Tumbleweeds. Not blowing in the wind, as if to shake the dust from their prickly bodies, but stacked in very neat, very human rows along the side of the freeway. They remain in place because those fuckers are like Velcro all around, so once they touch, they're mates for life. Jesus, I'm looking at a tumbleweed orgy.
They look kept, enslaved and predestined, like mute cows soon to be slaughtered. It's not right, I think to myself. They should be rolling across the street mindlessly, throwing a scare into passing motorists, occasionally getting squashed beneath tires pressed for time. Instead they're lined up in plain sight as if on display, as if to demonstrate yet another triumph of man over nature, and the whole thing has a tragic air about it. Being stacked and immobilized has somehow imbibed these things with souls.
I'm still on the lookout for cacti. I wonder what inhuman torture they're enduring.
They look kept, enslaved and predestined, like mute cows soon to be slaughtered. It's not right, I think to myself. They should be rolling across the street mindlessly, throwing a scare into passing motorists, occasionally getting squashed beneath tires pressed for time. Instead they're lined up in plain sight as if on display, as if to demonstrate yet another triumph of man over nature, and the whole thing has a tragic air about it. Being stacked and immobilized has somehow imbibed these things with souls.
I'm still on the lookout for cacti. I wonder what inhuman torture they're enduring.
Along the endless vertical stretch of Interstate 5, one is faced with the enormity of the absolute emptiness that Mama Nature has to offer. Nothing against the old girl, but Christ! There's NOTHING OUT HERE. A bunch of dust, some rocks, some nondescript shrubbery, and a healthy supply of wind gusts. There's also a series of rest stops and gas stations that line the freeway like teeth on a gigantic zipper, but these aren't really products of nature. In fact, this may be the one time that man's presence on the earth has actually resulted in something positive: he's made it more interesting to look at, in the case of California anyway. Those neon signs are like beacons of hope and solace on this desolate journey.
Maybe Mother Nature meant to do something spectacular with California and just never got around to it. Maybe she saw mankind rising up too quickly and thought to herself, "Aw, screw it. They're just gonna lay some concrete over it anyway." It's a big irony, then, that the only thing we've done with it is drive across it billions of times, which requires only a road and a bright yellow line that keeps us from crashing head-on into one another.
I'm driving this eternal slab of pavement, thinking to myself: "Shit, L.A.'s not big enough. They need to expand northward and do something constructive with this desert." I can't believe I'm thinking that, but there it is.
Oh look, there's another deer carcass on the side of the road. That's the third one I've seen since crossing the border. They probably rush the cars, hoping to hitch a ride to someplace interesting. You know, that poor bastard might be better off.
Kids, cross out the word "hell" in your Bibles and write the word "Kerman" instead. Those of you who've never made this particular trip won't know what the hell I'm talking about, and even some of those who have might be confused. Well, if you've driven past it, you may have smelled it without knowing its name. I made the mistake (God, I'll never forgive myself, despite my ignorance before the fact) of noticing a few gas stations near an exit marked with the "Kerman" sign, and since my tank was about three-quarters spent, I pulled off.
Now I know why sailors used to get so scared when they heard the ethereal, mythological sirens calling to them at sea, beckoning them nearer only to smash their ships against jagged rocks. I'll never look at a gas station the same way again, for these gas stations were the sirens that beckoned me to spend a few moments breathing the most wretched odor I've ever encountered.
Kerman.
It's probably just the high number of cows that populate the area, coupled with the inevitable (not to mention prodigious, my nose tells me) slaughter of those cows, but I can't help but wonder if the very mouth of hell is located somewhere nearby, compounding the problem considerably. I'm not exaggerating, people. This place reeks. I thought Longview, Washington was bad because of its numerous factories and mills, but Christ Almighty, it doesn't even come close.
I spray some cologne in the car, but it doesn't work. The wicked odor permeates the vehicle almost immediately, like a plague of odiferous insects hell-bent on tormenting me, an ersatz Pharaoh. "Whoever's playing Moses with my nose is gonna pay," I'm groaning to myself. I sit in the car for a few moments, waiting impatiently for someone to come out and pump me some gas, then realize with dread that I'm in California. I'll have to get out of the car and pump my own.
You know what? Even in such a dire circumstance, I can only hold my breath for so long.
Where is this Grapevine that everyone's so scared of? The horizon is shrouded in haze, so I assume it's up there somewhere, looming invisibly at this safe distance, about 150 miles north of L.A.
"Don't run your air while you're on the Grapevine," my dad's voice echoes in my head, "You’ll overheat for sure." Visions of murdered cars strewn across the landscape fill my thoughts, steam pouring from their chrome mouths, and I shudder at the thought of being stranded in this horrible place.
You know that earthquake they keep promising, the one that's supposed to make California sink into the ocean? What the hell is keeping that thing?
