traveling absolutes

the arts of existence — Part 2

. . . continued from groundwork — the arts of existence — Part 1 . . .

	I thought I was heading towards a small town I’d been to before — a pastoral midwestern junction I passed through from any direction fairly regularly over the years like the center of a whimsical compass. 

I wasn’t using a map this time, though — just following route numbers jotted on a motel notepad with a reservation number. When I exited the turnpike, the ramp led to an unfamiliar county road where it appeared that industry had come to an abrupt end: 

— A right turn passed the entrance of an industrial waste disposal well.  

— Ahead, a shuttered cabaret succumbed to overgrowth leaving just a charity clothing drop still in business.

— A locked truck stop c-store stocked a disarray of snacks & toiletries scattered on near-empty shelves & aisle floors attached to an empty diner/lounge with dishes, cutlery & glasses left on booth tables under a stratum of silt giving the impression of a mid-meal cataclysm aftermath. Semi hitches held abandoned positions in random outposts. 

— Next, as if new growth suddenly sprouting from a wasteland, an open restaurant calling itself a Ranch House shared a parking lot with a drive-thru beer store. 

Beyond, a sign read MOTEL, but there was no motel.

I kept moving, thinking it must be just ahead, then pulled over at a thrift store advertising Closed on Tuesdays. It was a Tuesday. 

I U-ied to retrace my steps & parked at the Ranch House to check the motel address. 

When I cut the engine & looked across the lot, I saw a row of numbered doors. They ended at a potholed asphalt area that disappeared into a thicket. My eyes followed the doors forward, counting down. 

They began at the beer store. Above & behind the drive-thru lane, that sign: MOTEL.

	I grabbed the roadmap from the backseat, opened to the state & poked the map dot I assumed I was at. My handwritten directions didn’t match the route. 

I dragged a fingertip east towards the turnpike I’d used & found it — found me: The town I was in had the same name as my intended junction, but with the addition of a prefix: North. 

Two towns: opposite edges of the same state — not really north or south of each other either — in fact, a direct east-west flatline over two hundred miles of plateaus & plains. 

Without dependable absolutes, it didn’t matter where I was. 

I looked up from the map, ahead towards the beer store. A light blinked on from a door under the word OFFICE, signaling evening.

As if from someone else, I heard an exhaled “Uh-Oh.” 

	I sat behind the wheel. It was getting darker. 

I thought back on the glowing online reviews — how they prevailed over their apprehensions & were rewarded. I decided to join my forebears.
	
I opened the office door. The person behind the counter looked slightly familiar.

. . . next time, registration & the room at the end — the arts of existence — Part 3 . . .