I’ve let myself get out of shape somewhere along the way. It may have started when I built the bike- before that I’d been walking and hitchhiking and lugging everything I owned on my back. I was fit, for a while, and then a little sickly. A little worn down. Tired. When I built the bike, some part of me decided it would never approach that low weariness again.
The truck, before all that, just wouldn’t go certain places. It was big and heavy and anything rougher than freeway would shake pieces of it off onto the shoulder. Sometimes those pieces were important so, though it theoretically was capable of four-wheel drive, I rarely risked any road that might require it. I was fitter, then, too. Healthy, even.
The bike has encouraged me to keep more than I can carry and it manages to reach places the truck wouldn’t. It’s held together surprisingly well. The bike has made me lazy and so, in climbing to my spot in ‘The Slumber Complex,’ I approach that old weariness faster than I imagined was possible.
‘It must have taken some doing to think of a name like ‘The Slumber Complex’ for a structure that is just a bunkbed taken to an unwarranted extreme. Dozens of beds wide, hundreds of beds tall, the addition of an exterior shell in 2017 makes ‘The Slumber Complex’ less like a bunkbed and more like a shitty hostel than ever before. It is the nearest thing to a human hive that has yet existed due, in part, to a work-to-stay policy with a focus on expansion.
In plain terms: you can stay however long you want if you build yourself a new bed each night. A lot of people are more than happy to take ‘The Slumber Complex’ up on that offer, and with the shell in place, the interior has taken on a density some might call unsustainable. The current state of ‘The Slumber Complex’ is difficult to describe. It is as wide as a field, as tall as an office building, and as tenuously creaking as an old home’s wooden staircase. Traversing it is like climbing a tree- like waking in the middle of the night during a sleepover, having to tip-toe over the unconscious bodies of friends to reach the bathroom.
There is no bathroom, here, reader, only designated overlooks and the filthy safety nets below them.’
I took a picture of the board map in the lobby, both for reference and to preserve a sense of ‘The Slumber Complex’ at what must be the beginning of its decline. The old map has been annotated and the annotations have seen so much further annotating that it’s difficult to read two-dimensionally. I noted that bunks used to follow a fairly simple coordinate pattern, something like 12-1-3 would be the first bunk in the third row on the twelfth level. Now there are so many partial levels and rows that my own bunk assignment is: 27JA-172R-13F/F.
There’s an app that’s supposed to tell me where I’m going but it asks for access to my photos, my microphone, my camera, and just about every other app I have installed as soon as I open it. Once I deny the permissions, the interactive map functions so slowly that I wonder if it’s sulking. I delete it and try to make sense of the physical signage instead, working my way up a few levels, and then wandering between staircases as a means of resting. By the time I’ve reached the 14th level, I seem to have found my general interior zone. As far as I cant tell, the letters indicate bunks that don’t correspond to the original, whole-number system and work roughly left-to-write (or down-to-up if we’re talking altitude). Forward slashes indicate bunks that crisscross, which seems to be a way to fit beds almost directly on top of each other without smothering the visitor on the lowest bunk.
I pause on the 16th level to congratulate myself on cracking the code and to drink a soda that I’d been saving for dinner. I’ve hardly turned the cap when the Stranger appears out of nowhere and kicks me over the nearest railing.
I realize, in the first second of that fall, that understanding ‘The Slumber Complex’s’ system and knowing where I am within it are two very different things. Facing upward, I have no idea whether the drop will be a yard or fifty feet. It’s with mixed-emotions that I slam onto a sub-floor that’s been relegated to upper level-15. My momentum carries me over another ledge and I bounce downward like a ball in a pachinko machine, cracking ribs and twisting limbs along the way.
Between falls I become aware of a black cloud above me- the Stranger’s rabbit, pulling its dark, silken fur through the bunks in pursuit. I plummet, again, land, and roll into a railing, finally coming to a stop on my back. The rabbit leaps down on top of me and the world goes dark. It’s almost peaceful until the black rabbit begins to burrow into my chest.
I try to pull the thing off me but each handful of fur ends up being too long to create any tension. The rabbit’s body evades my fingers, even as I scrape them over the bright spot of pain where it’s landed. Between heartbeats, I wonder if it’s already inside me, if it’s worked its way under my ribcage or into my stomach.
Then, the black rabbit squeals and the veil lifts. ‘The Slumber Complex’ shivers and creaks about me as other visitors clamber between bunks to see what the ruckus is. They help me to sitting. They assume I stepped wrong and slipped over an edge. The Stranger and his rabbit are gone again.
“Fuck!” Someone shouts. “What the hell is that?”
I push a hand away and make it to my knees to see what he’s pointing at. It’s only Hector, chewing a mouthful of long black fur.
-traveler
Well, here I am, featured in another museum. First it was the ‘Museum of Still Mirrors’ which was, really, just a man who drew caricatures so quickly that he could have a picture of any given guest ready before they’d finished perusing the other displays. There was the ‘You-seum,’ a sort of new age therapeutic experience led by a guy that can’t have had any real credentials in the field. Tangentially, that was a drastically different experience than the ‘You See-Em?’- which was a museum, I guess, except that it consisted only of landscape shots blown up to a pixelated blur and grainy video footage collected by a woman that would, occasionally, shout “you see ‘em?” while pointing at the empty spaces between trees. After 90 minutes of telling her I didn’t see anything she just shrugged and said “Well, they see you.”
This is all beside the point. The ‘As Seen on TV Museum’ is not one that features me as a technicality or a gimmick. I am featured under the theme and, worse, I am named.
‘Few descriptors boast, with such confidence, the low quality of a product as the phrase ‘as seen on TV.’ The ‘As Seen on TV Museum’ is the exception that makes the rule, it being a surprisingly thorough examination of everything that has ever been featured on television at one time or another. Yes, you have some dresses from soap operas and some costumes from sitcoms to bolster the foyer, but the vast majority of the sprawling collection spotlights that which is normally outside the spotlight altogether.
Here you will find various cardboard props, made so that they will pass muster only in the far backgrounds of scenes. Here you will find newscaster’s desks and politician’s podiums. Here you will find profiles- analyses, even- of the headless models that sometimes feature in stock footage for illustrating the obesity crisis. Everything that has ever been seen on TV has a place here. Of course, this has not been proven, because absolute proof seems an impossible task. This has not been unproven either, for every person that has entered the ‘As Seen on TV Museum’ with a challenging snippet of footage has found a display devoted to it, often emerging fractally from unrelated displays and so seamlessly that they might have grown there naturally.’
What I find out, very quickly, is that the ‘As Seen on TV Museum’ has a highly sensitive security system in place. It issues a light warning ping when I reach in to remove the little model of myself from a scene- one in which I was captured in the back of a news story about migrating geese. It pings again when I scratch at my name on the small placard which gives a concise but surprisingly accurate biography of myself. It makes a much louder, much more piercing sound when I tug at the model again and feel one of its feet give from the display.
I step backward and reassess the situation before a new ping startles me and I see that Hector, left to his own devices, has begun to nibble at a small model tree under the main display behind me. Finally, the system issues a low, almost sarcastic ping as I make a note of the fire escape and of the folded map I was given when I bought my ticket.
The sirens start before I’ve even leaned over the display again. I yank the model-me from the base of the display and bolt into the fire escape though, in this case, ‘into’ literally means I run into a stationary door- a prop fire escape that I mistook for the real deal. Hector bolts back to the model tree and the siren squeals indignantly. The footfalls of a surprisingly robust security team grow nearer as I gather the wayward rabbit and push through the real fire exit on the opposite side of the room.
The siren is sounding in the parking lot, much to my dismay, and any hope I had to blend in to the crowd disappears as I plow through the only other people visiting- a previously happy family with a dozen kids of indeterminate age and gender. I force any sort of shame I might feel into the back of my head, saving it for later when I’m trying to sleep. All I can think, now, is that if I linger too long, if I start a police chase, I might end up back on TV and all of this will have been for nothing.
-traveler
‘There are few public places as familiar and uncomfortable as ‘The National Reunion Hall,’ a venue that reeks of stale coffee and fifties-era cigarette smoke. Despite the matted carpets and dusty décor, ‘The Hall’ hasn’t taken a reservation in more than a decade, re-directing phone requests to a pre-recorded message without so much as a courtesy ring. The message, read aloud by a man that sounds as though he is speaking the words from his deathbed, indicates that there has been a spike in demand for places such as ‘The National Reunion Hall’ and that the owners will place a call back at the soonest moment. The message ends before allowing the caller to leave any of their information. There has been some speculation in recent years that the message is not pre-recorded at all. Samples have revealed slight variations in tone and instances of subtle throat-clearing that might be attributed to the dying man’s weakened state. Attempts to communicate with him or to shock him from his script with loud noises or lurid replies have failed. The man’s identity remains unknown and is ultimately irrelevant.
The trick, if one might call it that, is nobody needs a reservation to attend one of the daily reunions. There are no set lists- nobody checking names. This could be chalked up to sloppy management except that one always arrives at a reunion at which they belong. In that way, management is the furthest thing from sloppy. Management is impossibly, terrifyingly effective.’
When I arrive at ‘The National Reunion Hall,’ I find that my 20-year high school reunion is taking place, there. I leave without showing my face- literally without taking off my helmet- and I return two days later, assuming the coast has cleared. This time it is a traveler’s reunion and, though it remains eerily pertinent, I figure it is bound to be less personal and certainly less awkward than having to mingle with the weary present versions of my high school peers.
I’m wrong, of course. When I step into the hall I find it decorated and catered for a hundred people and only one other person has shown up- the Stranger who, loyal readers might remember, had previously decayed into a sort of wight and then a specter and then a more traditional shadow. My shadow. I check my shadow and see it remains much as it has been these past couple years. It shifts uneasily under the rainbow lights that swirl above a vacant dance floor.
The Stranger looks up from a plate of dainty sandwiches and seems as surprised to see me. He scans the hall in case anyone else has managed to sneak inside. He opens his mouth and lets a gob of bread and cheese fall out onto the paper plate.
“I thought you were dead,” he says.
Something shifts beneath his chair and I step backward, thinking it’s his own shadow that’s reaching out. It’s only a rabbit, its hair tied in long, gaudy braids alternating black and gray. It drops a half-chewed carrot on the floor and hisses so loud and so long that I worry it might pass out. Hector shivers in my arms.
“I thought the same about you.”
We are quiet for some time, each of us trying to figure out what to say next. I’m about to speak when the Stranger cuts me off.
“This is my fault,” he says, “I walked away from a reunion of the strangers when I first arrived here three days ago. I run in limited circles, you know, so ‘The National Reunion Hall’ must’ve had to scramble to come up with another reunion on the fly, bringing you back from the dead as a workaround. Sorry about that.”
The Stranger picks up the half-chewed sandwich and pops it back in his mouth. His rabbit hisses like a leaking balloon.
“That’s all right,” I say, and then I shake my head, “Wait, I mean, no- you were dead. Otherwise, though, yes. I agree.”
The music playing from the dance floor shifts to a slow song and the lights dim to sultry. The Stranger crumples a napkin onto his plate and scoops his rabbit up from the floor.
“Let’s not argue,” he says, and he begins to step backward between the chairs, mirroring the movements he once used to disappear into the darkness of ‘Echo Cave.’ “Maybe I’ll see you around,” he says, “Maybe-”
The Stranger yelps and trips backward over a folding chair. He’s gone before I’m able to weave my way through the tables, having disappeared into the institutional geometry of the carpet, I guess, or having slipped between the course fabric of the table cloths. I don’t pretend to understand the sort of magic he does. It’s quicker than exploiting the gray roads. More prone to glitches.
Hector sniffs cautiously at the Stranger’s chair while I bag up a week’s worth of food from the buffet, the very thin silver lining to this whole encounter. I suppose a man could eat perpetually at ‘The National Reunion Hall,’ but only if he were willing to spend each night re-living the past with the people he thought he left there. Everything comes at a cost on the Wayside and ‘The National Reunion Hall’ is just a hair outside of my budget for a repeat visit.
-traveler
A number of ghost suburbs dot the nation and I imagine visiting any one of them would be enough for my purposes. It’s only by chance that I come across an entry that considers the phenomenon as a whole while passing ‘Echo Field-’ the very first of its kind. Hector and I drive through and find it unwelcoming, but only so far as any suburb is unwelcome to strangers.
‘The oldest of the ghost suburbs tend to be a bit more run down than newer developments, in part because of neglect, sure, but mostly because they were built to be a little run down. The opinion, at the time, was that ghosts preferred a ruined aesthetic to anything that smacked of new life and the misconception nearly caused the whole idea to flop. Taking nearly a decade to fill, ‘Echo Springs’ and ‘Sweet Abyss’ were verifiable ghost towns (figuratively speaking), before newer, nicer ghost suburbs were established and demand outgrew development. ‘Springs’ and ‘Abyss’ were reframed as ‘playfully retro’ and the remaining units sold at twice the original asking price.
Recent legislation has paved the way for significant government subsidies in regards to the construction and purchase of ghost-adjacent housing units. Even those normally in opposition of generous housing subsidies have turned a blind-eye to this one. Aging, conservative lawmakers have championed the reform- in fact, most already have their eyes on a ‘retirement home.’’
-traveler
At its largest, ‘The Lawless Square’ of Eastern Mississippi was not at all unlike ‘The OSHA Violation Grounds.’ It was exactly what it claimed to be: a city block’s worth of land on which no federal or state laws were enforced. This is not to say they couldn’t be enforced- that would be in violation of the spirit of the thing. Any large enough militia could, theoretically, have taken control of ‘The Lawless Square’ and imposed laws upon the place, but only up to a time when an opposing militia might arrive with better weaponry and a new flavor of justice. In that regard, ‘The Lawless Square’ has never been all that different than any other place, really.
These days it’s all but impossible for a militia to hold ‘The Lawless Square,’ not for stricter rules, but for tighter borders. ‘The Square’ has been whittled away over the years and is now really more of a lawless circle, just two feet in diameter. So, while a particularly determined militia once stood five of its members on each others shoulders in an attempt to hold the place, all it took was one, entirely lawless push before the regime crumbled, both literally and figuratively, firing their entirely illegal automatic rifles all the way down and injuring a number of bystanders in the lawful zone before landing in Mississippi proper where they were promptly arrested for crimes they had only begun to commit during the fall.
‘The Lawless Square’ is no longer big enough to commit murders in. It’s not so convenient a spot for grand theft auto or any sort of heist-like scheme. ‘The Lawless Square’ is really only a place to do drugs now, really only a place where a single person can do just enough drugs that they retain the wherewithal to stand within the rough circle long enough that all traces of the illegal substance have left their system.
Police are known to gather nearby, hoping to nab people from their place in line rather than wait for the current resident of ‘The Lawless Square’ to cross the boundary back to lawfulness. For all the arrests that take place around ‘The Square,’ the area is technically the most crime ridden place in the country. Considering the constraints involved, ‘The Lawless Square’ itself is one of the safest places in America to be.’
With no crimes high on my list to commit, I don’t plan on waiting in line for a turn in ‘The Lawless Square,’ but when Hector and I arrive we find it empty. I cross-reference the coordinates with Autumn by the Wayside and with several others sources online, having heard rumors that sly officers will sometimes construct false lawless squares where, in reality, laws are completely enforceable. The location comes back as genuine and, in addition, I discover that autumn tends to be slow season for crime-committing in the area. A happy circumstance.
Cautiously, then, Hector and I step into bounds of ‘The Lawless Square’ and, for just a moment, I feel the weight lifted- I feel the sheer breadth of opportunity gaping out around me, begging me to act. I dig into my pack, trying to think of some small crime to commit to make it worth my while, but come away empty handed. We stand for a moment longer and step back out into the world.
-traveler