‘Rarer, now, but not entirely gone are the deep South’s ‘Play-dough Separating Machines,’ largely placed in gas stations and in the foyers of highway diners. These machines stand about the height of a man and feature a simple set of illustrated instructions, indicating that a user might dump their rolled up balls of mixed-color play-dough into the cavernous mouth of the machine, place a number of little tubs equal to the number of colors represented in the ’return’ area at the bottom, and then work the crank until all of the play-dough has been processed. In a properly functioning machine, the amalgamation will be separated into the sum of its parts and a small drawer off to the side will fill with hair and dust and whatever else non-play-dough may have happened to have been mashed into the clump prior to separation.
These machines, which have no electronic components, have been the source of a great deal of head-scratching by interested engineers. Several have been taken apart in an attempt to understand their technology but, in all cases, this has resulted in the destruction of the machine. Once disassembled, nobody seems quite sure how to fit the things back together. The consensus is that they shouldn’t work.
But they do.
‘Play-dough Separating Machines’ have recently lost some respectability for being associated with a network of militias that won’t quite admit to being white-supremacist, but which freely suggest there might be a great deal more harmony and progress if human races did not mix. It’s unclear whether these machines originated with the racists, or if they’ve been adopted as a convenient mascot in retrospect.
Well-intentioned backlash has led to the destruction of several ‘Play-dough Separating Machines.’ Seek them out now before they’re gone for good.’
-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside
When the first shovelful of dirt hits the surface above me, I wonder if I wasn’t wrong in springing for the glass coffin option at ‘The Graveyard Capsule Hotel.’ My instinct was that the glass would provide some relief from the oppressive claustrophobia of the situation, at least at the outset, but a traditionally opaque coffin would have given me the opportunity to pretend that something else- anything else, really- was happening. With the dim light allotted to my “room,” which, to be fair, is bigger than a coffin should be, I pick up the check-in information and attempt to focus on the information presented there. It reminds me, in words that are infuriating in their calm, that the concierge will be using only enough dirt to provide even coverage and that I won’t be a full six-feet deep.
It also suggests ringing the front office a full 30 minutes before needing to use the restroom. The coffin door can be opened at any time, it reminds me, but I’m on the line for sheets that may be muddied by dirt that hasn’t been properly cleared away before exit.
A rock thuds down on the plexiglass above me and I click off the light to find myself in the pitch dark of under-earth. I recommit to my plan to just fall asleep and get it over with.
Glad I’m not wearing a suit.
‘Travelers are advised against ‘The Graveyard Capsule Hotel,’ which bills itself as a pop-up mortality experience. ‘The Experience’ appears suddenly in different parts of the country, always leaving before inquiries about public land usage can be made, and there have been at least three confirmed instances of ‘accidental abandonment,’ meaning that three people were forgotten in the ground past their normal check-out time and, for one reason or another, were unable to immediately free themselves.
“We think of that as part of ‘The Experience,’ you know,’ said Peter Dahl, owner and operator of ‘The Graveyard Capsule Hotel.’ Not everyone who dies gets flowers on their grave.”
When sleep proves difficult I order a mug of ‘sleepytime’ tea from the room-service line, without really considering the logistics. There is something chemical about the brew, I note, and then I wake up nearly a full day later, well-rested and wet with spilled tea. A note pinned to my pillow suggests the money for the tea has been withdrawn from my wallet.
Not bad, from a service perspective.
-traveler
‘It’s reasonable to worry about when, seasonally, to visit ‘The Pupate Garden’ in eastern Massachusetts, given the normal lifecycle of a butterfly or moth. Rest assured, however, that ‘The Garden’ is always the same in that every visit leaves a traveler wondering if they wouldn’t have experienced something prettier if they had simply waited a few weeks for the insects to ‘hatch.’ This time will never come and, having spent your money on an entry ticket, the employees tend to be fairly forthcoming about this little white lie.
‘The Pupate Garden’ deals in cocoons and the like and has no room for caterpillars and grubs or butterflies and moths. They are a specialty business and the tour is more about community outreach than it is about the cost of admission (though, they tend to do a lot of deflection when asked about their primary revenue streams or the legality of certain species on display).
Less a zoo and more an eerie zen garden, the few regulars who frequent the location may be are sometimes seen in deep meditation, attempting to harness the well-trodden natural metaphor of the pupate cycle. As to whether any have succeeded in that transformation, it certainly hasn’t occurred on site.’
‘The Pupate Garden’ is situated in the center of a strip mall on a desolate street in a town called Charles (or ‘Chuck’ by its residents). It’s a place formed as an afterthought to the many historical cities nearby, containing all the trappings of a real-deal town but none of the culture. Everyone was in a hurry to leave when I arrived, but I suppose that’s just morning traffic and I make a note to be out by early afternoon so as not to be stuck longer than I have to be.
The windows of ‘The Pupate Garden’ are tinted near-black, which means they take the health of their mid-life creatures seriously or that this lot used to be one of those crappy little casinos that thrive in the Midwest. The historic smell of old cigarette smoke upon entering makes me think it’s the latter.
Certain venues, for lack of space, are situated such that the ticketing counter is well within the actual confines of the exhibit, and this is true of ‘The Pupate Garden.’ Once my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see a shriveled, blotchy man at a desk ahead of me and shelves of insects, each quietly rearranging their body. There is a second where I might turn and leave, having seen what there is to see, but I step forward and pay the man and resign myself to looking more closely at this collection under his watch.
He doesn’t speak, which is a relief.
The insects are more interesting than I expect. The stillness of this stage of life gives me time to admire the colors and patterns of each chrysalis and to consider the likeness to the larvae and the eventual form, be it moth or butterfly. The only distraction is, at first, the silence of the room, and then a quiet crackling that disrupts it. I follow the sound between the shelves, thinking I’ve arrived in time to see one of the specimens hatching.
Instead, the sound leads me back to the desk, where the attendant is deadly still and leaned forward, his features locked in the difficulty of some internal struggle. I wait and I watch and the man’s face grows red, as little grunts escape his lips. Finally, he leans back in his chair and sets a little bag of chips on the desk.
“Can you help me open these?” he asks. “Arthritis.”
-traveler
There’s this collection of Hot Wheels-style tracks and cars at a place in northern California. The owners can’t quite decide on a name. The guide calls it ‘Race Town’ and I’ve seen everything from ‘Carville’ to ‘A Place for Speed.’ Some ideas work better than others. This time around, the sign says ‘Live Free or Die-Cast’ and it’s difficult for me to tell whether that’s the new name or just a motto they’re throwing around.
The inside is the same every time.
A thousand cars. A thousand, thousand miles of flexible orange roadway. The whir of those spinning foam boosters that propel inanimate cars along their tracks. A distant smell of candy from the gift shop. The trouble with this car place is a well-meaning gimmick- an AI that analyzes reported traffic patterns from the city nearby and changes up the placement and speed of cars based on its understanding. It’s not real life, exactly, but it’s a sort of symbolic representation.
And every time I’m stopped by, it’s been gridlock traffic.
-traveler
I’m not used to the traditional National Park Services anymore, that much is clear. It’s made clear by the oppositional vibes of the people around me, the families pulling their children just a little closer- maybe not even realizing they’re doing it. I step into the restroom and look at myself in the mirror and see I’m much as I have been. I try to make myself objective, try to remember a way I looked before the way I look now. I’ve certainly been neglecting my beard and my clothes are in tatters but they are clean and I am clean. That’s the one promise I made myself, leaving for this trip.
That I wouldn’t let myself stink.
‘What is this? A common National Park Site in this, a normally non-normal guide to America’s roadside attractions?
It’s true, and it’s not the only one. There are gray areas when it comes to the Wayside and whole sections of this book are devoted to the complexities of understanding them. This, though, ‘The Glass Anthill,’ isn’t so gray as all of that. It just so happens that the National Parks set up shop next to the Wayside and, in doing so, became an extension of the long road we champion in this publication.
Pay the fee for ‘The South Nevada Fossil Beds’ but ignore the old bones- they’re just like all the others you’ve seen. Turn your attention, instead, to the corner in the southeast. There, you’ll find ‘The Glass Anthill.’’
What the guide neglects to mention is that ‘The South Nevada Fossil Beds’ is mostly subterranean. There is a welcome counter on the surface and a few rooms for glancing at fossilized specimens and watching a looping documentary about the site’s discovery that feels much longer than its 20-minute runtime. The man at the front welcomes me and guesses right away that I’m here for the anthill- this is the first indication that my appearance is giving away more than I know.
“Our manager has put a screen on the glass,” he says, “And you’re not supposed to pull it back because it might disturb the ants.” The man looks over his shoulder. “Just be quick about it if you do.”
When the man hands me my change I note several small ants tattooed on his knuckles and wonder if I shouldn’t have done a deep dive regarding potential cults or ant-based secret societies. Too late now, but I pointedly spend several minutes glancing over the displays and watching the slog of a video in the viewing room before descending the grated metal steps that lead to the wider display.
‘The South Nevada Fossil Beds’ distinguish themselves by this viewing area where the fossils can be seen in the undisturbed earth and among the various rock and mineral layers that several geologists insist are very important to their formation and really very interesting overall. It’s the sort of thing a normal person can look at for about a minute before the novelty wears off and, considering this location doesn’t even have a gift shop, I imagine somebody at the National Park Service agrees with me. This place isn’t making any best-of lists.
I do my lap around the main attraction before doing a 360 and realizing I have no sense for the cardinal directions underground (or ever, really, even on the surface). I pull up an app on my phone that points me toward a cardboard standee of a poorly designed fossil mascot, enthusiastically reminding children not to take fossils from public land. The ‘screen’ on either side of the mascot is a vaguely translucent pattern of dinosaurs marching about a prehistoric wasteland, most likely intended for windows in children’s rooms.
Most of my fellow visitors are busy on the other side of the exhibit and seem to be ignoring me anyway, so I make my way over to the standee and, rather than push behind it, which seems infinitely more suspicious, I confidently pick it up and move it to the side and start the arduous process of pulling up the corner of the fossil film with the fingernails I’ve kept chewed down to skin for as long as I’ve been alive. After only a moment, I notice that the whole wall seems to be moving behind the screen and I take a step back, some instinct for danger or disgust suddenly taking control. I press my hand to the screen and am reassured by the smoothness of glass behind it and, when I finally can peel it back, I find the massive ant kingdom the guide suggested would be there.
It’s bigger than I expected and somehow clearer than I expected too. I trace the paths of the ants to little chambers and, without any more knowledge than anyone else who was once a boy child in a world with ants, I am able to understand what those chambers are for. I see a resting chamber. An eating area. A place for burying the dead. I follow grander dirt paths to where the queen is birthing eggs and I follow those same paths back to where the eggs are being nurtured to maturity.
The longer I look, the more I see things that simply can’t be true. One chamber looks like a little ant gym. Another holds a vacant pavilion, maybe and empty theatre? Far off in the distance there are smaller chambers with insects that aren’t ants at all and I wonder if it’s a prison or a zoo.
My attention is so focused at this point that I don’t notice a child at my side before they shout back to their friends or siblings:
“Come check out what the weird guy found!”
Before I can put a word in, there are several more kids around me and they have toppled the standee and begin to tear at the plastic screen. To reveal depressing ant suburbs and long tunnels that must lead to other ant cities. I put enough space between myself and the chaos that, by the time parents and employees of the site arrive, nobody remembers it was me who started this.
That is, until I notice an ant on the floor, seeming to consider me to whatever extent its tiny senses can comprehend a behemoth. The ant seems curious, at first, and then accusing and, as it turns to move back toward whatever crack in the wall must allow them to walk freely in the exhibit, I step on it and leave. I don’t know what hell the ants can bring down on me, but I don’t need it today.
-traveler