I note the behavior of the first deer by sheer happenstance when Hector and I crest a particularly tall slope of the highway. The headlights pick it out standing on the road some ways ahead- far enough away that I assume it will be gone by the time we reach it. I slow, anyway, knowing there might be more in the forest nearby and when we finally close the distance I see that the thing hasn’t moved at all. When I stop, a few yards out, the deer turns its head. It had been craning its neck toward the stars.

‘Difficult to say why animals in ‘The Headlights’ focus on the sky, given that ‘The Calamity’ arrives from no particular direction. It certainly encourages those with religious leanings to weigh in with their brand of spirituality- all variations on ‘they know where they’re headed when the time comes’-type sentiments. In reality, it’s about as easy to dismiss those who think they can explain it rationally. Plenty of people have ideas about why animals can sense disaster but their conclusions are so conflicting that it’s safe to say they just know.

Herbivores are affected first, particularly those one might classify as ‘prey.’ Deer, elk, and most four-legged stompy forest creatures fall into this category as well as skittish rodents like squirrels and moles. The animals startle, freeze, and remain relatively frozen until ‘The Calamity’ occurs, sometimes days later. Scavengers come next (rats, racoons- even certain birds). Under long enough exposure, humans and other predators begin to slow as well. Survivors of various ‘Calamities’ report no particular knowledge of the oncoming disaster, only a paranoid apathy that some have compared to Martin Seligman’s discovery of learned helplessness.

A hotline was established in 2016 to gather reports of ongoing occurrences of ‘The Headlights’ but it has been of little use in preventing ‘The Calamity.’ On the contrary, several volunteers sent to verify information on-site have perished in the resultant disaster, having either misinterpreted the timeline or succumbed to the lethargy. As of publication, no ‘Calamities’ have been mitigated by the efforts of those responsible for the hotline. There are no known examples of a ‘rescue,’ whatever that might look like.

Travelers who recognize symptoms of ‘The Headlights’ are advised to turn-tail. Approaching a frozen animal is bad-practice in the best of circumstances but, assuming ‘The Headlights’ are to blame, there’s a decent chance that the first afflicted creature is well within reach of ‘The Calamity.’

In all this traveling I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a living deer up close. I wait for it to bolt or charge the bike, am tensed for either, but the animal breathes steadily and blinks at the light. Eventually, it turns its gaze upward, again, where the sky is clear but for a handful of stars.

The road through Belcroft is one of my personal shortcuts across the nation and home to my favorite coffee place. Turning back would mean losing a day’s worth of travel and forgoing a good cup of joe. I honk at the deer and its muscles jump under its skin. It takes an uneasy step away and then stops again. Movement along the shoulder draws my attention to several more deer to the right, concealed by brush. A dozen, all said. They, too, sway on their legs and watch the sky.

I look up, for a while, in case I can make out what they’re seeing. I weigh my options, wondering if I couldn’t make a high-speed pass through Belcroft, just to save time. I spend several minutes mired in indecision before I realize the danger I’m in. Hector and I turn back.

Belcroft is in the news the next day, emitting a plume of black smoke. I see footage of the cafe, half-collapsed, and turn my attention back to a weak mug of coffee on the table. Hector shakes symptoms of ‘The Headlights’ by noon and we’re on our way again.

-traveler

Growing up, monster truck rallies were a fixture of the peripheries. They seemed to be happening constantly, their angry commercials bookending the local news. I haven’t attended a monster truck rally and I’m not sure if what I’m following, now, qualifies. I’m not sure what I’m seeing.

‘One assumes, without thinking, that monster truck rallies are like circuses, that they travel from town to town. They are, in fact, much more like a rash- they don’t travel so much as they spread. Before the internet connected us, we failed to see that when a rally occurred in one place, a dozen others happened at the exact same time, some just a few hours’ down the interstate. Even now, for all that the evidence could be conjured from a few quick searches, rallies maintain only a vague internet presence and restrict advertising to local broadcasts, effectively camouflaging their numbers.

Truly nomadic are the monster truck hunters who re-form at the behest of a chosen-one type leader every few years when the rallies have begun to take hold. Their gathering heralds ‘The Truck Hunt’ which moves between states in order to uproot the rallies from fairgrounds and auditoriums and, eventually, drive the phenomenon back into dormancy. Unlike most secretive, monster-hunting societies, the methods of the monster truck hunters are public and ostentatious to the point of vulgarity. Their post-apocalyptic vehicular modifications and zealot enthusiasm for ‘The Hunt’ leads to their antics being folded back into the monster truck rally itself- a hyper-violent clashing of man and behemoth that can be observed like a parade from the sidewalk.

Some have begun to draw uncomfortable parallels between the rallies and the hunters, suggesting that they may be the same sickness presenting in two different ways: an ailment that pretends to cure itself in order to avoid extinction. Hit and runs are a common end for people who push this possibility, whose bodies are found flattened in their driveways or on the road outside their home.’

The rallies had started appearing again about three months ago and by last week I couldn’t finish a dive-bar fry basket without hearing the raging voice of a monster truck driver describing ticket prices from a TV high up on the wall. I figured it was about time that ‘The Truck Hunt’ began and started eating out near the rallies when I stopped over in a hosting town for the evening. An hour ago, the rally in Bakersville spilled out of the arena and past the fast food joint where I had been sipping a soda-no-ice. The plan has always been to follow and watch from afar.

A series of ambushes and counter-ambushes have occurred since then. The first involved a hidden battalion of hunters swinging down from billboards (We’re Looking!) and spearing the lead monster truck- missing the cab entirely but somehow striking in places that gushed red diesel. One of the hunters was quickly sucked down under the wheels of the truck behind it as the leader’s engine faltered and screeched. The other trucks increased speed so that an opposing V-shaped secondary group could ramp from an overpass and crush several more hunters before spinning about and re-joining the back, closing the ‘parade’ behind me.

That was twenty minutes ago.

Hector and I keep up for a while, more out of necessity than brave journalistic integrity. Both factions mistake us for one of their own. A spear, tossed to me horizontally as though to be caught and thrown, bounces impotently off my torso and clatters to the asphalt before being ground under the tires of something behind us. A muscular man in only leather pants and a helmet shouts orders at me from his own bike and then tries to get close enough for a one-hand strangle.

Hector and I exit all at once. I hydroplane on blood and oil, wobble, and skid to a halt. Three motorcycles whiz by and a monster truck passes overhead, all in the span of half a second. An impact from any one of them would have killed us both.

In another second, ‘The Truck Hunt’ is nothing but twinkling red light on the horizon. I walk the bike to the shoulder and check on Hector, who is drenched in whatever blood-adjacent ichor the monster trucks spray. He doesn’t seem particularly agitated and he chews at wild sage while I change the bedding. In the meantime, I nurse the calm that speaks to fresh trauma. The calm that keeps a person up at night.

-traveler

A bridge spans the center of ‘Crater or Maybe Volcano State Park’ in New Mexico, rickety, as most walking bridges seem, but also newish, given the park’s recent opening. The state of the bridge after so little use reiterates the confident flippancy of the name and I’m loathe to risk crossing it with Hector, in case we fall, or without, in which case he likely starves in the kennel on the back of the bike (or fossilizes for all I know). There are a great number of questionable things being done under the current government and the trust I may have once had, the trust that would make me think the bridge was built stronger than it seems, has long dried up. We content ourselves with a walk around the brim as a much braver couple makes the crossing, their nervous laughter reaching our ears when the wind is just right.

‘It seems likely that the budget for ‘Crater or Maybe Volcano State Park’ fell through some time between its proposal and its ‘completion’ but that certain funds had already been granted and were too tedious to return. The result is a total of three benches, placed around a natural pit, a bridge to cross it, and a handful of signs indicating that there are no handrails (whether they were simply too expensive to install remains unsaid).

The informational signs are printouts stapled to repurposed cardboard and they are purely speculative, reading like a stilted argument between two Rangers, one of whom has been assigned to argue that the pit is definitely the impact site of some ancient meteor and one whose educated guess is that it is ancient, yes, but terrestrial in nature.

The ‘Crater or Maybe Volcano State Park’ invites visitors to weigh in on the debate at every turn. The insistence is endearing, at first, but increasingly desperate as each new sign attempts to crowdsource the geological information required to properly name the site. A cement post near the exit suggests the aborted foundation for a donation box that was never funded in full.’

Hector and I are a quarter of the way around the rim when the bridge breaks and the couple disappears into the crater or maybe volcano. We might not have noticed the screaming if the wind hadn’t been just right. I gather Hector and we rush back toward the entrance where I seemed to have a bar or two of cell service. In the time it takes us to reach, someone else has made the call. A helicopter performs skeptical loops above the pit while those of us in the parking lot give statements. I have my helmet on before the local news starts interviewing but I worry I may show up in some of the background shots.

It’s hard to know how quickly a thing can end for a small mistake.

-traveler

‘We’re looking for people like YOU!’

Billboards tend to blur in the peripheries until I’m checking for a likely lunch spot or the rare Shitholes destination that advertises outside of the book. I could have driven past a number of these before noting anything that seemed… strange.

‘Are you between the ages of 18 and 64? We’re looking for people like YOU!’

‘We’re looking!’

‘We’re looking for PEOPLE!’

‘Are you between the ages? We’re looking for people like YOU!’

No phone numbers on these signs. Just a general declaration of what the advertiser is looking for. I stop to look it up but the only hits are people, like me, who are trying to figure out what the story is. I add my findings to a couple forums for posterity and pull back onto the highway.

‘We are looking for PEOPLE!”

‘We are looking for YOU!”

Just before Hector and I make it to our exit I see a much larger version of the same sign, flickering with halogen bulbs and propped up on two stilts, precariously tall. An arrow points from ‘We’ to a dim warehouse below the sign. An arrow drawn from ‘YOU’ indicates my general location on the highway.

I stop again and flip through Shitholes, nervous in the untrodden dark. No entry indicates any knowledge of these signs or of the warehouse to which they seem to lead. Ahead, the sign pulses with a heat mirage, swarms with moth-hunting bats and bat-hunting bigger-things that swoop heavily on the edge of the light.

We exit early, content to let that one pass. The compulsion to seek out mystery in the face of danger has faded, in me, at long last.

-traveler

‘A great deal of speculation seems to have gone into ‘The Collected Warnings About Hitchhikers.’ For each story with the backing of an actual headline, there are three or four that have clearly arrived at the museum by word of mouth and this practice is all but confirmed by a book near the exit in which visitors are asked to log their own hitchhiker horror stories. An astute traveler might notice the many redacted entries inside, stories which, no doubt, recall positive interactions between strangers on the road. These anecdotes are not welcome in the museum. The owner makes that very clear.

Esteban Cooke broke ground on ‘The Collected Warnings About Hitchhikers’ shortly after his 16 year old son ran away from home. Steven Cooke was the last of his five children, each of whom disappeared into the Wayside around the same age and each of whom followed in the footsteps of their mother, Luciana Cooke. Their stories are made public in the museum itself, their likenesses recreated in scarecrow structures wearing (one must assume) the clothes they left behind and each smiling or grimacing through a wax ball that Esteban estimates is near enough to a bust. The figures shift and twitch with the help of rudimentary robotics while they explain (through Esteban’s falsetto) their tragic fate on the road. Whether he means to or not, Esteban allows an amount of mocking into these performances.

Most other exhibits reiterate your ‘Resurrection Marys’ and your ‘Hook-Handed Slashers,’ claiming that similar incidents have been reported in every state, along every road, and ‘are written in scar tissue on the hearts of those left behind.’ A renovation set to become ‘a gruesome series of hitchhiking murder scenes in 3D’ has been in process for the better part of a decade.

The only section that seems to differ notably from the major contents of the museum is a wing that details a mysteriously-sourced translation of ‘Hitchhiker’s Thumb,’ a coded language that the museum takes very seriously. The exposé hinges upon the idea that hitchhikers are universally versed in this language and honor-bound to declare their intentions before entering a vehicle. A thumb leaning forward, for instance, is a signal that the hitchhiker means to murder a driver for their car (the forward lean a suggestion that they only kill as a means to an end). A thumb leaning back indicates a killer-for-fun with a specialty in ducking behind the driver’s seat and leaping out to strangle their host (the leaned-back thumb representing the struggling victim). Movement of the thumb at any point can foreshadow the inevitable killing in a number of ways- the swiftness with which the thumb is dropped can be scaled to understand the patience of the murderer, the waggling of a thumb might suggest torture preceding death.

The number of ways Esteban Cooke has imagined the murder of his family on the road is astounding. One leaves ‘The Collected Warnings About Hitchhikers’ feeling as though they’ve glimpsed a man’s embarrassing fetish and harboring pity for his lost family, not swayed by the stories of their demise, but by the understanding that they had to live with its owner.

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

The horizon has begun to straddle terminal dusk behind me when a second star bursts into view ahead, so bright that I pull over and wait for my vision to clear. It clears after the sun has set and leaves only a confusion of neon lights, a rogue LED flashing sickly in the encroaching high-definition dark. By then I’ve checked my phone and confirmed that this is likely my destination.

‘For the sake of brevity, this entry will refer to ‘The American ‘American Diner’ Diner’ as ‘TAADD’ except for when it counts. When it counts is now, because it is important to understand that, by embedding ‘American Diner’ into ‘The American Diner’ ‘The American ‘American Diner’ Diner’ is doubling down on a stereotype so well-trodden that the finished product borders upon absurdity that turns the stomach.

‘TAADD’s’ outer is plated in chrome and polished to such a shine that the 50’s era curving structure reflects with the blasphemous irreverence of a carnival mirror. To approach ‘TAADD’ is to be confronted with battalion of strutting selves, some short and stubby, others spindly and looming like a beetle-sick pine.

Inside one can expect to be ignored entirely or set upon by servers so weathered and wry that their nonchalance becomes cutting. Cutting, too, are the cracks in the plastic booths which open and close like tiny mouths as one shifts their weight, nipping at exposed flesh and confirming a millennium’s filth in the cushions. The food is mainly grease and salt, the coffee, hot tar. The smoking section may well be on fire and everything has been tooth-picked to the surface beneath it. ‘TAADD’ is the diner experience as it’s meant to be- the only option available.’

My evening arrival spares me the existential confrontation by warped reflections but my attempts to enter ‘TAADD’ are fruitless for the better part of an hour as the reflected scrawl of a dozen neon signs weaves mirages where a door should be. Hector is eventually hungry enough that he opts to use his blindness to our advantage and, with his slow tugging as guide, we eventually arrive on the other side of this rainbow maze.

A sign past the door says ‘Please Wait to Be Seated’ on one side and ‘Please Seat Yourself’ on the other and is positioned such that it’s difficult to know which is the current intended takeaway. I let Hector cross onto the carpet first, like a bumbling mine canary, and his trespass goes without comment. We slide into a booth near the front and are awarded with laminate menus.

All of the items up for grab are listed without description and personalized in such a way as to be entirely mysterious. ‘Ezekiel’s Smoked Salad.’ ‘Liza Plate (sm).’ ‘Inverted Pancakes (Choose Maria or Penelope style. Combination: add 1.99)’

A coffee appears in front of me, delivered in so casual a rush that it slops over the side. Napkins do not seem to survive contact with the liquid- they dissolve into pulp without absorbing it. I notice that Hector has somehow received a small cup of plain slaw. It doesn’t seem possible that someone could have delivered it without taking my order first. I push it away from him until I can confirm that this is a safe place and not a monkey’s paw sort of hell.

The pie list is expansive but most options have been struck-through to indicate their being sold out. I crane my neck to see if I can spy a pie counter or even just catch the eye of a server but the whole of the restaurant seems to look away as soon as I pay it attention. I’m not sure I’ve seen anybody’s face since I’ve been here.

The décor is the standard taken to the extreme. There is a wall of license plates and a smattering of signed photographs that suggest a handful of celebrities may have come through. A broken jukebox machine stands in one corner, a broken fortuneteller in another. A collection of era-gone-by promotional materials are racist enough to illicit discomfort. Everyone seems to be hungover or sad.

Do I like American diners?

I order something that turns out to be a variation of hashbrowns and they are about as ‘okay’ as fried potatoes can be. We escape ‘TAADD’ with no harm but with the nagging sense of having been complicit in a sort of corrupted nostalgia. How is it that diners have remained so anchored in their ways as to be unaffected by the passage of time? What does it mean to have them spread like toothpicks, tacking the country they serve to the earth beneath it?

I doubt diners are the problem, assume, instead, that the Wayside has delivered a ‘smoke-a-pack’ punishment for a transgression I had no real part in. For me, a diner has always been a familiar place in a strange state- as much a home as I seem to have anymore. That said, staying at home has never been my strong suit.

-traveler

Hector and I drive for nearly half a day, circling a behemoth construction site that turns out to be the very place we’re trying to find. The parking lot is churned mud despite the southern heat, identified by a small, temporary sign and lent structure by the sheer determination of a young man in an orange vest who kindly directs me away from the splotchy puddle topography of the inner lot to a still-firm spot on the outer-edge. I note the rain-drop applause of a small audience inside once my helmet hangs on the bars and I scoop Hector from the kennel without asking the man whether his presence will be controversial. Most people see the charred rabbit and assume he serves some unspoken purpose, to have been so afflicted and survived long enough to enter a grocery store, church, or no-pet motel. This proves to be the case at the gate- the woman there can hardly look at him. Inside, I see the facility has been cracked open like a backwards egg, the yellow exterior parting to reveal sloped, liquid-white.

‘The facility that houses ‘The New American Ice Cap’ is built to allow for constant and, optimistically, limitless expansion. Its perimeters are thick and modular, insulated with the same technology that allows humanity’s fragile shuttles to pierce the atmosphere and built on treads that permit impressive, if not fittingly-glacial, movement.

Vertical expansion, when it occurs, requires that the ‘egg’ be cracked for a great deal longer than is normal and is marked by festivities that are both extravagant and a little forced. Aside from that which is provided by the project’s sole investor, Amy Lind, these open houses are the primary source of funding for ‘The New American Ice Cap,’ raking in thousands of dollars from a population that can’t quite connect their enthusiasm for an ice park to the increasingly warm summers.

Lind is, herself, somewhat controversial in the realm of sustainability. She claims science has sided with the project, that the egg’s harnessing of solar and wind power to maintain the sub-zero acreage is nearing self-sufficiency. Most sources without connection to Lind suggest quite the opposite. Outages are increasingly common in ‘The New American Ice Cap’s’ satellite towns as the frozen mountain sucks power from the grid, purring like a contented refrigerator in the dusty alcove of an old house.’

The ‘egg’ is well-cracked by the time Hector and I pay our outrageous $30 entry pass. We’re buffeted by intermittent bursts of frigid air that rush through the gates, swelling a sign past the entry gate that describes the technological marvel that is today’s intended purpose. The event is an all-sides expansion, the culmination of years of planning and the catalyst for which is the project having closed on a strip of land over the border of Georgia that had been inhibiting growth for half a decade. Though the flower-petal walls of the egg appear to be stationary, they are, in fact, moving backward to meet the second wave that stands behind them. By the end of the day, a lid will be placed on the facility and the enclosed campus will have grown exponentially. Tickets to witness this ‘Eclipse’ are beyond my budget but will likely fund ‘The Great American Ice Cap’ for a few more years alone.

In the meantime, southerners have come out in droves to clamber about the sides of the ice mountain- to throw snowballs, sled, and nest expensive beers is even pricier snow. The entire mountain has drooped and spilled from the cracks, flooding the outskirts for miles around. Informational clips, largely ignored, claim that the saturated ground will be re-frozen by the end of the month and provide a stable foundation for the growing ice cap.

Hector shivers under my arm as we approach the base of the cap itself. It’s gargantuan despite the molted slush and the swirling pillar of vapor that has begun to form a cloud overhead. If not for the behavior of Lind, who can be seen pacing back and forth across the metal slats of a temporary tower embedded halfway to its peak, I would think she may have created something that would change the shape of the nation. If her nervousness and her clear disdain for the events attendees are suggestive of the project’s status, I get the sense that she may be in over her head.

I rent a lawn chair where the air feels most comfortable. Hector vacillates between obsessive consumption of ice and a desire to be warmed, hopping between the snowbank and my lap in a rhythm that closely matches Lind, above. She addresses the crowd each hour, smiling through gritted teeth and reminding everyone that the mountain will have to be vacated quickly when the perimeter is in place. The countdown to this evacuation inevitably rolls back as further malfunction prevents the closing of the walls.

A week later I read that the cracked egg has been abandoned, that Lind has disappeared overseas. Consulting engineers and ecologists argue over the long-term effects of the ice cap’s thawing, whether its even feasible to close the thing now that the run-off has softened that terrain. A lake forms on the border of Georgia and Alabama. Locals take to calling it the ‘Water Lily,’ a term that will, no doubt, find its way into Shitholes when I next flip by the entry.

-traveler

‘‘The Spin Doctor’ regional chain of laundromats is centered in the southeast, though one-off branches and knock-offs can be found in most states east of the Mississippi. Mundane in every other way, ‘The Spin Doctor’ machines are equipped with a four-hour deep-clean setting that can be triggered by straddling the line between the ‘regular’ and ‘delicate’ cycles precisely before punching the quarter tray in. Watching the clothes spin through the glass, one will reportedly come to terms with a small, unfortunate event that occurred while wearing a garment inside.

By no means does the deep clean erase the event from history or from the minds of those who witnessed it. The ‘clean’ is for the traveler, alone, who will either see the embarrassment from an angle that greatly minimizes its impact or realize, suddenly, that they had misremembered some forgivable context. The garment will emerge in tatters but the traveler will have one fewer intrusive thought needling them as they try to sleep- a cheap trade for those who find the service even remotely compelling.

Rumors suggest several ways in which one might bolster the deep clean for those particularly guilty memories. Quarters minted in the year of the event are said to be lucky in this regard. Sitting close to the machine as though rot-your-brain staring into a television keeps interruptions to a minimum. Some find comfort in keeping a video of the process in their phone, the loops of which can be streamed in 10-hour intervals, a lo-fi, ASMR niche all its own.’

Seventeen years ago I was a high school freshman who thought football might make him a better man. It did not, and I spend a night or two each month reliving the afternoon that taught me it wouldn’t. It doesn’t help that I still carry around the school colors in the form of a worn-thin athletic quick-dry t-shirt. I’ve worn and washed it often enough that the stains, at this point, are well-set. Into the washer it goes.

Four hours is a long time to watch a machine and I don’t feel particularly cleansed of that afternoon when its buzzer jolts me from a reverie. I collect the jersey, now a handful of mulch, and stretch. I sleep soundly in the first evening, at least, contented with having tried.

-traveler

‘The trouble with bees (discounting the larger, extinction-level problem) is that one never quite knows where they’ll show up. The internet has allowed for an intermittent symbiosis to form between farmers and apiarists, the farmers appreciating the bees for their pollinating and the beekeepers playing an underhanded game of global chess with their queens.

For all that the Wayside is already chaotic, the shifting bee colonies add another layer of uncertainty to a tour that may already be fraught. One may have prepared bundled offerings of black catnip for the ashen specters of ‘The Immolated Kat Cirkus’ but to complete the tedious peace ritual for feline phantoms between boxes of nervous honey bees? Or to stumble upon a hive at the ‘The Undisclosed Peak’ while waiting for a glimpse of America’s secret second moon? Bees are happy to sting in the dark, reader, by moonlight, by daylight, in storm and sun. Bees are the postal service of the natural world, endangered, yes, but persistent even in the face of extinction.

And, like their honey, bees have a tendency to pick up on the local flavor.

It is good common sense to refrain from opening strange boxes or exploring ruined buildings, if for no other reason than for the minimal chance either currently houses bees. Much of what could be considered good common sense would suggest avoiding these destinations altogether. Whilst ignoring common sense, the author offers this piece of advice to the traveler: speak softly and carry epinephrine.’

Ah, stupid. I’m sure I’ve flipped by this little warning a hundred times and ignored it. Had I absorbed any of what it said I may have:

1. Ignored a moonlit field of mysterious boxes might portend.

2. Remained on-book, rather than thinking I had somehow discovered a Wayside oddity not already covered inside.

3. Done a better job washing the corn syrup from myself.

Hector is worse than me in most of these regards. He moves through the field with blithe abandon and doesn’t seem to mind that his skin crawls with insects. Could be that the rabbit and the bees understand neither is a threat to the other. Could be that his skin is thick enough that he doesn’t notice or that the stingers pose no threat at all.

I don’t consider myself thin-skinned, exactly, but compared to the tan rabbit I am not so ready to go about my business when I understand what all the itching is. Something instinctual (or, perhaps, something layered-in by cartoon tropes) warns that bee stings are a bit like dominoes- there is either peace or disaster. I move slowly and in the moonlight I confirm that the bees have mostly snuck under my sleeves and the cuffs of my jeans to get at the corn syrup from North Dakota. It seems reasonable to assume they’ll leave once the residue is licked, chewed, or otherwise mandibled away.

It’s a long process- an evening I spend standing stock-still, trespassing in a moonlit field. By sunrise, the bees have mostly dissipated and those that remain are happy enough to be brushed away by a gentle hand. Hector has fallen asleep between my feet and he kicks fitfully when I gather him from the dewy grass. Out of the corner of my eye a figure moves, a second scarecrow thawed in the sun.

The woman observes me from across the field and I stare back at her, the each of us wondering whether it would be therapeutic to discuss our misadventure or if we’d rather pretend it never happened. She chooses the latter, with a shrug, and then winces at something underneath her jacket- a bee sting, I guess.

I imagine her eyes widen. I imagine a pulse of adrenaline to her stiff legs. I imagine because I’m too busy running, myself, Hector an unwieldly football in my arms.

-traveler

‘Oil rigs chug a little slower deep in the American mid-west where the fruit of the ground is not black-gold but golden-gold, known less colloquially as ‘corn syrup.’ Commonly mistaken for a processed form of the surface-dwelling corn plant, ‘corn syrup’ earns its name for a tendency to pool under the same prairies atop which maize and its distant cousins tend to thrive. It is a viscous bruise hidden beneath the majority of American crops.

The straightforwardly named ‘Space Flower Theory’ posits that corn syrup is this world’s nectar and humanity, reimagined as a sort of swarming, drone-like species, is simply a medium for Earth’s essence. Corn syrup is the reward we earn for pouring non-renewable resources into unsustainable growth, which seems counter-intuitive at first but, ‘Space Flower Theory’ explains, is actually quite natural. The sooner we burn the planet down the sooner humanity will feel compelled to leave it. In doing so, we cross-pollinate the cosmos.

Though the name reeks of a new-age crystal rubbing, ‘Space Flower’ believers present as ‘down-to-earth.’ In reality, they are simply apathetic. Reading between the lines, it isn’t difficult to see that ‘Space Flower Theory’ is a thin, possibly sarcastic means by which a person might downplay the importance of individual responsibility for global crises. Any one who subscribes to the theory was looking for an excuse to forgo recycling when they found it and the same can be said for the majority of those who are able to describe it with a straight face.

The only discerning factor between the arm-chair ‘Space Flower Theorist’ and the zealot is the completion of a pilgrimage to the corn-syrup fields outside Omaha. They make no excuse for climate change, substitute an aggressive nihilism for the amateur’s lethargy and strive, in all actions, to salt the earth where it’s wounded. Their ritualistic destruction of farmland over a corn syrup reservoir results in what is often called crop circles. They hope, one day, to become the spacefarers we wish they were.’

‘The Syrup Fields’ aren’t much to look at. It’s autumn, so the rigs are definitely moving slower for all that the subterranean syrup has thickened in the cooling dirt, but they haven’t slowed, yet, to the notable winter crawl and the tempo is not so different from the mid-summer fly-fest videos I pull up on my phone. Hector licks wildly at the ground, the only indication that this is anything but an oil town and eventually I have to wipe down the rabbit’s sticky underbelly and shove him in the kennel. I don’t know that corn syrup is bad for him but, considering the number it’s done on the human populace, I feel comfortable making an educated guess.

Stupidly, perhaps, I sneak past the no-trespassing signs for a closer look and, shortly thereafter, I am running through a cornfield, pursued by a farmer with a gun. The web-strings of cooled syrup that form nearer the rigs collect on my face and make it difficult to open my eyes and to see through them once opened. I lick strands from my lips, sickly sweet and yellow across my skin.

Hector and I make a tidy escape, the farmer-cum-rig-operator emerging from the field in time to kick dirt at the bike as we swerve back onto the road. I doubt he would have taken the shot, but I drive a long ways before stopping again to shove a pocketful of sweetened kernels into the kennel and to wipe syrup from the handlebars. I suppose this counts as a fleeting bout of apathy and I wonder, idly (and idling) whether its onset is due to the corn syrup’s proximity or if the two are somehow comorbid, the seeking out of the Midwest and the carelessness with which we live.

-traveler