Things From My Road-trip Through The Midwest That Just (don’t) Make Sense

things from my road-trip through the midwest that just (don’t) make sense

within the frigid apathy of minnesota, a gas station parking lot, lined with rusty pumps and cars with windshields freckled by the greasy stains of splattered bugs. the cashier inside refused to meet your eyes, only looking up from the counter to glance at the empty space behind you. his hands shook. you asked if he was okay, but he only flinched. when he handed you your receipt, the print was blocked by thick, black sharpie. ‘WATCH YOUR BACK.’

amidst the forgotten cornfields of iowa, an old boat discarded in a garden, the cold steel overrun with weeds and wildflowers and other rooted, unwanted things. there was no water nearby, but you could’ve sworn it was swaying on gentle waves. if you were to roll down your window, you would have heard the sharp whirr of a fishing reel and the voice of your long-dead grandfather– foggy, distanced, and stuck between somewhere and nowhere. 

in a ghost town waiting to happen, crumbling apartment buildings, sagging against concrete stairs and fire escapes. their shadows shifted and spilled into each other out of the corner of your eye, piling and folding and swelling on the cobblestone until the darkness had a depth that took up physical space in the alleyways. with time, those bundles of black shade would grow difficult to differentiate from the dull husks of the residents.

in the vast nothing of wisconsin, decrepit barns collapsed at the spine, dotting the side of the highway like corpses. as you drove by them, you could’ve sworn the a/c began to smell like spoiled meat. you flipped on the recirculation and continued on, trying in vain to ignore the swarms of black flies eating away at the wood.

among the sunken eyes of illinois, an overcrowded intersection, cars upon cars piled on top of one another at high noon. the midday sun bore down on you all, heating the field of metal until your fans were useless against the stifling heat. somewhere in the fever, you were reminded of ants under a magnifying glass, the way their legs would spark and smoke and splinter. you blinked, then opened your eyes to empty streets and a black sky. not that it shocked you. time never seemed to tick right in illinois. you kept driving.

in the heart of chicago, sloppy red graffiti under a bridge reading ‘punish the evil.’ you wished you could agree, but as you mulled over your own wrongdoings, your knuckles went white. you thought about things shameful enough to be left out confessional, ugly enough to let rot in the deep caverns of your ribcage. were you evil? did you deserve to be punished?

in the dry monotony of indiana, long stretches of prairie flattened into the dirt as if someone suffocated the land under their boot, the hills like deflated lungs. the longer you drove, the more the rushing wind sounded like wheezing.

on the horizon, a fiery explosion that only you saw, the sound inaudible over the race of cars on the highway. the smoke thinned in the breeze so rapidly your first thought was not ‘what happened?’, it was ‘did that happen at all?’ you stared mindlessly at the blank space where screams should’ve been, frozen. yet, the radio continued to blare, your mother continued her phone call, and the corn stalks continued to sway. the world sped by in your periphery and you just sat there, silent, cradling a secret known solely by you and the horizon, teetering on the divide between imagination and reality.

under the damp mold of michigan, a stray shopping cart blocking your way on a backroad, thoroughly abandoned in a puddle. it was completely empty but appeared heavier than it should have, its wheels sinking into the graveled earth beneath. it took all your weight to leverage the rusting frame into a ditch. the crash was deafening. 

in the dead plains of ohio, two barns with the words ‘PRAISE GOD. LOVE JESUS.’ scarring their faces. they felt like eyes. you hadn’t seen another building for miles, and you wouldn’t see any others for miles more, but that building saw you. 

amidst the blurry familiarity of lake erie, the horrible irony of a highway cross adorned with rotten forget-me-nots. you realized you die twice, and the second death always hurts worse than the first. you grieved at the steering wheel for a woman you’ve never met, then forgot about her an hour down the road. 

at a stoplight in pennsylvania, an eagle digging into a deer carcass. the smell lingered, sticking to your chest and to your hair and to your hands before you managed to roll up the window. the doe’s eyes melted into you, its jaw twitching as a strange bleating noise poured from your radio. ‘what if i were you and you were me?’ it asked. ‘would you be content with this end? have you led a fulfilling life?’ you fled without waiting for the light to turn green.