Lester County is the nation’s worst-case scenario- the place that weighs heaviest on America’s intricate web of federal laws and regulations. The residents represent a collection of angry textualists, each looking for the loophole that will allow them to get rich or trespass or murder or sue. It represents one end of the dangerous circle-spectrum, where lawlessness is indiscernible from lawfulness except in regards to intent.

Interested travelers would do well to pick up any of a number of advisory guides prior to their visit. The punishing justice of Lester manifests in ever-changing trends, spiking with perceived profitability and collapsing with quick, legal patches. It’s a dangerous place to live and, like much of America, it’s a dangerous place to be in the hands of police. Law students, sniffing about for an easy thesis, have such a tendency to end up incarcerated that the children of Lester pronounce ‘jail’ with the Swedish ‘J.’

This author’s interests lie in Lester’s unique destinations. The county claims the longest and most deadly crosswalk, for instance, though locals will argue that nobody has technically been killed on the crosswalk itself. ‘The Long Walk in Lester’ is the only crosswalk within county lines that isn’t situated at a stop sign or signal. It is approximately two miles long, though its entrance and exit exist within several yards of each other. Its width varies from a comfortable 15 feet to a narrow three at crucial junctures. It was allowed to fade to near imperceptibility in previous years, though this has been ruled unlawful at last.

Stepping off ‘The Long Walk in Lester’ is reason enough for any motorist to strike a pedestrian. It’s reason enough to be cited for jaywalking (and run-ins with Lester County police rarely end there). It’s considered reckless endangerment to change direction on the crosswalk. Baiting law-abiding vehicles has led to charges of inciting violence. A 2019 ruling only just confirmed that the legal definition of a crosswalk in Lester County encompasses the entire length of the indicated path, not just the white stripes.

On the flipside, there is no prescribed speed at which one must take ‘The Long Walk in Lester’ providing that the pedestrian can prove that they are technically moving forward. Moving very, very slowly is entirely lawful, as is dashing, very suddenly, in front of the vehicle of an unsuspecting tourist. More than one person has emerged from ‘The Long Walk in Lester’ rich and mangled. Those willing to take the gamble should note that ejection from ‘The Long Walk in Lester’ due to vehicle collision does not contradict the county’s generous definition of jaywalking. Anyone that strikes a legally traveling entity on ‘The Long Walk in Lester’ has a sudden vested interest in making sure the pedestrian stays down.

The thing about Lester County is that so little is able to change. ‘The Long Walk in Lester’ is the same as it was years ago and I know it by heart. I know the people, as well. Their ill intent. I don’t need a guide to guess at whatever game they’re playing currently. Lester County residents learn, early, the larger shape of what it means to take advantage and to be taken advantage of. It hardens around them like a tortoise shell, a body and a home.

-traveler

The men who wore their belts in Denver take them off in Lester, slurring guts out over their pants as we huddle, together, at the gas station. I keep my helmet on. The people in this town are sick and I don’t want to be recognized before I’m ready.

A man on the street compliments my rabbit. The man is not sarcastic. He’s not confused. To him, Hector is a thing worth seeing. Lester has changed in a way that makes the locals uncomfortable. It’s become a cleaner, more coherent place like I’ve become a cleaner, more coherent person. The city produces the sort of man that seeks out sideshows.

The museum is a small historic building. I show Hector the room where our class made little sculptures. Only a few remain. Joey Ford’s is there. Joey Ford had a heart murmur, same as his high school girlfriend. They were the talk of the school, their turbulent blood and nearness to death.

He’s misspelled his name.

There are two pieces of twisted glass in a case at the museum, one from each of the city’s historic fires. The first is a settler’s whiskey bottle. The second is a bowl from Joey Ford’s kitchen. Joey Ford owns a brick in the new amphitheater. He’s planted a tree in the park.

Our server at the local dive is fit and hip and kind, the way I hoped I’d be once I moved away. I wonder what would bring a man like that to Lester. At the end of the meal, he asks if I’m from Lester myself, from school- a courtesy because he clearly already knows. He’s cooked my food. He will clean my plates. He has become the man I hoped to be in the place that seemed unlikely to produce good men. We hug, his heart stammering against my chest.

I tell him: I can’t believe you remembered me.

-traveler

The library in Pelor, Idaho is all sharp concrete and there’s nothing particularly interesting about it but for an ongoing exhibition in the basement. ‘The Detritus Collection’ features several dozen items scavenged from the side of the road. Each is paired with a story written by the person who found and donated it. The donors are anonymous and they may well all be the same sad person. A handful of dark glass, for instance, is accompanied by this passage:

There is a checkerboard pattern to your windshield that I only see when I’m wearing sunglasses. I noticed it again yesterday when you drove me home, while you were explaining why this wouldn’t work out. I knew we wouldn’t work out and I knew why. I didn’t know about the checkerboard thing. I’m writing to explain.

The internet says the checkerboard is an interaction between two qualities of glass: the polarization of my sunnies, and the tempered nature of your windshield. When a piece of glass is polarized it will only allow vertically-moving light rays to pass through it, reducing glare. A person in polarized glasses might be forgiven for their failure to recognize the light emitted by something that was directly in front of them.

A tempered windshield is created by applying stress to a sheet of glass. Light that filters through the resultant microfractures, that is further filtered via polarization, reveals the predictable checkerboard pattern of stress. Tempered glass is made stronger for the stress but if it breaks it will break wholly, dissolving into a thousand pieces. Regular glass is weak and, in trying to hold its form, it breaks in dangerous, unpredictable ways.

If somebody had asked me to test the strength of glass before this, I may have tried breaking it myself.

A tattered bandana has inspired this:

A cowboy wears a bandana in one of two ways: pulled up over his face or dangling about his neck.

A cowboy, his bandana pulled up over his face, might be hiding his identity. If you recognize him, he isn’t doing a very good job. It may also be an indication that there is dust in the air- that he’s filtering the air to keep from choking. A third, joint possibility is that the cowboy, sensing bad air between the two of you, has chosen to conceal his identity.

A cowboy, his bandana dangling about the neck, might indicate a reluctant willingness engage. The orientation of the bandana’s downward point reflects the cowboy’s level of reluctance. A downward point aimed at the cowboy’s hindquarters suggests he is reasonably willing to engage. The bandana, in this position, protects his neck from the sun and from the prickling stares of strangers. The downward point aimed at his belt buckle serves no purpose but to ready it for raising. This cowboy is experiencing the height of reluctance. He is quickdraw-ready to run.

But he hasn’t run yet.

Hector accompanies me through ‘The Detritus Collection’ and, though I doubt the library wants any live specimens, I start to wonder what I would say about the ruined rabbit if we were to put him up on a pedestal- what the ruined rabbit would say about me. He’s at home among these relics, worn by the Wayside to the point of being unrecognizable. A look in the mirror suggests the same could be said of me.

The Wayside wears things ragged like the ocean wears them smooth. I see it in the way Hector nips when I accidentally startle him. I see it in myself. If I had to write a story about Hector, it would probably sound a lot like the rest of ‘The Detritus Collection:’ regretful and worried about some indistinct loss of humanity.

So maybe I don’t write it down.

-traveler

Excerpt from The Diary of Albert Smythe, dated June 1875:

Benjamin was not far from the truth when he spoke, over dinner, of the worms of Wormtown. It is a sight, Amelia. The ground shimmers and turns so that, awaking at dawn, I imagine myself returned to the swaying bunks of the Elizabeth, that this interlude in the west has been but a dream. It is a nightmare, in fact. It is damned place and damned people that call it home.

The place is damned for the worms and blessed for them. At a mile’s distance one sees the prairie rise and thinks of Benjamin’s pastoral hill. It is more a heap, in fact. The worms churn the land and the prairie wrinkles at Wormtown. The earth is airy and soft and I’ll confess my astonishment at how the wide world’s crops are born of the dirt here, neighbors to each other in this place and in this place alone.

The people are damned for their love of the worms. They make pets of them, claim to recognize one among the tangle. They breed them. They eat them. They worry over contraptions to frighten birds. The worm-song lulls them to sleep: skin on earth, ever-shifting. A frightful noise.

There are no floors in Wormtown, Amelia. The toes of its people are as roots, binding them to the place with unholy fervor. I mean to make a prompt return and thank God for thick boots in the meanwhile.

Excerpt from Autumn from the Wayside (2021 Edition): Worm City, Utah:

With the completion of the Worm City Overpass, the industrial base of Worm City is now off-limits to vehicles without a permit. Elliot-Smythe and Regus Foods have subsequently placed their once-popular factory tours on an indefinite hiatus. Those hoping to learn more about the founding of Worm City and the agricultural possibilities offered by its unique biome would do well to visit The Museum of the Worm, located in the heart of downtown and funded through a partnership of Regus Foods and the state of Utah.

Squeamish visitors to the towering metropolis will be glad to learn that the area’s worms are largely confined within the city’s unique system of soil pipes and nutrient basins, emerging only in public gardens and parks and audible only to those who venture to press their ears to the infrastructure.

Travelers drawn by the worms will find numerous opportunities to satisfy their curiosity and, perhaps, indulge in local customs. Relax in a worm bath at Wiggle Room and treat yourself to dinner at Spice, which offers a menu of western cuisine supplemented by Annelida-based protein. Worm City hosts a weekend craft market in the summer months. Offerings include everything from desktop worm farms and wax-worm candles to resin jewelry and worm-inspired art.

A word of caution: the early development of Worm City pushed many local species to the brink of extinction. The trade of live worm specimens is highly regulated and outward vehicles are subject to inspection. Hefty fines and possible jail-time await those who engage in the illegal trade of endangered worms.

‘If the burning of the ‘Museum for the Everyday Flammable’ were any more regular, one might call it a seasonal business. Instead, ‘The MEF’ burns once a year, at least, but at unpredictable times and for reasons that are, at best, semi-predictable. Semi-predictable, in this case, recognizes the overall probability of a building devoted to flammable items and substances catching fire (high) but the improbable ways in which the museums exhibits have historically conspired to undermine ‘The MEF’s’ safety protocols.

In 2012, ‘The MEF’s’ collection of heated blankets grew too large and shorted a wire, bypassing (and eventually destroying) an expensive chemical suppression system installed above the exhibit itself. In 2007, a delinquent middle schooler snuck away for a smoke and tripped over the longest functioning extension-cord daisy-chain, dropping his cigarette near the ‘room of newspaper towers’ and guiltily claiming that subsequent alarms were ‘all part of the show.’ In 2018, ‘The MEF’s’ fire extinguisher maintenance service appeared at the same time as a recently acquired collection of faulty fire extinguishers, laying the foundation for the disastrous ‘trick-candle mishap of 2019,’ during which the fire department returned six times over the course of four hours before declaring the building ‘haunted.’ In 2016, ‘The MEF’s’ lax employment practices led them to hire the notorious arsonist Sheila Mozark as an unsupervised night custodian. Mozark was struck and killed by lightning just three weeks later and ‘The MEF’ burned to the ground once again when her hastily-trained replacement used an aerosol cleaning solution in ‘the grand hall of pilot lights.’

As of this writing, ‘The MEF’ is due to re-open in February of 2021, celebrating with a pre-recorded fireworks show and cold sandwiches.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

‘Readers of a certain generation will recall, with mixed feelings, the fad of keychained virtual pets that thrived in that short slice of time between the emergence of the internet and the omnipresence of it. It’s difficult to be nostalgic about a product that so well foreshadowed the trespass of work into one’s home, first via the pager and then, in a flood, via email and the cellphone. It’s difficult, too, to be nostalgic about a creature programmed to run headfirst toward death at every opportunity- gorging itself on vitamins and candy and shitting and falling asleep in its shit and dying because, say, its owner forgot to turn out the tiny digital light.

And yet, nostalgia is a force in and of itself- the gravity equivalent of time- and there is a part of us that’s drawn backward by the serious but not-so-serious stakes offered in little pixel pets. To quash that nostalgia, one might visit ‘The Electric Pound,’ where all exhibits operate on back-up batteries and have the audio toggled ‘on.’’

‘The Electric Pound’ sounds like a screaming dial-up connection- like a server on fire. It has all the atmosphere of the internet as imagined by the eighties and as experienced by an unwitting hacker, thrust into a motherboard by some occult malfunction. Hector is spooked by the place so I leave him in the kennel with the man who sells me the ticket and who is so relieved to experience a living animal that he doesn’t ask about the rabbit’s condition.

I spend an hour, or so, legitimately impressed by the sheer variety of virtual pets on display and by the small, button-pressing levers that have been installed to keep them alive with minimal human effort. My child-mind had not been ready for the responsibility of a virtual pet. In handling death, the off-brand chimpanzee device I’d received for Christmas one year had displayed none of the subtly of the legitimate brands. The chimp had died early and the screen displayed the looping scene of a blurry little ape carcass, framed in digital flies and scored by a melancholy beeping that still plays in my head every time I pass roadkill. I buried the thing in the cemetery near my house, between two kids I didn’t think would mind. I laid there crying and picking black dirt from my nails.

I’ve read that the bootleg chimpanzee goes for upwards of $500 on the collector’s market but, even if I thought it might still function, I’ve never had the heart to dig it up for money. Maybe, if I ever return home, I’ll go out and find the thing and send it here, where it can live long stretches and blissfully reincarnate, subjected to virtual rot only in the second that it takes for ‘The Electric Pound’ to needle in a reset.

In looking for a toilet, I stumble on a backroom where men stand in a ring and make bets on secondhand Graysnail fights. I lose $20 and leave.

-traveler

‘One can imagine the rising panic among residents when a dozen people reportedly dissolved into frogs over the course of two months in 2015, none of whom had previously reported frog-like symptoms but all of whom lived in Malton, Louisiana. A little harder to imagine, perhaps, is the hesitant relief of Malton doctors upon discovering that it had not been 12 people after all but, seemingly, the same person, over and over. The doctors quickly washed their hands of the situation, leaving it to local conspiracy theorists to name the being. The result is ‘The Malton Frogman.’

Malton residents are quick to explain that the common title may well be a misnomer. Many are of the opinion that ‘The Malton Frogman’ is really more a collection of mischievous frogs than a single living entity. Eyewitness accounts tend to support this theory. ‘The Malton Frogman’ only reveals its skin as it prepares to dissolve and is otherwise clothed from ‘head’ to ‘toe,’ often in a trench coat but occasionally in a more complex dress, stockings, cardigan, and bonnet affair. Twice, now, ‘The Malton Frogman’ has appeared in the uniform of a local pizza delivery company, arriving and dissolving on the stoop of baffled customers moments before a ‘Malton-mia’ pizza pie was to be delivered. Though its motivations remain a mystery, most eyewitnesses agree that ‘The Malton Frogman’ has impeccable comedic timing and little to no regard for human life.’

Hector and I are pursued by a hitchhiker for days past Malton. I never indicate any intention of stopping- there’s just no room on the bike. This doesn’t seem to deter ‘The Malton Frogman,’ who steps out at the last minute each time so that I have to swerve through a disassembling cloud of frogs. He’s shorter with each iteration, his volume of frogs decreased by those lost on impact, until he’s nothing but twitching baseball cap on the shoulder.

-traveler

Here’s the thing: I don’t want to mess around so much where guns are involved. I’ve seen the things at work. I’ve seen the way they change people. Guns are an off-switch for the living and anybody who dabbles with ‘The Private Lot’ is risking that long dark. Myself included.

I kennel Hector for this misadventure and the woman at the counter helps me download an app for livestreaming his activities. Nothing makes me feel old like fumbling around with phone technology, worrying about software compatibilities and apologizing for my cracked screen.

A few hours pass before I’m nervously forcing down a burger a few miles east of ‘The Private Lot’ and the only thing that calms me is watching Hector chew lettuce in his rented bed. It’s late autumn and the sun sets before I’m through. I pull a dark sweater over my head and change pants in the restaurant’s bathroom, switching from jeans to a pair of loose khakis in mucky brown.

“Going out to ‘The Private Lot’?” The cashier’s question catches me off guard. She hands me my change before I decide whether to lie. “Have fun out there.”

‘In 2018, Randall Harrison Sr. declared, apropos of nothing, that his forested half-acre and the cabin at its center were off-limits and that trespassers would be shot on sight. In a full-page classified, he detailed the process by which he had demarcated the land, having erected fences and posted signs, fulfilling and exceeding the qualities of property suggested by castle doctrine. He posted proof of ownership and specific GPS coordinates to be used in determining where his property began and, thus, where one should avoid. He claimed to have alerted the sheriff of all of this, though the department refused to comment.

Gun shots were heard in the area just three days later. Harrison Sr. reported having fired upon, and missed, three men in the forest. Two days later, another round of gunfire was reported neared the interstate-facing property line. Harrison Sr. reported another group- ‘at least five, this time.’ After a week of relative peace, Harrison Sr. posted a new classified, reiterating the security of his border.

Shots were fired nearly every night following for three weeks. A photo was taken of Harrison Sr. as he perused the supermarket about 15 days into these events. It is the portrait of a man on his last leg. Not long after, footage of ‘The Private Lot’ during these nightly ‘raids’ began to appear on the internet. Working backward, the pattern of events began when an anonymous user uploaded a photo of Harrison Sr.’s initial classified posting. A group of people, some of whom opposed the castle doctrine and others for whom no real motivation was necessary, decided to make a dangerous game of breaching ‘The Private Lot’s’ borders as often as possible and in increasingly dramatic ways.

Randall Harrison Sr. has not had a peaceful night, since.’

I expect to park a ways down the road from ‘The Private Lot’ for secrecy’s sake, to walk in quietly through the woods. What I don’t expect is having to park a ways down the road for the sheer overflow of traffic that has occurred. ‘The Private Lot’ has no parking area, per se, but a nearby trailhead has already filled up by the time I arrive, just an hour after twilight. Everyone there is dressed like me, with a hodgepodge tactical-hiker aesthetic in mind, but nobody seems particularly stealth-minded in action. A group of men laugh and clap shoulders near an ATV. Two women smoke pot in the back of a flatbed truck.

A group of guys waves me over on the way in. They’re sweaty, covered in mud and black paint. The shortest of them extends a hand.

“I’m Tom.” he says. “You looking for a group?”

“I was sort of thinking I’d go in alone.” I tell him. “Like, uh, in terms of infiltrating or whatever… seemed like a crowd would draw fire.”

“You’re coming with us.” He hands me a beer and a flashlight. “Let’s head back in, boys.”

We don’t sneak through Randall Harrison Sr.’s forest. We run. The men ahead of me are shouting and laughing and I hang back, guiltily thinking that maybe they’ll fall first to a gunshot or beartrap and I’ll save them, obviously, if I can, but no way in hell am I taking the first hit and probably no way in hell am I sticking around to save them, realistically.

It’s dark but they seem to know the trail and as we move through the forest I begin to recognize the trail myself, its trees spray-painted sickly psychedelic and its ground trampled to earth, littered with beer cans and cigarette butts. Lights ahead suggest Harrison Sr.’s cabin and the men do stop, then, at the forest’s edge, and all around I hear other people like us shaking in the brush. Just as I’m ready to ask what happens next, Randall Harrison Sr. himself cracks the front door and a renewed hush falls. Thinking the coast is clear, he steps onto his porch and lights a cigarette.

The crowd emerges from the trees all at once, screaming and cursing and shining lights in the man’s eyes. He startles and tries to cover his face. He reaches downward and I see the pistol on his belt and I shout “GUN” but nobody’s listening. He gropes for the door handle instead and stumbles back into the house. From the window we can see him cursing and stomping and holding his head, pulling at his hair. The crowd shouts and jeers for a few minutes more and disperses with the sweaty buzz of a mosh pit. I crack the beer and lose myself among strangers, feeling guilty and guilty for feeling that way.

-traveler

‘The Twin City Skylight’ is a dark rectangle in an otherwise blue sky. It’s difficult to conceptualize and then it isn’t, really, and a series of instinctual fight-or-flight reactions suddenly vie for control of my body. ‘The Twin City Skylight’ is an open wound, a window into space. It’s windy beneath it and the sound like wind is atmosphere whistling into the vacuum. It blows steadily upward and it feels like falling. I do fall- groundward, thankfully. A bout of nausea washes over me. Hector hops over to paw at the pocket where I keep little bags of salad. He’s oblivious to ‘The Skylight,’ not at all worried by my erratic behavior in what must smell, to him, like a normal field.

My head itches under the rented helmet and thoughts of lice and skin disease and other mundane terrestrial concerns center me. I roll onto my back and try again.

‘Nothing feels quite so dangerous as ‘The Twin City Skylight,’ though it remains among the top five safest destinations recorded in this edition. Had it occurred naturally in the early stages aeronautic development, ‘The Skylight’ may have garnered a Bermuda Triangle-type reputation for the tendency of its uncommon air current to catch unsuspecting pilots off guard. In reality, the area’s quirks are so well documented and pilots in the region are so well-briefed that ‘The Skylight’s’ airspace is safer, by the numbers, than almost anywhere else. No accidents have been reported there since the sky-rending in 1968.

The creation of ‘The Twin City Skylight’ remains something of a mystery. Details regarding the technology involved in maintaining an atmospheric gap are classified and classified alongside is an explanation as to why ‘The Skylight’ was installed in the first place. A common suggestion seems to be that ‘The Skylight’ represents a half-baked idea about venting some of the world’s ‘bad air’ in the same way one might handle a smoking passenger by cracking the car windows.

An equally likely explanation is that Russia was doing it first. ‘The Sochi Skylight’ seems to represent the same technology and appeared on the same timeline as its Minnesotan twin. Interested parties might research ‘The Whistle War,’ which refers to four months in 1971 in which the USA and the USSR would aggressively adjust the sizes of their ‘Skylights’ to create sudden, high-pitched wailing in the middle of the opposition’s night. The fallout is documented in Michelle Lee’s bestselling ‘Mutually Assured Annoyance,’ which can be ordered for $13.99 via the slip at the back of this book.’

I spend an hour in the field- long enough to see at least one other person react to the sight as dramatically as I did. He collapses into his teenage son and Hector startles at the sound of their helmets cracking together. I move as though to offer support without any real intention to help and the son waves me away. He looks up at ‘The Skylight’ and is relatively unfazed.

I lay back on the grass and rest for a while longer and just when I think I’ve wrapped my head around the thing, the moon begins to cross above ‘The Skylight’ and I throw up. I wave the teenage son away and crawl back to the motorcycle. Space is stupid and scary and if the Wayside leaves orbit in my lifetime it will go without me.

-traveler

‘The Welcome Mat’ is conspicuous, to say the least- visible from a long ways away. How long? I haven’t done the work on that and neither has Shitholes, really. Hills crop up to the south, so it’s probably bright as hell for people who live up on the hillsides facing it. Probably mostly obscured for everyone past that. The terrain is otherwise flat and I’d guess ‘The Welcome Mat’ can be seen for as far as the flatness holds, if not as a distinct facility then at least as a neon horizon.  

From space?

‘No, ‘The Welcome Mat’ cannot be seen from space. Not regularly, anyway. There was a week in 2017 during which ‘The Welcome Mat’ powered an array of skyward-facing layers which blipped on and off in a pattern that, according to the owners, indicated proof of humanity’s understanding of fundamental mathematics and, therefore, intelligence. The array itself was the much-delayed product of a moderately successful crowdfunding drive several years prior. It was deactivated a week later following a stern warning from the FAA (though the owner prefers the more ambiguous ‘federal agents’ in recounting the ordeal).

In defense of the owner, visitors have noted the on-and-off presence of ambiguous government official types over the years, sometimes in uniform and other times in half-hearted disguises. In fairness to the government officials, undercover or otherwise, the owner of ‘The Welcome Mat’ is said to activate the laser at random and for such short bursts that the FAA isn’t reliably able to prove anything- not with the current budget anyway.

‘The Welcome Mat’ is outwardly a 24/7 laundromat. Its machines are overpriced and the business does little to conceal that its passion lies elsewhere. The clothes-cleaning is merely ‘The Welcome Mat’s’ strategy for keeping the lights on- and there are many, many lights to power. Visible from miles around (and, intermittently, from space) one might assume that alien visitors sophisticated enough to travel between galaxies would have the sense to avoid a place as welcoming as ‘The Welcome Mat’ seems to be. Any civilization sufficiently advanced will recognize and avoid a try-hard.’

‘Try-hard’ doesn’t begin to describe ‘The Welcome Mat,’ unfortunately. The sheer wanting in it is difficult to convey There are the lights, of course, which might be forgiven for all that they attract tourists. The building is trimmed in that shade of neon blue that’s difficult to look at directly. The windows are framed in bright red. Plasticky human statues crowd the roof, holding lanterns or reaching up to the sky in welcome. Searchlights whirl and crisscross at ‘The Welcome Mat’s’ corners. Their pattern terminates on the landing strip nearby- beckoning.

The landing strip is an uncanny slice of daylight past dark. It radiates heat and gathers smoking insect corpses. The asphalt is painted with a scrolling, upside-down message.

‘WE WELCOME YOU TO EARTH! PLEASE FORGIVE US OUR WARS AND CRIMES WE ARE LEARNING STILL. WE ARE NOT LIKE YOU BUT WE ARE PEACEFUL. LAND HERE AND YOU WILL BE SAFE. NO GOVERNMENT, HUMAN OR ALIEN, WILL REACH YOU HERE.’

There is evidence that the message glows in the dark, in case the lights fail.

The inside of ‘The Welcome Mat’ is humid and thick enough with the smell of detergent that Hector mostly chooses to remain in his kennel, nestled head-first into the blankets there. Framed headlines regarding alien abductions are tacked along the walls and many are accompanied by shelves with objects that, presumably, have been recovered from these incidents. The owners of ‘The Welcome Mat’ have cast a wide net, collecting everything from mildly radiated glass cookware to pieces of decommissioned war planes. There is a collection of hair, taken from willing abductees. There is a small library, free to peruse while one’s clothes dry. I want to look more closely at all of this but get the sense that every one of the six other customers is analyzing me when my back is turned, trying to decide whether I’m for the cause or against it- whether I’m alien-friendly or a government plant.

The catalyst for this paranoia is a sign posted at the door. It’s a list of weapons, mostly guns, and it begins with the words: ‘To whom it may concern.’ A not-so-concealed threat, controversial online for its ambiguity. Some die-hard ufologists believe the actual intent of ‘The Welcome Mat’ is not at all peaceful and that the sign is subtle indication of the owner’s arsenal, to be counted upon in case a hostile alien lifeform took the facility up on its seeming naivety. Others insist it is a warning to the agents- an indication of what they might expect to face were they to attempt anything more than a quick wash of their all-black wardrobes.

The tension is thick enough that I try to find some means of speeding up the wash and, failing that, likely seem more suspicious for all of my pacing and for the frantic way in which I take in ‘The Welcome Mat’s’ abduction paraphernalia, switching between approving nods and disbelieving frowns based on the nearness of other patrons and my own amateurish read of their potential affiliations. They mostly keep their distance, though I catch one man waving some sort of beeping instrument near Hector’s kennel. Noticing my notice, the man walks out the door and leaves his churning washer of black suits to mildew at the end of the cycle.

I’ll say this about ‘The Welcome Mat:’ it’s reasonably easy to tell we’re followed on the way out- a parade of black sedans that switch off their headlights each time I pull the bike over to let them pass and disappear into the Wayside via indistinct service roads as soon as it’s clear I won’t be coming back.

-traveler