I lose another tooth along the way- a sharp turn on the bike and my face on the handlebars. There are scrapes and bruises too, but the tooth… I don’t find it. Its brothers are shaken and they ache.

God, they ache.

The stranger does not call immediately. He was shaken too- his shaking shakes me. A veritable earthquake. I drive uneasily after that. Too slow on a motorcycle is just as dangerous as too fast. You have to believe in the physics of the thing to make a turn- lean in a way that should make you fall, steer in the opposite direction, and have faith that this time will be just like the last. You won’t fall, you will turn the right way, you will straighten out.

If you don’t believe, it might not happen.

‘‘Paradise Row’ breaks from the horizon like the sun, the tip of its discount plastics store man and earth’s middle finger to the sky. You will have known it was ahead of you, the gargantuan outlet mall advertises for miles in every direction as though anybody traveling this particular strip of road could choose to miss it entirely.

If a capitalist system were to be given the traits of a living thing, ‘Paradise Row’ would undoubtedly be somewhere near the end of the digestive tract, a place where waste accumulates for its last wringing of nutrients. ‘Paradise Row’ is the where capitalism tries to sell the people its poop, and where people flock to consume that poop, to pay money for it.’

Spite and necessity keep me from taking the author’s point to heart. The botched turn tore open the right leg of my last pair of jeans and the hodgepodge safety pins I had on hand won’t last. Why not feed the beast, author? Even your book has a price on the cover.

I putter into the parking lot at ‘Paradise Row,’ busy for a Wednesday afternoon, and spend a moment weighing my options on a map. Outlet malls, in my experience, are just strip malls dialed up a couple notches. They lack the comforts of a true mall: a roof, a reliable layout, a place to buy sugary pretzels. The map more or less confirms my suspicions. I settle on a place a few stores down, a place called ‘JEANS & Co.’ because jeans are exactly what I need and I’m curious, too, about what sort of company they keep.

The shoppers at ‘Paradise Row’ don’t much like the look of me. My face is still swollen from the lost tooth, my clothes are tattered beyond what is fashionable, and my pack is a transient’s tumor, stuffed and edged with my whole life’s possessions. I would have chafed at this attention earlier in my journey, but I have formed callouses.

And I have medicated myself, following the crash.

A little something extra until the pain passes and the swelling is down, that’s all. I tug at my shirt pocket, where the comb case was before. An old habit, dying slowly. Or, maybe, a present habit, losing a vestigial limb.

Still, I feel a growing uneasiness under the medicated fog as I wander along the sidewalk toward ‘JEANS & Co.’ The stores of ‘Paradise Row,’ I notice, do not have windows, or, they do have windows, but they seem to be obscured from the inside.

I pause near a water fountain and pretend to read another map. There are lines at the front of each store and, given their turn, shoppers seem to open the doors carefully and just enough to squeeze inside. Those who exit are red-faced and harassed- they stumble out onto the cement and brush off an invisible dust.

A man approaches me at the map, he is dressed in a light blue polo with ‘Paradise Row’ embroidered tastefully on the breast. This is a man that tucks his shirt in- not a man to cross lightly.

“Hi there, sir! Have you heard about today’s sales?”

“No,” I say. Another man pushes into the store behind him.

“I’ve got a brochure here,” he says, “Coupons worth a total of $300 and all redeemable at ‘Paradise Row!’”

“For ‘JEANS & Co.?’”

“Sure! Buy one pair, get the other half off. Looks like you could use a new pair!” he laughs.

I make a point not to smile and the man holds out one of the brochures, as blue as the shirt he wears. I reach out to take it and I tug once, twice, but he holds it tightly in his hand. I look up to see he is staring at me, staring intently into my eyes. He reaches out with his left hand before I can withdraw my right. I feel his grip on my wrist- hard and meaningful and maybe even painful. It’s difficult to be sure of pain in this state. The man holds my arm dearly and we both hold the brochure. He trembles with a whole-body rigidity and then releases me all at once.

“You know what to do now,” he says, his voice sincere, hardly a whisper.

He tips an invisible hat and turns back to greet others. I put some distance between myself and the man before I flip through the brochure. The coupon for jeans is near the back, part of a full-page advertisement for the place.

‘We’ve Moved!’ it says, and the accompanying illustration shows a pair of cartoon jeans striding to the center of the complex, the inner layer of ‘Paradise Row.’ In this simplified overview of the mall, free of branding and logos, I notice what I hadn’t before. The complex consists of two circles, one inside the other.

The all-seeing-

“Hi, sir!” a woman says, “Have you heard about-”

I stalk quickly away, pretending not to have seen her, and I keep the brochure visible in my hands, hoping it will ward off the others.

The windows of ‘JEANS & Co.,’ like those of the other stores, betray little of what is to be expected inside and I hesitate behind the man waiting at the door.

“Is there some sort of sale going on?” I ask, trying my best to appear less drugged-out and road-rashed than I am, “What’s with all the lines?”

“Whoa, buddy!” the guy jumps a little as he turns.

“Sorry, I turned over on my-”

“You’ve got a full booklet there, my man,” he says, pointing to the brochure, “Still got all your deals in there?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“Razor World? Scooter World? Food court tickets?”

“I haven’t used any of them…”

“Not your free scoop at ‘The Lil’ Creamery?’ Your spin on the ‘Deal Wheel?’”

“No man…” I tell him, “I’m just here for some pants.”

“How do you like cutting lines?” he asks.

We are the only two people outside this store.

“Like… go in before you?”

“Yeah,” he says, “Like that.”

“And you want…”

“Your booklet,” he says, quickly.

My hand tightens absurdly around the brochure.

“Half the booklet,” he says, “No, the whole thing- but you keep your coupon for jeans.”

“I… want the ice cream too.”

“I’ve got a daughter at home, man.”

“Ice cream and pants or no deal.”

“Fine,” he says, “Fine. Jeans are at the end, ice cream’s on page 4. The rest is mine.”

The man watches greedily as I flip through the brochure and find my coupons and he punctuates my fumbling attempts to tear them out with nervous hisses.

“Don’t rip the barcodes,” he reminds me, “Watch the expiration date.”

When I’ve finished, I hand him the booklet with the tips of my fingers, fearing a repeat of the last time, but the man grabs the paper and ushers me ahead to the door.

“You’re a thin guy,” he says, walking away, “You might be able to squeeze in now if you try.”

When he’s rounded a corner I turn to the door and prepare to heave it open, having watched others struggle with an apparent weight. A sort of luck means that my body is in the way when the door swings open easily and a tall stack of denim, that had been relying on the door for support, begins to topple toward me. I catch it as a muffled voice from inside reaches me.

“You need to pay for your merchandise before you can leave sir!”

I hold the tower carefully and scooch inside, carefully pulling the door closed behind me. It is a tight fit and as my elbow digs into another, more solid pile of folded jeans, I hear someone groaning from the other side.

“Careful over there,” she says, “I’ve barely got room to breathe as it is.”

‘JEANS & Co.’ is a denim sea. It is difficult to navigate, more swamp than maze but certainly taking cues from both. I wade carefully between blue pillars, navigate under acid-washed arches, and keep my distance from other shoppers, who eye me suspiciously through torn legs and open flies. I lose sight of the door, of any wall that is not fabric. Occasionally the ceiling disappears as well. I hear a screaming but, by the time I reach what I suspect is its origin, the screaming has stopped and there is nothing but a ragged pair of knee-length cut-offs and a handful of human hair.

I find two pairs that fit, trying them on in a secluded alcove near a drooping rack of overalls. My waist is considerably diminished and I had forgotten the small comfort of well-fitting clothes. I stay in that dark corner of the store for a long while, resting and looking forward to a time when my new pants will be as soft as the weather-worn pair that now clings desperately to my shrunken frame.

-traveler

‘The man will remember me, reader.

The owner of ‘Eats’ is a man that claims to know a great deal, and it is men like this, men who are so caught up in knowing, that they aren’t much aware of the day-to-day details. They forget the names of their drivers, of distant, poorer relations. They forget employee birthdays- not individual birthdays (though they forget those too) but employee birthdays as a concept. They resent being reminded.

Of anything.

Their knowledge becomes a wall between themselves and the world. They carry the wall and speak through it and eventually forget that the voices on the other side are people like them.

It was my intention to include an interview with the owner of ‘Eats’ in this guide but the situation went awry. Suffice to say, the man will remember me.’

It has been a good long time since I have experienced the sort of nervousness that stretches several days, looming like a dark cloud over the landscape of my life. I have been plenty scared- I have been terrified- but terror leaves the body quickly and often with a great rush of relief. Terror gets me out of trouble. Nervousness hangs on me like shackles; it leaves me raw underneath.

It serves no purpose.

I am always nervous when I speak to someone who embodies an approximation of the zeitgeist. It seems, to me, a dangerous thing to align one’s beliefs too enthusiastically with those of the present. Beyond dangerous, it is blindly empowering. A train powers across the earth by the virtue of relying on tracks. It does not need to concern itself with steering, only with how quickly it is moving forward. The nature of a train is such that it will not be able to stop for something laid across the tracks, that leaving the tracks unexpectedly will be necessarily violent and damaging. The nature of the zeitgeist is the same.

I take the author at his word, that the owner of ‘Eats’ will remember something about their run-in, and I decide to continue in his footsteps. The owner’s house is well known about town. Not infamous, exactly, but enough of a local landmark that I don’t seem too suspicious asking. I drive by once before giving the man a call- a real gaudy place, not what I expected at all. A lot of purple paint. A seasonally appropriate flag waving just under the stars and stripes. Looks like Father’s Day is coming up. Who knew?

I call the house and explain I am writing a travel book. I tell the owner, Richard Jones, that I’m writing a travel guide and wanted to feature ‘Eats.’ I tell him it will only take a minute or two.

And he cheerfully agrees.

He doesn’t even ask my name.

I am nervous, reader, and I park my bike several blocks away so that I can build up the nerve to reach the door. I am nervous as I step under the man’s flags, flapping noisily. I hesitate on the stoop but eventually bring my hand to the bell. It rings cheerfully behind the curtained windows.

I wait, nervously.

The warning sound of a patrol car’s siren stops me from ringing it again a moment later. It has appeared in the street like a blue ghost, attentive and unmoving. I turn around and look both ways down the block and then back at the car. Sunlight on the windows obscures the officers inside. I can’t tell, at first, if I’m the suspicious one here.

When I reach for the doorbell again, the siren whoops and the passenger door of the patrol car swings open. A man steps out, an unsmiling police officer. He does not expect that I will run.

And I do.

Terror sends me fleeing through the neighborhood as it has led me through forests, fields, and highways before. I run without looking back and, somehow, manage to escape. I nervously return for my bike some time later and, some time after that, I do a little more research.

Turns out I was visiting Richard’s new place- the one before it burned down a couple years back in an act of arson. The suspect, a man that spoke to Richard shortly before the fire, was not found. The papers published a police sketch, though, and looking at it is like looking into a mirror.

-traveler

What is it that a drive-in burger place is trying to accomplish by existing between the standard restaurant form and the drive-thru? Is it so much more comfortable to eat in one’s car than it is to eat in the privacy of one’s home or in a restaurant, a venue designed for eating in? I doubt it, but then, I’m eating on the seat of my motorcycle and the weather has turned chilly again.

An early fall for this part of the country.

‘The drive-in, known only as ‘Eats,’ floats in the distant, unnamed suburbs of Bay Minette. It claims to be open 24 hours a day but this has not been true for some time and the high school age employees do not appreciate being quizzed about the discrepancy. They seem to appreciate very little.

‘Eats’ claims to have pioneered the toy-with-your-meal model of children’s fast food long before larger, more successful chains perfected the approach with the accidental (and nearly fatal) inclusion of three marbles in a child’s burger patty in 1975. An ill-received campaign following the incident featured children coughing up other small toys after taking a bite of their ‘Mini-Eat,’ much to their, and their parent’s, delight. Several branches were forced to close but the flagship store remains a cult favorite.

Because popular IP’s and reliable manufacturing services are beyond the scope of ‘Eats’ budget, their toys are designed and introduced solely based on the whims of the owner. Age has made him cynical and he makes the toys in kind.’

Leaves scrape across the ground and pile up underneath the motorcycle’s wheels. Brown and gold and red, like the colors of a midwestern high school.

Two places to my right is a group of black-teed teens, listening to an old punk song I think I remember and eating their burgers. Two places to the left is a family in an SUV. One of the children hangs out of the window, bored and hungry. The older brother laughs and tries to pull the runaway back in by its pants. The child kicks and laughs and eventually disappears back into the vehicle, leaving a trail of dust and saliva on the door.

Their father taps absentmindedly on the dash. I realize, after several minutes, that he is tapping in sync with the punk song. It doesn’t seem like he should be able to hear it from all that way over there. An unrelated mystery.

I turn my attention back to the teens when he catches my eye. With their windows closed, they might as well be in a different world. I find myself tapping as well, tapping and searching for a comfortable way to sit on my parked bike while I wait for my food.

The nucleus of ‘Eats’ is a roundish building with no windows and just two doors, only one of which ever seems to open. The name of the restaurant is spelled out in faded shingles across the roof- a large, practical font that could likely be read from the highway before the neighborhood grew too high around it. The color scheme is dated: brown, gold, and red like the leaves. ‘Eats’ is not a place that is trying to be retro; it is a building that never left the era that bore it.

When I ordered a children’s meal they asked me whether it was for a boy or a girl; a question that is, no doubt, destined for retirement soon. With little to sway me one way or the other, I went with my gut choice: girl. Why not?

There is a squeal from the SUV as a young man approaches with a heavy tray. It’s made to hang from the door but the woman in the passenger seats waves it away- wouldn’t want to scratch the paint. The food disappears inside before I get much of a look at it, but a few minutes later I catch glimpses of some sort of toy solider, puppeted about the window in the hand of the youngest.

My food arrives shortly. The waiter looks briefly between my bike and the tray.

“I don’t think it attaches to motorcycles,” he says.

“I didn’t expect it would.”

“You had one girl’s Mini-Eat?” he asks.

“That’s right.”

He hands me a bag and turns to go as I open it. Inside is a broken soldier.

“The toy…” I begin.

“It’s supposed to be like that,” he answers before I can finish, “It’s a wounded soldier.”

“This is the girl’s toy?”

The young man turns back to face me, clearly uncomfortable but practiced in this sort of situation.

“The boys get a whole soldier to encourage patriotism. The owner wants…” he sighs, “The owner wants young women to be prepared for taking care of them once they’re back.”

A greasy slip of paper in my hand suggests that the soldier’s stump leg can be dipped in ketchup for added effect. I fold it thoughtfully between my fingers.

“That’s fucked up,” I tell him, “On a lot of levels that’s some fucked up shit.”

“It’s a summer job.”

“It’s autumn,” I remind him.

“They asked me to stay on a couple weeks into school. Just on the weekend.”

“How do people react to these things?” I ask.

“The locals know what to expect. Strangers tend to get upset. I can take it back if you want.”

“No,” I tell him, dropping the toy back into the bag, “That’s all right. I had an inkling of what to expect.”

“Is the food for you?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Do you want more fries or something?”

“Do I look hungry?”

“No,” he says, “It’s just that we pack smaller portions in the girl’s meals. The owner says American women are getting too fat.”

“And he wants them to learn young…”

“Most people think he’s just an asshole.”

“He does sound like an asshole,” I sigh, “What’s the chances of me getting an interview with the man?”

-traveler

Panic is a funny thing, it pushes me further into the forest. It pushes me until I am out of breath, until I taste blood in the back of my throat. I am a runner when the circumstances call for it. Not your Sunday morning, bright apparel runner, perhaps, but given the choice between ‘fight’ and ‘flight’ I will always choose the latter. I am not a fighter, not like the stranger seems to be.

I wonder why he comes to mind now?

There is a great crashing in the woods behind me and I start running again. My backpack swings wildly and catches on every branch. I twist my arm back to check the hole that the radio wore through it, the hole I inexpertly patched once the radio was mounted on the bike. It’s holding, I think. That’s good.

Littering would probably make this worse.

‘There is a long list of rules governing the ‘Yellow-Throated Songbird Reserve,’ a list that is not done justice by the weather-worn sign at its unattended entrance. ‘Be Respectful’ is where many likely go astray. ‘Respect’ is a broad word, a word that is better suited for guidelines or polite suggestions. Rules should be specific and carefully worded if they are to be enforced in a way that is meaningful, but the ‘Yellow-Throated Songbird Reserve’ posts general rules and enforces them with a terrifying authority.

The Yellow-Throated Songbird is protected, it says so very clearly on the sign. ‘Protected,’ in this instance, is like ‘Respect.’ It might be understood a few different ways. In visiting this reserve, it would be best to assume the worst of anything that appears under-defined. It is better to not have words defined for you.’

Yeah, so the author’s coy ‘find out for yourself’ shtick isn’t really doing it for me this time. I zig-zag through a few close-grown trees and up over and behind a few boulders and I break again to see how I’m faring as the hunted. The forest is quiet except for the cheerful twitter of the Yellow-Throated Songbirds in the branches above. One flutters to the ground nearby and I press myself against the stone behind me.

I give the little bird a slow, careful thumbs-up. It turns its head to the side and hops away, secure in the knowledge that it is ‘protected.’

When it has hopped out of sight I turn and quietly lower my bag to the forest floor. A strap has torn loose, the buckle pulled away and lost somewhere behind me. I undo the other straps and tuck the buckles into folds and pockets. I remove my belt and my pants sag.

I have been losing weight.

I pull an old ring off my finger and shove it into my jeans. I dirty the metal on my shoes, pull my shirt down over any obvious buttons.

I have 17 cents in assorted coins in my pocket. I pull them out and give them a quick, discrete polish.

‘The nest of the Yellow-Throated Songbird is often littered with small, shining objects. Why, I’ve probably collected enough change out of abandoned nests to buy myself a cup of coffee! Some watchers have even sighted wedding rings among their collection. Try explaining that one to the missus!’

An excerpt from an online bird encyclopedia I pulled up for a picture before I got here, not Autumn by the Wayside. It’s too informative to be Shitholes, too applicable to the task at hand. If I was writing a travel book I’d take a page from the bird encyclopedia. Make entries relevant and personal. Spell out what happens moment to moment so that the reader understands what it means to be in a place and doesn’t have to guess at the consequences.

A pebble skitters down the boulder in front of me. I look up and find a few of the songbirds there, perched and attentive to my work. Two are small and brightly colored. Another, duller bird keeps its distance. They eye the coins.

The bird encyclopedia again:

‘Reddish-brown feathers on the belly of a Yellow-Throater signify a female while the slightly smaller, but pure yellow birds are your fellas. The female Yellow-Throaters generally ‘rule the roost’ and males win her over with trinkets during the mating season. Don’t let my wife read this, don’t need her getting any ideas!’

A nickel, a dime, and two pennies- this is exactly what got me into trouble the first time. If there are three birds on a rock, and one demands more respect than the other two, it would make sense to offer the dime to the female and a penny each to the males (fair is fair).

Of course, that’s assuming the birds understand the value of money.

The nickel is the largest of the coins and it shines more brightly than the dime, which I found on the road several days ago. One of the pennies looks like it rolled out of the mint yesterday. The other is hardly recognizable as currency. Would the birds prefer the three shiniest, regardless of their value?

Something in the forest groans like an old house in the wind. I look around me and see nothing. Even the birds are quiet now.

If the birds understand the value of money and shininess as equal they might be upset if I offered them anything less than the three most valuable, most polished coins. Perhaps the males don’t mind different offerings; they’re all going to the female anyway. Maybe the birds have no conception of fairness, maybe they will be slighted if I keep even a single coin for myself.

It is safe to say the birds don’t understand the concept of biding one’s time. My phone, connected to its network with just a sliver of a bar, finally pulls up my location relative to the highway.

I throw a handful of change at the birds and I run again, this time in the right direction.

Whatever it is that protects these birds does not appreciate the turn of events. I am pelted with dirt and debris as something explodes into or from the ground behind me.

I run with rocks in my boots.

I hold up my pants with my hands.

-traveler