper that claims to be a manual for pumping blood through the human body via contractions of the heart when I feel my own heart begin to studder. I focus on it and in my panic I’m able to compress.

Once.

Twice.

Good.

As soon as I go back to the manual my heart stops again. I squeeze with my cardiac muscle, too hard this time, and feel my arteries stiffen with pressure. I calm and squeeze again. Again. Again.

With fifteen minutes’ practice I’m able to put the function of my heart on the backburner of my active mind and bring a sliver of my focus back to the cardiac manual. I study an appendix for reengaging the heartbeat as an automatic process and have it down in half an hour or so but when I think back to the passage that switched me to manual, I find the world going black again.

By closing, I’ve trained myself in both processes, which may seem like an accomplishment but is really more trouble than it’s worth. I find a manual for my phone and finally figure out how to turn night mode off. I read about all the wrong things I’ve been doing with Hector’s diet, which explains the gas. Still, the circulatory override sits there in the back of my brain. It’s there even as we pass the state line, a sore tooth that can’t be pulled. I buy a cheap set of headphones at the next gas station and set to burying it as best I can.

-traveler

‘It’s difficult to encapsulate the Wayside, except to say that it is experienced most keenly on backroads and in backrooms. Try it out, why don’t you? Try it out at ‘James Vapes’ and see what sort of ugly niches you can find in the way-back of a head shop now that weed is safe and legal.’

I have never vaped, myself, but in the dozen or so circumstances in which I found myself second-hand vaping, I’ve been surprised at how diverse the flavors tend to be and how pleasant they are in comparison to your traditional smoke-based inhalants. I say this as a man who has smoked plenty in his life- who has ignored the sharp, chemical edge of haphazard drugs for a moment’s fleeting relief. Who has burned his nose and esophagus and the tips of his fingers, trying to squeeze comfort from the embers of something unpleasant.

Vaping seems downright pleasant, if not a little uncool, but with no real intention of starting a new habit, I never suspected I would find myself in a vape shop and I arrive wholly unprepared.

‘James Vapes’ is the sort of business where everything is kept behind the counter without labels or pricetags, the sort of place where you’re expected to know what you want before you walk in. The man behind the counter looks up at me as I enter. His eyes eventually fall to Hector, in my arms.

“Weird,” he says, and smoke pours from his mouth.

“James?” I ask.

He laughs, billowing sweet vapor into the air. “No.”

“Cool,” I say. I haven’t said that in years.

“What can I do for you?”

“Uh-” I squint in the hazy shadows behind the counter and find I can’t identify a single thing. There are wattages and volumes- heat indications and potency meters. There are strains of nicotine and cannabis and mixes of the two that don’t make any sense to me. I grimace and hope I look discerning. “None of this is, uh, quite what I’m looking for.”

The vapor emitting from the man’s mouth comes out low and thick. “What are you looking for?”

This is a good sign, according to my research. It’s all a part of the dance we have to do in order to get past the bead curtain- a sort of Konami code for back room access: rebuff, rebuff, inquire, nod, and proceed.

If you’re keeping track, we’re on the second rebuff. “I’m not sure you’re going to have it.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have anything…” and here’s where the nuance is. This part is all about using the right words. Wilder for meat. Lower for deeds. More engaging for people. I take a chance: “…more substantial?”

The man sighs and his face disappears in the fog. He’s grinning when it clears. “Can you keep a secret?”

Nod.

“Follow me, then.”

The beaded curtain clatters as we step into a pantry. There are a few vaping devices here, each advertising wattages and temperatures that seem outrageous for something that’s designed to enter a human mouth. Mostly, though, the shelves are stocked with vials of strangely flavored vape liquid. No more blueberry. No more cotton candy. The glass in the backroom advertises things like ‘nostalgia’ and ‘haircut.’ I see a vial labeled ‘locker room,’ another that just says ‘boy spit.’

Not-James has his eyes on me. He’s quickly filling the little room with his fog, thick and sour. “Is this more to your liking?”

The shelves are split by a thin door, one that leads even further back. I consider it and ask: “When’s your next shipment?”

“We’re fully stocked, if that’s what you’re asking. Should I put something on order?”

“If you don’t have it already, I’m not sure you’ve got the right supplier.”

“If you have a name…”

“Do you have anything… (headier? thicker?) more tailored?”

“Ah,” he says, a phantom in his own gas, “You should have said. I assume you’ve brought a sample?”

I nod.

“Then follow me.”

The man ignores the thin door and tugs one of the shelves instead. The vials toast each other as the wall comes forward on a set of hidden hinges. A machine sits idle in the room ahead, all pistons and pressurized canisters.

“How’s this?” The man is indiscernible from the shadows, a cloud in the dark.

There’s no more doors, thank god.

“This is exactly what I was looking for,” I say, without knowing what it is I’m looking at.

I leave ‘James’ Vapes’ with a small vial of my own blood, condensed into a thick goo that, inserted into any modern vaporizer, should allow me to inhale and expel it as a red cloud. After all that build up, it was all I could think of.

Not-James looked disappointed. He told me blood was the most common material component offered to the machine. I recognized that it was almost too commonplace for such a far backroom. He said much the same himself, before disappearing into a grate in the floor. A sub-backroom?

I’ll let that one slide, I think.

-traveler

The ‘National Childproofing Center’ is halfway through rebranding when Hector and I arrive. It’s difficult to tell exactly what it was they were pretending to be, previous. Murals cover the exterior walls, each depicting a photorealistic monkey riding a skateboard through a generic cartoon environment. Each monkey has a thought bubble and each thought is “RAD!” All of the monkeys are holding ice cream and what might be candy or prescription pills. A banner has torn loose on one side and whips about in the wind. It takes me a moment to read it:

“Tell your parents: all of this is FREE!”

The banner catches on the razor wire fence between the parking lot and the ‘Center’ proper. A siren sounds and lights flash. A stern voice blares over the speaker system: NO NO NO.

It all quiets down again after a few moments- someone must realized it was a false alarm. I heave my pack over my shoulder and hold Hector, wriggling, in the other arm. I approach the fence, show my ID, and am let in, no problem.

‘Legally speaking, yes, ‘The National Childproofing Center’ is required to stand by all of their offers but they must be claimed by children and children rarely make it inside without some sort of legally dubious work on the part of adults. The few ‘success stories’ have all settled out of court- some for quite a bit of money but none for ‘real life hoverboards’ or ‘a super sharp flaming ninja sword’ or even ‘infinite ice cream on demand delivered by a talking dog.’

The fact of the matter is that ‘The National Childproofing Center’ is willing to lose some money if it means maintaining their stellar reputation for authenticating the childproofing standards of corporate clients. Parents can rest easy when they see the ‘NCC Guarantee’ seal on a vacuuming robot or an automatic litterbox, knowing neither will grind up, burn, or otherwise consume their curious toddlers. If the occasional mutant talking dog or two escape and breed in the wild around ‘The National Childproofing Center,’ well, that’s a price we pay as a society for the safety of our children.’

The ‘NCC’ is actually paying people to take the dozen or so monkeys they stocked, but I’m not really ready to be a parent to something quite so mobile and intelligent so I turn down the offer of a thousand bucks and a strange new sibling for Hector and eat some cheap ice cream and fall off a skateboard before I decide it’s probably time to go.

I’m approaching the ‘heir lock,’ a stupid pun for a system that’s designed to keep children from rushing the exit as adult visitors leave, when the straps of my pack pull back hard on my shoulders. I lose my balance and send Hector scurrying from my arms as I desperately try to separate myself from whatever has grown sentient inside. Alarms sound as the pack squirms across the floor and nearby screens, which had previously been showing a sneak preview of some new kids movie, flash over to an x-ray livestream of the scene as it’s playing out. From the looks of it, a small skeleton is attempting to escape from my backpack and it’s only until after it finally pushes the clasp open that I realize it’s just a living child.

“I DID IT!” the child screams as it’s surrounded by ‘NCC’ security, “You have to give me my monkey now! You have to give me my monkey!”

A previously inconspicuous woman runs to join the kid and shouts much the same thing as I quietly gather my empty pack and herd Hector back into my arms. I’m scooching backward, trying to decide whether I’m actually liable for anything that’s just happened, when I run into a man standing behind me. He drops a garbage sack on the floor. It’s my stuff- the stuff that was supposed to be where the child was.

I recognize the man and I recognize the woman as well when I give her a harder look,. They talked to me at the diner this morning- friendly, I assumed, but likely just distracting me while their kid climbed into my backpack.

The man puts a hand on my shoulder. He isn’t even looking at me- he’s drinking the chaos in with a growing smile.

“You’ll understand,” he says, “When you have a kid of your own.”

-traveler

‘Speaking of things that should have been retired years ago, the removal of ‘The Deep Face’ in Lake Michigan must represent a real cost/reward conundrum for the state, given that it makes headlines for swallowing someone at least once a year and survives the uproar of concerned citizens that follows each death. Seeing it down there, lying heavy against the dark silt floor, one must admit that dredging it up, even piece by piece, would be an expensive undertaking.

An art installation gone awry, ‘The Deep Face’ is only a danger when it’s on the move and, yes, it does move about. Made of rebar and cement, it’s flat and wide enough that certain tides and currents can carry it along the floor. Regarding the drownings, the leading hypothesis is that water pulls through ‘The Deep Face’s’ gaping mouth as it shifts, creating a strong, localized, downward current. Once inside, the mass of an average adult body is enough to disrupt the current, causing ‘The Deep Face’ to settle on its unlucky victim. The body’s waterlogging, its decomposition, eventually allows ‘The Deep Face’ to move again. This is why a new body on the shore seems to coincide with the taking of a new victim. A body means the lake will be safe for a while.

The mobility of ‘The Deep Face’ has rendered nearly all warning signs about it obsolete. Its victims are spaced too far apart to instill any sort of lasting fear in deep lake swimmers. Its movement has proven too erratic to track. In 2018, it was revealed that state officials had successfully seeded an urban legend into the surrounding communities, one that suggested ‘The Deep Face’ killed only those who had somehow avoided justice for crimes they ought to pay for. Unfortunately, the man who orchestrated this rumor was taken by ‘The Deep Face’ in 2011, just three years after planting the story. His death only lends credibility to the lie.  

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

–//–

‘The Human Interference Task Force was a short-lived team created by the Department of Energy to brainstorm ways in which the people of the early 1980s could warn the people of, say, the 5080s that they’d been stashing a whole lot of dangerous radioactive waste in the mountains. The difficulty was that the radioactive danger would likely outlive the symbols and languages familiar to 1980s humans. A 5080s’ archaeologist might discover a series of neon skulls on a lead bunker and think that they found the tomb of some psychadelic American pharaoh, not a cancer-causing trash pit.

Among the solutions floated by the Human Interference Task Force were color-changing cats and nuclear religions: pretty cool and all but, surprise surprise, the DOE didn’t jump to fund these ventures and now, in 2022, we still mostly just lump our nuclear waste into the mountains and hope for the best. To be fair, at the rate we’re going, there won’t be humans to worry about in 5080.

It’s a shame, really, that ‘The Dangerous Place Off I-11’ wasn’t discovered until the late nineties. Someone before us really knew what they were doing.’

‘The Dangerous Place’ itself is currently off-limits due to a military quarantine, but a fairly sizeable stretch of road leading to the epicenter remains open to the public simply because it’s good at what it does and cheaper than what would be required for expanding the perimeter. Hector and I brave it, understanding that there is nothing particularly dangerous about the warnings themselves except that, past the military, there are rumors of the cautionary measures becoming so traumatic that the mind reels to consider what they’re acting as wards for.  

The safer stuff is all signs and symbols, carved into rock, mostly, but occasionally made up of warped trees and brush. It’s a pretty eclectic collection under the broad theme of misery. Bipedal figures radiate lines, lose limbs, engorge, and explode. Walking past at a leisurely pace makes it seem as though the carvings squirm and writhe. Running past is known to cause nosebleeds and panic attacks. Driving is restricted on the road to ‘The Dangerous Place,’ for obvious reasons.

The symbols underneath remain untranslated despite a fairly robust effort from amateur and professional codebreakers alike. The only thing everyone can agree on is that it’s written in a way that conveys more violence. It reads as hostile without having to go into the details. I run my finger along one, trying to imagine the civilization that left them. Hector hisses and pees in the brush.

We make camp in an alcove that has been the subject of some fairly heavy modern graffiti- folks trying to add blood and fire and lasers to emphasize the torment of the ancient figures in the rock, or else trying to explain what’s happening in the scenes, or else just trying to hook up with the sort of people that call numbers painted on public property. The wind picks up around sunset and whistles through the rocks in a way that sounds like shrieking. Of animals. Of people. Of something else entirely. ‘The Dangerous Place Off I-11’ pulls no punches.

It’s an uneasy night’s sleep.

You don’t read as much about the satisfaction one feels when leaving ‘The Dangerous Place.’ The warnings work in reverse, soothing the travelers as they put distance between themselves and whatever lies a few miles off I-11. I wish more of the world operated on such clear terms. I’ve always been something of a scab-picker myself.

-traveler

‘Speaking of things that should have been retired years ago, the removal of ‘The Deep Face’ in Lake Michigan must represent a real cost/reward conundrum for the state, given that it makes headlines for swallowing someone at least once a year and survives the uproar of concerned citizens that follows each death. Seeing it down there, lying heavy against the dark silt floor, one must admit that dredging it up, even piece by piece, would be an expensive undertaking.

An art installation gone awry, ‘The Deep Face’ is only a danger when it’s on the move and, yes, it does move about. Made of rebar and cement, it’s flat and wide enough that certain tides and currents can carry it along the floor. Regarding the drownings, the leading hypothesis is that water pulls through ‘The Deep Face’s’ gaping mouth as it shifts, creating a strong, localized, downward current. Once inside, the mass of an average adult body is enough to disrupt the current, causing ‘The Deep Face’ to settle on its unlucky victim. The body’s waterlogging, its decomposition, eventually allows ‘The Deep Face’ to move again. This is why a new body on the shore seems to coincide with the taking of a new victim. A body means the lake will be safe for a while.

The mobility of ‘The Deep Face’ has rendered nearly all warning signs about it obsolete. Its victims are spaced too far apart to instill any sort of lasting fear in deep lake swimmers. Its movement has proven too erratic to track. In 2018, it was revealed that state officials had successfully seeded an urban legend into the surrounding communities, one that suggested ‘The Deep Face’ killed only those who had somehow avoided justice for crimes they ought to pay for. Unfortunately, the man who orchestrated this rumor was taken by ‘The Deep Face’ in 2011, just three years after planting the story. His death only lends credibility to the lie.  

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

‘Take one of those fancy libraries, the ones with the rolling ladder for reaching high shelves. Then, take out all the books and all the warm lighting. The shelves are now washers and dryers. The lighting is buzzing and sterile. The fireplace is a decrepit coin machine and the air is crowded with detergent and half-concealed sweat. That’s ‘The Nation’s Largest Coin Laundry’ for you- nothing at all like a fancy library except for those rolling ladders which, in the chemical atmosphere of ‘The Laundry,’ seems more hazard than luxury.

There’s a lot hazardous about ‘The Laundry,’ actually. It’s been the cause of several fires, both internally due to shorting machines and externally due to its tendency to emit smoldering balls of lint from long-neglected exhausts. People have fallen from the ladders onto the tile floors and there has been at least one recorded case of a customer slipping in blood from a fall and falling themselves. Then, of course, there’s the shocks. ‘The Laundry’ has so many dryers churning so many tons of clothes that a deadly electrostatic phenomenon tends to build in odd places and stop the hearts of unlucky patrons who happen to press the wrong vending machine button or brush their hand against a bolt in the plastic-seated waiting area. It seems like the sort of place that should have been shut down years ago.

An even stranger secondary phenomenon keeps ‘The Laundry’ alive: it’s a place where things come together. Much has been hypothesized about the effects of ‘The Laundry’s’ latent electrical fields on the human brain- that they act as some sort of neurological boost. Just as much has been written about ‘The Laundry’ as an archetype- something that triggers human behavior from the shadowy back brain, either because laundromats have long been portrayed as liminal enough to stir wisdom, or because ‘The Laundry’ has been granting quiet revelations for so long that the idea has worked its way from the individual subconscious to the collective.’

So, I have a sort-of affair at ‘The Laundry.’ Sort-of in the sense that I know it won’t last on the outside. Maybe that’s the nature of affairs. I don’t know. I’ve never had one before.

So I have this sort-of affair in ‘The Laundry,’ sleeping on piles of warm clothes and wandering the complex without any goal but to see the thing and to hold another person’s hand. We get lost and find our way back and get lost again. A laundromat brings people together, whether they want it to or not.

After a while, though, the detergent starts to irritate Hector’s nose and I start to think about how Autumn by the Wayside has an epilogue, already- that no amount of stalling will keep me from it. The book seems to grow in the middle but it has an ending. There’s no point in drawing things out.

So, the affair ends and I find myself back in the autumn cold, kicking gravel across the parking lot and slowly ruining my sneakers. ‘The Laundry’ belches fire in the dark. It radiates heat and humidity to such an extent that the ecosystem is changed for a mile around it. Hector and I camp in that weird nature and hurry away in the morning before anything can wake up before us.

-traveler

There is a mandatory sort of costume to be worn at ‘The Big Boy Saturday Morning Surprise,’ a destination that qualifies as a bed and breakfast, I suppose, but is really something else entirely. The costume consists of thick adult-sized pajamas with the childish ‘BBSMS’ logo printed in rainbow colors across the surface. It’s available in one and two pieces- I choose the latter in order to preserve what little dignity I feel I’m owed at this stage in life.

“And what about your little bun-bun?” The man at the counter speaks in baby-gibberish so thick I can hardly understand him.

I shrug my shoulders. “Can I leave him in the kennel here and come back to walk him?”

“Hmm- you’ve been a good little guy so far. I think it’s okay if he sleeps in your bed just this once okaaay?”

I grit my teeth while the man snips the toe off a ‘BBSMS’ sock and watches me stuff Hector through it. He’s used to wearing little jackets and takes to the process without a fuss. As I stand, I realize why I’ve been intimidated by the man at the counter. He’s higher off the ground than he should be. The desk and everything behind it is slightly large than life-sized. Confronted with it, I feel small.

The man taps his computer and hands me a room key. “Don’t lose this,” he chides, and then his voice grows more adult, “And I have to remind you that ‘The Big Boy Saturday Morning Surprise’ is a non-sexual experience. Please keep it clean in there, young man.”

He’s said this all three times already, which means they get a lot of fetishists or they get a few and they all look like me. I try not to take it personally and drag my pack and my rabbit down a hallway that grows in size as I walk. By the time I reach my room, the door knob is level with my chest and takes two hands to open.

‘Regression is never a good look and ‘The Big Boy Saturday Morning Surprise’ does its customers the courtesy of frosting all outward-facing windows. This, paradoxically, does make it seem a lot more like a sex thing than it is and police will sometimes raid the place and prudes will sometimes protest it and none of them ever seem to know why they’re there or what they’re working to stop.’

From the outside, the ‘BBSMS’ looks like some sort of factory or storage facility- all industrial-sized warehouses painted in sickly pastels. The room explains it- everything inside is sized to make me feel like an eight year old. I have to hoist Hector over my head onto the bed. By the time I’ve clambered up after him, he’s already cozied up against a teddy bear that’s at least as tall as I am.

Seeing him settled, I decide explore the room. There’s a chest of children’s toys in one corner. A closet in the far wall that rattles and groans at odd times but doesn’t open. I’ve been assured by multiple internet reviews that this is a ‘monster simulation’ and presents no real danger, but I keep my distance anyway. I check under the bed to make sure I haven’t gotten one of the nightmare rooms and, finding the coast is clear, I pull myself back up onto the mattress and settle in for an early night.

I wake to the sound of a vacuum somewhere. It’s morning, earlier than I would have liked to be up and I know most of the noises in the ‘BBSMS-’ an excited puppy, a creaking stair, a stormy night, parents arguing- are manufactured and piped in through subtle speakers. I climb down and carry Hector like a baby doll through a winding hallway until I come to the living room where people like me gather around a massive screen, mocked up to look like one of those old boxy TV sets. Cartoons are playing and shortly after I sit down a woman brings me a bowl of cereal and a cup of juice and she ruffles my hair as she turns. It’s all very condescending but the longer I sit the more pleasant it becomes.

Another woman, dressed in a onesie, sits down next to me and starts in on a bowl of cornflakes. An episode of some nineties super kid show ends and I see her push a note toward my leg. It says: WANNA PLAY DOCTOR?

-traveler

‘Every county has a ‘Snow Day Stick,’ though it’s not always a stick and it’s not always for snow days. A ‘Snow Day Stick’ can be anything, really, and it’s often disguised as something mundane, to keep attention at a minimum, or dangerous, to keep people away. A ‘Snow Day Stick’ is more of a concept, than an actual physical object, though its physicality is integral. A ‘Snow Day Stick’ is the item a county uses to measure weather conditions and precipitation.

I suppose we could have led with that.

As the name suggests, most ‘Snow Day Sticks’ used to be some variation of a yardstick standing in a bowl or cup made to capture rain and snow. In the pre-wireless days it was the job of some unlucky gofer to trek out to the thing at regular intervals to take the measurement and they did so with little to no training. It was the perfect example of an ‘it ain’t broke’ system right up until the early internet emerged with its dangerously unmoderated chatrooms and a kid in North Dakota described how he could make snow days by piling the snow just right against the ‘Snow Day Stick.’ The ineptitude or indifference of the county’s gofer and the failure of anybody at the news station to question hard data formed the perfect storm.

As luck would have it, conditions were primed for a storm across the country.

With this pre-lifehack lifehack unleashed on dial-up, the fictional storm ‘Balthazar’ seemed to rage across the nation, cancelling schools in the north for snow and in the south for the likelihood of flash floods though nobody seemed to be experiencing conditions outside of the norm. It was two full days before meteorologists and civilians who had previously convinced themselves that they had just ‘gotten lucky’ started talking to each other and discovered the foul play. ‘Balthazar’ had only ever been the meddling of a couple hundred kids who found their local ‘Snow Day Stick’ in tandem.

The initial reaction to this short-lived phenomenon was the right one. Gofers were trained and some went on to become the meteorologists we know and love today. The story doesn’t end there, however.

The original ‘Snow Day Stick’ story made the rounds again in 2013, drudged up from the depths of the internet and made into a sort of meme-legend. The new generation of troublemakers quickly discovered that the well-trained gofers had been done away with and that most ‘Snow Day Sticks’ had become wireless measuring tools and were, therefore, even easier to fool than humans. ‘Balthazar’ was reborn for a short, 24 hours of meteorological confusion.

These trans-generational shenanigans are why, today, a ‘Snow Day Stick’ may be a statue in town square with subtly marked inches and a graceful pool for collection rainfall. It may be a hollow false tree that hums with electricity under its bark and kills birds unlucky enough to roost there. It may be the foundation of a house, marked inconspicuously with coded graffiti- kept that way: pristine and unfinished. It may be a bird bath that appears in your lawn one day with a menacing chickadee and a thick cord of wires that disappears into the ground nearby. These are the desperate measures that weather stations have taken to fool the youth and to keep ‘Balthazar’ from waking again. They will tell you there is no such thing as a ‘Snow Day Stick-‘ that these measurements are taken by a diverse series of complex tools with multiple redundancies.

Don’t be fooled, young readers. Every county has a ‘Snow Day Stick.’ All you have to do is find it.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside