Tuesday, February 23, 2010

The Ride Home

One of the pieces I've looked forward to sharing with you here at Fleeting History is a fictional story I wrote for a class in my Junior year at Susquehanna University. While I had initially enrolled in Advanced Composition as part of the required core curriculum, the class was really enjoyable with a great professor and my experience there (coupled with an awesome advisor and a desire to have a Minor) inspired me to make the effort in Senior year to Minor in Writing.

Let's go back fifteen years, to February 28, 1995, in fact, for the second essay assignment, lovingly hand transcribed on February 22, 2010 (as I've long ago lost the disc with the file and don't feel like scanning the paper copy). Keep in mind as you read this that GPS wasn't commercially available to the public, let alone talking ones, but that didn't stop me ;-) It's like the hover car, someday it'll happen, and talking GPS is readily available nowadays. (now if only I could get a hover car, jet pack or the ability to fly...) Anyhow, here's:



"The Ride Home"

Five hours is a very long time to spend in a car, especially if it's a compact automobile. My trips to and from college weren't as long as they used to be. I believe it takes less time now. After all, I must have made the trip at least nineteen times, like a nomad with wanderlust that just keeps walking in a perpetual wide circle. They once seemed at least nine hours long, but now it's almost as if it only takes three to make the trip (though the clock never lies).

Well, there goes Lung Fung Restaurant -- we must definitely be headed somewhere -- I never pass this way often. The in car compass says, "We're heading North."

"Cool," I think, "this compass can talk. But can it hold an intelligent conversation?"

The river appears on our right and way off in the distance is the quaint mecca of Sunbury. Boy, do I really feel privileged...passing this way must mean they're taking me someplace important. Why else would the person driving bother to navigate the maze of streets of Northumberland? A lack of schoolwork probably.

"We're headed North," the compass says again. Smart compass; and it's oriented too. The other branch of the Susquehanna River spreads itself to our right, as if jealous of the first branch having already met us.

Onto the Superhighways of America for a thrilling ride through the Commonwealth. After riding I-80, I now know how a pinball must feel after a really intense multi-ball session. Masochism aside, we turn onto the second superhighway. This one I recognize because it has a red S painted on its chest. Kryptonite has no effect on this roadway, tough, because the Pennsylvania State Department of Transportation have just finished making it invincible.

"We're headed North," the compass spits out again.
"Obviously," I figure, "it's incapable of an intelligent conversation."

To the left and in the valley are the sprawling ruins of the anthracite empire of Wilkes-Barre and just up the road is its partner in crime, Scranton.

If Interstate 81 is the Superman of highways, than I-84 must be the Boy Wonder. It wonders if any cars will ever ride upon it.

"And now I know why," I think out loud, scaring everyone else in the car.
"What?" they all ask. They never expect me to speak; I'm always secluded behind my headphones.

"We're headed East," the compass drones.

The road looks like something a seven-month old would draw on an Etch-A-Sketch; up, down, curly-Q...

There's a car -- oh, sorry, that was just a hallucination.

Way off in the distance is the monument that marks the corner of Pennsylvania, New York, and New Jersey; Robin swings into Port Jervis and we stop for a quick snack.

The section between the Delaware River and the Hudson River is like a bad acid trip; the Dead Tree Forest, The Permanent Detours, the Flying Debris...

"We're STILL headed East," the compass is really getting ticked-off now. It reminds me of a manager I once had when I worked at a local fast-food joint in High School.

I snap to attention for an instant upon reaching the Shop Rite warehouse in Middletown, New York.

"Oh, you and your trains, have you seen one yet?"

"No," a very long pause and then a resounding, "but I still might."

"I swear, those tracks must be abandoned by now."

"Perish the thought," the compass says sarcastically. Then it changes its attitude and breaks into Jerry Read's "Eastbound and Down" from one of the "Smokey and the Bandit" movies. This compass isn't as dull as I'd first thought.

Seventy-five cents in tolls and three-fifty in tips later, we're approaching the Connecticut border. Captain Kirk beams into the economy car we're in...cramping us even tighter.

"Warp factor two, Mr. Sulu," he manages to squeeze out. There's a loud whooshing noise and the windows rattle.

"No -- US -- THE CAR -- oh, never mind. Scotty, Beam me up," and he disappears.

We cross the border at Saw Mill Road. It's not long now, only twenty seven more exits to go until Cheshire, then an infinite number of traffic lights and backroads until I'm home.

"You can't go home again," the song goes. I like to argue.

We pull into the garage and enter the house. It's just as I'd left it -- plenty of leftovers in the fridge.

fin

I'm going to revisit this project, freshen it up, fix some bad grammar, and present it more along the lines of my original intent, which I was incapable of producing back then, but think I know how to do now. It's going to change the tone of the piece quite a bit but it'll still be a fun journey to make.

Sadly, in the fifteen years since this was written, Lung Fung fell to progress. The toll has increased to one dollar. I learned you really can't metaphorically go home again, although you literally can and do after you've been out -- I digress. Those train tracks are hanging on by the skin of their teeth. If it weren't for commuters, there'd only be the one freight train a day. (sigh) Permanent Detours and Flying Debris -- can't recall the circumstances, lol, and are obviously no longer a factor (at least in that section of the ride).

1 comment:

  1. I really enjoy your writing MO! Your humor is so appealing! Who knew the PA Dept. of Trans. could do that to a road?!

    ReplyDelete