«The Road Trip – Day 6»

06-10-2309

“Don’t tell me we’re lost.”

“I’m not saying that at all, I simply said I don’t know where we are.”

“Brick, we’ve hardly known where we were this entire trip.”

“Yeah, but I’ve made most of this journey before. Everything until the past few days was the same exact route, and after then it’s at least been somewhat familiar. Today it’s entirely foreign,” he spoke as I looked around outside at trees that would have grown up where I did.

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry; these directions aren’t telling me anything useful, either. How far do you think we are?” I asked trying to gauge the distance out of the time until we had to be there.

“I can’t begin to say. Either the mileage is wrong on the application, or the sign numbers are wrong on the freeway. It could be both, I don’t know,” he punctuated.

“Guesstimate?”

“Ugh…30 minutes or 13 minutes….or 17 minutes..the other way” he figured, all the while trying to decide if he should just turn around or not.

I beat the side of his PDA against my palm and said “I really wish I could get a signal with this thing. If it could just get on I could load a new map for us.”

“I guess we’ll just have to survive on our instincts…and hope there’s a sign for the spaceport,” he said spying into the distance ahead for flying rockets or contrail streaks.

“You’re right, and hope it comes up soon, or Leona won’t be too happy,” I put the PDA away as I dug in the console for a cigarette. I lifted the pack to offer one to him, but without a word he pulled one out and lit it, handing me his lighter, still silent. “I’m glad we’ve got that down to a science,” I admired as I lit my own cig and pocketed the lighter.

“Yeah, I’d say we’ve been trapped with each other long enough. We get to look back comically on parts of the trip that seem so far away now, but really happened earlier this week.”

I laughed out loud a moment before composing, “It certainly has felt like a long time.” I almost lost myself to a nostalgic mental tour.

“Remember when we were in Copernicus?”

“Hahaha……barely..” we both burst into laughter so hard that 75 miles an hour became dangerous to maintain. I almost missed the obvious sign, but shouted “Appalachia Spaceport, next right!”

“I see it. Wow, we may just be too high today.”

We got a late start this morning after sleeping in at his aunt’s house in Troutman. She had left early in the morning with her daughter, Brick’s cousin (no confusing family lines this time), so the house was ours all of the morning. We fucked off for a while, probably watching more TV than I had yet the entire trip. Although, we had been tuning into sports coverage each night, but I can hardly say that I was paying that much attention during any of those.

Ahh, well even this morning too, I guess. My attention was focused on dismantling two days worth of roaches on the coffee table. Until this last half of the journey, before we‘d stayed with two different sides of Brick‘s family, we’d been doing pretty well to reuse the day’s leftovers to create nice suppers for ourselves, sometimes mixing it with a little bit of tobacco for filler. Either way, it guaranteed a good bit of nightcap for each of us without having to dip into our daily rations. Plus, it’s already coated with resin by the time you recycle, people.

The Fire of Jove crackled along with the sizzling shreds of tobacco leaves out on the back porch. It probably didn’t need them, I know we had enough to smoke without it, but I wanted to start the day off large, so I rolled a good amount in along with the precious, sticky scraps. It took a good while to burn, during which we inspected each of the insects flying about for cautionary markings. Nothing as hazardous as a bee even bumbled by.

After removing the last of the laundry we‘d put into the dryer while smoking, we finished collecting everything we‘d need for the festival. The Martian, just packing enough for the weekend, left the possessions he brought for the rest of the summer in the room he’d be spending it in. I’d have left Eon’s stuff there too if I were catching a ride back through after it was over.

At this point though, we had traveled 15 minutes after discarding all previously established directions, trusting that the brown signs would just line up like bread crumbs.

“It’s been a minute since we saw the last sign.. You don’t think we missed one already, do you?” Brick had a familiar, unsure tone in the back of his throat.

“No, not unless it..” I saw a corner of brown and white peeking out of the trees. “It was just covered by an untrimmed branch,” I said, crestfallen.

“Huh?”

“Turn around, they just tried to hide it from us. Heavens, they must really not want us to find their spaceport. Who knows what madness must transit through there.”

“That’s a stupid thing to do, why wouldn’t they want to make that the slightest bit obvious? By the way, you’re definitely too high,” he deduced.

“Shut up, there’s a turn-off up here,” I pointed ahead.

It seemed it was a small enough spaceport from the entrance we drove in through. Before rolling under the structure of one of the concourses, I caught glimpse of just one ship taking off, some type of passenger ship; bright, polished silver with four nacelles, maybe a Perseus or a Theseus, but I couldn‘t make out anything that would tell me which. This port didn’t seem to have much incoming traffic either, but I may have only had a limited view. I probably just wasn’t paying attention.

I was distracted from my usual of pastime of staring up at all the ships departing and arriving, trying to lose the horizon so I’d be staring at an open sky filled only with flying craft. Instead I was peering as far as I could ahead to catch a glimpse of Leona, classmate and roommate of Brick.

I had looked her up online the morning before we had left Saline, back in the beginning of the journey. It had been quite a long week since I’d seen the pictures, but I was sure I’d be able to spot her from far off. Her profile only teased at how interesting she could be, and I couldn’t wait to meet her to find out.

Standing on the yellow striped curb with a full heap of luggage laid at her feet, the Earthling girl’s blonde hair caught wind in a gust from a nearby bus lifting off. Robotic skycaps hovered about in the background, some assisting people with their bags, others just floating idly by. Leona Crown waved when she and Brick recognized each other, smiling at us underneath her acrylic framed glasses.

Soon after helping her situate her things in the trunk, we were all seated again in the cabin, comfortable and on our way down the exit ramp already. Brick was still in the driver’s seat, and though I offered the front seat to Leona she opted not interrupt my navigation. We sparked the third to last joint shortly after getting back on the freeway, I handed it back to her.

“Sorry, no thanks,” she said, turning it down. I gave a look of disbelief until she reassured me, saying “Oh, no I’m just getting over a cold. Don’t worry, I’ll be smoking tons this weekend.”

“Alright, I understand,” I said as I redirected it to Brick, who took it as he peeked into his monitors. “That would of course never stop me from smoking, but I get it.” Things become blurry after he handed it back to me, I had saved a large one for the three of us. For some reason or another, I can’t remember the conversation very well until we were entering a Ionian-themed chain restaurant.

“M’Kay, Three. Smoking or Non?” asked the hostess behind the counter that took a good minute or two to assist. Baffled, Brick and I looked at each other and then to Leona.

“That’s the first time I’ve heard that on the whole trip,” I stated to Brick as I turned back to the inattentive Neptunian-Earthling girl. “Smoking, please.”

We were seated in a rather open end of the restaurant for this time of day. When the salad was brought out by the unattractive waitress, who I still called ‘Hon’, I served it to my two companions first.

“Well, such a gentleman,” Leona remarked.

“Don’t get to excited, he’s been calling every waitress ‘Hon’ this entire trip,” Brick revealed. “He’ll clean up after we’re done too to make it easier on them.”

“Yeah, he’s right. It’s all part of my evil ploy; all just to give less of a tip,” I admitted. “More croutons, Dear?”

“Uhm..Yes, please,” she answered. “How do you and Brick know each other again?” she asked, either because I seemed so different from him, or from everyone she knew that he made friends with.

“Heh, well.. I moved to Mars to be closer to a girl who I met over a summer when she came to do this theater thing here on Earth. After a year of having a long distance relationship, I packed up and headed to Mars to awkwardly restart my life. And Brick had gone to high school with her and been friends a long time,” I paused to breathe. “When Linda and I broke up, you could say that I attained custody of Brick,” I said, pinching his cheek and making baby noises before he swatted me away.

“Yeah, you could say that,” he admitted. It really did seem like a permanent enough thing to warrant calling them ‘mommy and daddy’.”

“Especially towards the end,” I glared at him for a second.

“Why did you guys break up?” Leona asked innocently enough. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ask for your whole life story.”

“No it’s ok.. Well, she..” I started, then shot a glance to my legal counsel. My attorney’s face was stern and turned down; a definite ‘No’ seemed to slip out of his lips. “We were too close all the time, so much that we grew apart and needed our own space,” I said, relieved I didn’t have to go into the grimy details. “And that was over a year and a half ago, so I’m pretty sure the distance between that space will never get any smaller.” Brick nodded with approval, so I added “Especially after all that’s happened.”

“So–” the question started on her lips before she caught a glimpse of Brick’s expression, advising against it. She stopped mid-sentence.

“My attorney is right. We’re about to get our food and it’s hardly appropriate dinner table conversation. Maybe if you’re unlucky, I’ll regale you with the horror story one day. Until then, look what’s here,” I indicated to the food, which couldn’t have arrived at a better time.

After finishing the entire meal without even a glimpse of delicious breadsticks, our party and its newest member returned to our vehicle. Walking across the blacktop parking lot, I pulled the pack of menthols out of my pocket and offered one to each of the others before taking mine. Brick snatched one quickly, a firm believer that every good meal deserves a cigarette. Leona, to my surprise, turned them down. I blinked a moment, but I didn’t insist she take one any longer.

“Nah, I don’t smoke. There’s been a lot of people in my family who have died of lung cancer,” she said, eyes dropping the the pavement as she finished her sentence.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, pulling the cigarette from my lips and getting ready to put it away.

“No, it’s fine. You can smoke around me, I really don’t mind,” she said, looking up and waving her hands to stop me from not having it. “I just don’t.”

“Oh, well…thanks?” I said, lighting it finally, as we got to the silver doors of Brick’s crawler. After burning an ember shaped hole somewhere in the interior, we were back on our way.

A short while later, my attention was grabbed as something flicked at the windshield. Before I could look up at it from the screen, a few dozen other pounds, like impatient fingertips, fell upon us. A dark cloud tumbled over momentarily and the downpour released. Brick cut his speed, flipped his hazards, turned up the wipers and squinted desperately ahead at the other beacons of red light.

“Guys, this is terrible,” he cautioned us. Nervously he reduced his speed even further, unable to make out anything beyond his nosecone. “I’ve never driven in anything as bad as this before!”

Leona and I simply looked at each other and smiled, resisting the urge to break out in laughter. “Really?” she asked after taking a breath.

“Yeah, I can’t get it off the windshield fast enough. Zero visibility and traction, I almost just want to pull over,” he confessed, obviously scared.

“Oh, silly Martian. It’s just a little rain,” I said, unable to contain my laughter.

“Yeah, Brick, this is nasty but it isn’t the worst it could do here,” the other Earthling explained.

“Are you sure?” he asked, still not convinced.

“Yeah, man. This will all blow over in a couple of minutes,” I assured him.

Precisely four minutes and thirty-eight seconds later the storm let up. It seemed to disappear from right over our heads, as if we’d only just passed under a limb or finger of a greater, mysterious being. It wouldn’t be the last time we’d have to deal with this beast today, though.

Leona received a message from her aunt a short while later, informing us that tonight’s spectacle will most likely be rained out. We were supposed to culminate our trip by sitting back to the synchronous fireflies, one of the rarest spectacles on the planet and something the likes of which I’ve never seen, and it looked like I wouldn’t for a while still. Instead we adjusted our course, cutting out the next attraction and settling on this evening’s stopping point.

“Hey, we probably want to be coming down by the time we meet your aunt, right?” I asked Leona.

“Yeah, you probably should…although she’s going to know something’s up with you, Klay,” she pointed out.

“Hehe, you shoulda heard what my family thought about him. Any of them, any time they’ve seen him,” the Martian said, giggling.

“What, that I was high? High out of my mind?” I asked, not very amused.

“No, just that you’re weird,” he said.

“Yep, weird as hell,” confirmed the voice from the backseat.

“Oh.. Well, I can live with that I guess,” I shrugged. “Either way, that means we spark this now, right?”

“Right,” said the driver, handing me a lighter.

Before we’d gotten halfway through smoking it, he’d passed the joint back to me and asked me to hold onto it cause traffic was slowing down. Another minute and we were bumper to bumper with big rigs and smart cars alike. The two lane highway through the mountain pass was at a standstill as far as the eye could see, though that was only until the first bend–we couldn’t tell how far this blockage stretched.

When Brick had to throw it in park, we all sighed and looked at each other in forlorn. We already knew this was going to be lengthy and tedious. The Martian decided it was snack time, passing around peanut butter-filled pretzels and trail mix. Earthgirl opened up the giant polymer cooler that kept her company in the backseat, dispensing red and blue drinks. I, Earthboy, picked up the tuni plugged into the entertainment system and turned up the music.

Start. Stop. Start. Stop another hundred feet from the last place. Start in 2 minutes after watching anxiously ahead for the red eyes to fade. Stop and wait again another 3. Repeat for another hour or so until it lets up just a little bit, accelerating to a slow crawl. Start to drive fast enough where you have to give all your attention to the road ahead and giant trucks slowing suddenly in front of you. Stop being able to see the scenery. Start to get annoyed at all the waterfalls and cascades the two Earthlings riding in the car are pointing out to each other. Stop trying to imagine the drivers thoughts.

The mountain pass was beat at last, and your heroes excitedly exited into a much wider valley, filled with trees, and rivers, and many off-ramps to thin the traffic out. The next destination was Morris and the second time through it so far. To Leona’s aunt’s house in the hills above town, right next to another national park named after an extinct animal; it sounded nicer then the part we’d caught a glimpse of just the day before.

We arrived earlier than we did to any of our other destinations, pulling into the long, freshly paved driveway before the sun even went down. A minute later and Aunt Devvie was out to greet us herself, giving us the grand tour.

A giant walnut tree, old as the boundary lines around it, grew in the middle of the front yard, by a younger magnolia tree in full bloom.

“You know, in all the time we had this place, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this tree in bloom; and they’re so damn huge!” Devvie shared with us.

She walked us around the front of the house, a space as large as my entire backyard before bringing us to the west side of the yard, the sun already escaped behind the mountains. Down the hill from where we stood was a hole in the Earth, named the gully. Dev warned us that all manner of scrap could be found in that pit.

“He used it as his own landfill…more like a little dump I think,” she stood for a while to explain. “He hauled anything he didn’t need over here; trees he’d uproot or rocks he’d unearth, equipment he couldn’t use anymore, and anything else he found dead,” she snorted, turning away at last.

She continued on her circle and brought us counter scroll-wise around the back of the house, where there was a manmade water feature. A long fountain, stretched out into a rocky stream that ran from far uphill. We walked along it to the top and looked back down at the house.

“He built this one bit by bit. One day we were down there on the porch, smoking a cigarette and looking up at the hill, and he got this idea. The next day he had a hose and a bunch of black rubber tarps set up from about halfway to the bottom. And see there where that sticks out? For a while that became a pool with a waterfall that drained to the bottom one,” she paused to take a sip of her drink.

“Then one day he decided to make it longer, got a bunch of instant concrete from the store, and tore up everything he had before,” she then kicked at the spout below her foot. “He laid these heavy duty cables attached to a massive filter pump he installed down there, and started pouring.”

She brought us around to the final stop on the 6 acre estate, a view east of the town of Morris. From here it was the same quaint setting you could imagine on Earth colonies hundreds of years ago. Little bits of flickering yellow light in each window low in the hills, fit in between with spires and steeples that all glowed too. My opinion of it changed a little bit as we stared on.

After the others had all gone to bed, Brick and I crept back outside to the patio. One joint was left, the grand daddy of them all. Rolled in a clear piece of cellulose paper like a tornado, the finest keif and choice pieces of bud went into this monstrosity, easily putting each of the other 20 I made to shame.

We smoked it ceremoniously and were privy to an other-worldly high, it felt like we’d never gotten stoned the entire week of this trip. This majestic piece of smoking history treated us well–so well it didn’t seem right to just snuff it out and flick it away. We had to dispose of it respectfully.

“Come on, Brick, grab your head lamp. I have an idea,” I said, standing and looking west.

When he’d found his gadget and a pair of Martian sandals, we started walking through the back yard, around the house. Up on the hill beside it, we came to the creepily shadowed gully. I emptied the ashtray into my open left hand, then closed it when I closed my eyes.

“Thank you for all the good fortune so far and please may it continue,” I said to no god in particular. Then I dashed the roaches and blew the rest off my hand into the welcoming gully. We turned about and headed inside, intent to rest before the big day.

day6b

«The Road Trip – Day 5»

06-09-2309

Ahhhh, waking up in a real bed. What simple pleasures you bastards take for granted each day. Not only did I wake to a real bed in my own quarters, but to eggs and bacon sizzling and popping at me through the vents. It was heavenly, but you’d never be able to appreciate it. Just being in a house that has food in the kitchen is a gift, people.

The Auroran side of Bricks family were full of honest, hard working, hugging folk. His mother’s uncle, Arturius, was slouched over the frying pan in an apron and shorts, white socks pulled up over his calves, when his son, Mic came in. Brick’s first cousin, once removed was dropping off his second cousins to play with their grandparents for the day. I know, it all seems very confusing, I had to do some research to figure it all out.

After a hearty breakfast we were on the road again. The view was worthy of nostalgia, the notes of rural Dominia were hard to ignore. It wasn’t long at all before it was time to ignite the day’s first J, waiting until we were just past the city limits. I exhaled a cloud of relief to not have to worry about covering my act around his family. Well, at least for a few hours.

The only sign for a scenic overlook I’d seen in two days passed by outside.

“Huh, do you think we should?” Brick was entertaining the notion already.

“Uh…well..” I couldn’t answer quick enough, another blue sign and a small turn out whooshed by. “I guess not…It probably wasn’t all that interesting, anyway,” I justified.

“You’re probably right, it must hav–Holy shit!” he pointed across me out the window. The slope to our right, covered by a thicket of trees, dropped away to reveal the vantage from the point.

“Oh gork.. We have to turn around, Brick,” not taking my eyes off the view.

“I know, I know. I’m trying,” he said, searching for convenient place to make a quick u-ey.

“This is not an option! It’s the most interesting thing I’ve seen for miles.” I probably wasn’t helping him find a turn an easier, but still I added “I don’t have any good pictures on Earth, yet. You really have to.”

“Hush, or I won’t pull off for the next one either,” he threatened as he signaled to make a right at an abrupt intersection.

The river bends meandered for miles and miles on end. Grey bridges and trees cut in front of the silver body shining in the cool morning sun. A nice breeze welled up beneath us as we looked over what must have been Lake Warioto. I can only assume, reviewing at the map afterwards. I didn’t actually bother to take a look at the commemorative signage or any other nomenclature about.

We descended the mount after documenting everything, down to the mason work, in which each piece of local slate that was used contained fossils of ancient life. The rocky passage down brought us to the lapping edge of the rivers for a peek before plunging us into a thick, valley forest. The route and all the buildings along the way, were worn in ways that made you know this path was ancient, used for time immemorial.

We passed more decaying mortar and concrete, rubber wheels spinning on crumbling cement, until we came upon Warioto Gap. The little town bloomed with antiquated architecture, reaching far back to the days of the original Ganymedean settlement and the colonial wars. It  had sprouted at the head of a natural pass through the mountain, and was popularized when Earthling frontiersman and hero, Dane Bane, expanded the way, making the settlement of Pennsyltucky beyond much easier.

A recreational trail branched off from the back of the town into the mountains. Apparently, before Jovians took over this world, natives called these tracks the Warrior’s Path, linking the way between the warring tribes of the north and south. Colorful signage littered the sides of the walkway, with dramatized scenes depicted which would have otherwise predated modern photography.

It was humid out with no breeze, but the moderate canopy above helped to keep us cool as we climbed the slow, gravelly grade. Small black land mines peppered the larger rocks and stones, their eight legs sprawled as they basked in the midday sun. I kept my eyes down to avoid accidentally triggering any of them.

“How far do you think it is still?” Brick panted, looking up ahead as his flip flops flapped against the sifting tide or stones. “I’m dying already.”

“Well, the sign in the parking lot said it was a good 5 miles to the closest lookout point,” I recalled as I removed his PDA from my pocket, “and so far we have walked…0.6 miles.”

“And we still have to walk all the way back after getting there? Gork that! Lets turn around after we reach the first vantage.”

“Sounds great to me, let me just see here.” As I fiddled with the touch screen, to plot a new course, an alert flashed across it.

((– Now Leaving Pennsyltucky — Welcome to Dominia –))

“Ever cross a border on foot, before?” I asked Brick slyly.

“Heh. No I can’t say I have…until now, apparently.”

“That’s kind of exciting. Well, anyway, we can just make a left at the next fork, it looks like there’s a side path to another mount just ahead.” I pocketed the gadget and released the canteen I had clipped to my waist. Ahhh, still cold from being inside the crawler. Refreshing.

“Hook me up!” Brick said as he herd the wet clink of the stainless steel bottle. I tossed it to him when I’d replaced the lid.

“You get to carry it for a while, now.” I smirked as I passed him, taking the lead up a steep hill.

The top didn’t yield as impressive a view as we could have hopped. I could see a slope on one side, and a mountain sliding to meet it on the other side, but in between there were just a bunch of trees. I angled about as best I could to get at least one good view of something, but nothing came to sight.

You have to be pretty high up to find any view worth seeing on Earth, there’s always something getting in the way. This was a charming little hill though, and a perfect place for the sunbathing ticks. While I was taking a few pictures of trees, one of the clever little arachnids began to make a break for my legs. I spotted him at the last second before it made to leap on me, letting out a shriek of terror as I hopped off the boulder and ran to Brick.

“Uhm…what?” He looked up at me from the rock he was perched on, interrupted from taking a breather.

“I’m not a fan of the wildlife around here…and I think we kinda have to keep moving if we don’t want to be eaten alive,” I indicated to the stealthy black agent of doom behind me.

“I guess.. I feel really exposed up here too, lets get back under the shade,” as he rose to his feet he dusted off his knees and handed the water bottle back to me. “Where to know, do you think?”

“Hmm,” I glanced about a few seconds. “I’d say back down and over there to left, there’s some sort of landmark or memorial by the looks of it.”

“It looks less sunny too, so I’m for it,” and he lead the way down the hill, side stepping to find better footing on the slippery gray stones.

A crater was etched out of a rock wall just a few minutes up our turn. Dead leaves and dry branches flooded it most of the way, making its depth indeterminable. Another floating sign informed us it had been a Union storehouse during Earth’s Civil war, self destructed so it wouldn’t fall into the hands of separatists. Bits of history dating this far back would receive much acclaim and respect on Mars, but here they’re scattered like weeds, another everywhere you turn.

“This is neat, do you want to chill here while we spark it?” Brick asked me with hope, trying anything he could to make this little excursion more worth it.

“Ehh…not particularly. I kinda want to save it for the road, we’ve still got a good ways to drive today. And we won’t still be high by the time we get out of this sweaty park.” My logic was sound enough, I thought, but I added “and I’d like to be sitting down to enjoy it, we’d be tick food before we even got close to roaching it.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Let’s head back then, ok,” he rifled in his pocket for a menthol cigarette and offered one to me as we turned about, now walking downhill.

An Earthling girl in shades and athletic tights jogged briskly by us on the path. Between deep panting breathes, she shouted a warning as she passed.

“Snake up ahead. Big black one. Middle of the trail. Watch out!” and she was gone, headed up the way we just came down.

“Hmm..” Brick moaned.

“Wow…thanks for the warning, I guess,” I muttered, not sure what to make of it until we saw it for ourselves.

Long enough to stretch the entire span of the walkway, we gingerly tiptoed around the smooth reptile as it slithered on into the foliage. Rounded diamond-shape scales cased it‘s hide, uniform and black. I couldn’t see the head or any markings indicating what type it was, but it was intimidating enough to treat it with utmost caution. Looking back again, I saw the end of it’s plain tail vanished amongst the ferns.

“I think I need to phone my dad real quick,” I was already removing my texti from my pocket.

“Do you update him every time you see a snake?”

“Only when I don’t know what it is…and when I’m in the same territory as him..and when–” my signal connected to the network and it began to ring. He answered after only a couple tones.

“Hey kid, what’s goin on?” the muted voice squeaked through my tiny speaker.

“Not much, dad. I just had a quick question for you.”

“Alright, shoot.”

“Well we’re in Warioto Gap right now, just walked across the border into Dominia.”

“Oh, cool. Coming home soon then?”

“Well kinda, we’ve still got to head through Appalachia and Carolina, and back to Appalachia for the festival this weekend. But I had a question about poisonous snakes.”

“Uh..ok, I think there are emergency services that specialize in snakebites better than I could. And a lot quicker at that.”

“You’re funny. No I didn’t get bitten, I just saw a snake and couldn’t remember which poisonous species we had in our territory. Cottonmouths and…?”

“Rattlers. Timber Rattlers,” he answered quickly, in an obvious tone.

“Huh, really? I always think of them as more of a Luna-Mars thing. Copperheads and Water Moccasins are what I think of when it comes to Earth. And Coral Snakes.”

“Why not, they’re all Pit Vipers. Well, the Cottonmouth species and the Rattlers are anyway; Coral are actually a type of Cobra.” I kinda miss him going on like this, you always learn something.

“No way..wow I guess that makes sense, why they’d be so lethal.” This was a new one on me, but I hardly had the minutes to waste. “Uh, anyway, are any of those about an inch thick and pitch black? Maybe about 2 feet long?”

“No, that’s nothing to worry about at all,” he paused a second to consider it. “Probably a regular old rat snake. If it has no markings at all you‘re safe, and half of the time, even if it does, it‘s just pretending to be dangerous. Toxin filled creatures always come with clearly visible markings, just part of how they evolved.” I could tell he was gearing up for a long one.

“That’s cool, I’ve never really thought about it like that,” it was slightly fascinating, you have to admit. “Well, thanks for helping me ID it, dad. I gotta run though. See you in about a week?”

“Yeah, sure thing, kid. Take care of yourself out there. Love you much.”

“Love you too,” I slid the texti closed to end the call.

“Is it safe?” Brick asked sarcastically.

“Yeah, that one was,” I was adjusting to speaking at normal volume again, “but let’s not hang around to find any that aren’t.”

Back on the road we continued through to Appalachia. Lush, well nourished greenery aligned us, strangled up to the limbs in the river-lakes that ran beside road. It was obvious excessive rains had raised the line several feet, but people here were smart enough to keep their houses far up hill from the new boundaries of their yards. As we crossed the swollen Holstein River I was reminded how insignificant water seemed to the citizens of this world.

We changed our course in Morris, a little crossroads town in the middle of the mountains, and were about to head north when hunger struck us.

“They have White Castles around here, right?” The Martian asked as if I knew intimate details of this part of the planet.

“I can only assume they do…although I can’t remember the last time I saw one this far south. We might as well take a look,” I answered, half optimistic and half unwilling to admit I didn’t know something.

“Right, then we’re exiting here,” he informed me as we entered the ramp leaving the highway.

It looked like any town near the eastern seaboard, the same earth-red bricks wrapped houses with pale columned porticos and black window shudders. Granted, the upkeep hadn’t been attended as closely as some of the nicer neighborhoods I’ve known, but combined with the rusted wrought iron and creeping vines it was all kind of homey.

We continued on the main avenue, scouring both sides of the street for fresh, bite sized burgers, but found none. An alarming number of seafood places were present, especially a good amount of sushi restaurants. Brick and I glanced at each other and shuddered to think about the quality of raw fish up here in the mountains, or anywhere besides Mars or Saturn for that matter. After half an hour of cringing, we turned about.

“Well that was a bust, what did we pass along the way that looked good?” I had given up on finding sliders anytime this trip long ago.

“I dunno…regular sized burgers?” Suggested the Brick.

“Fine, how about the BK Lounge over here?” I pointed to the drive-thru, right by the old rusted rails that used to pump the blood of life into this town.

“Sounds good to me, I think we’ve been avoiding eating there long enough…and salmon rolls aren’t even that appealing to me when they aren’t hundreds of miles from the closest shore,” the picky eater responded.

As we sat in the glassed dining area of the restaurant, an act I’d developed a new appreciation for after being confined to a crawler for majority of the past week, we observed the local color. Mostly pastey white, probably all from Ganymedean families that traded their afternoon tea and suit ties for rabbit meat and coonskin caps when they relocated to Earthly log cabins. Everyone also seemed to have poor skin and obesity issues, obviously loyal customers of this and similar fastfood chains, frequenting them for all four of their meals throughout a given day. The staff even seemed slow and sluggish, weighed down by pounds of grease and fat sloshing around inside of them. Mixed with the unhealthy burger I was hastily shoving down my throat, it was a thoroughly unpleasant experience.

“Just think, tomorrow night we’ll be here again,” Brick said between bites. He wiped his mouth and corrected himself, “Sorry, not here at BK, I mean in Morris.”

“Oh, right…wait this is where Leona’s aunt lives?” I asked, slightly surprised.

“Yeah, well somewhere around here anyway. I just remember seeing Morris on the map when I looked it up.”

I took a second to look around at the overweight diners accompanying us. “Her family’s not from around here, is it?”

“No. Heavens, no. She’s from upstate New Tros, I think her aunt just moved down here. Why to the south, I haven‘t a clue,” he pondered just a minute longer before shrugging and eating a handful of fries.

“Ah, well that’s cool then. There’s no way her aunt could be as gross as the Earthlings around here,” I was relieved, but in the back of my head I was aware that some places just end up changing you. “Lets get out of here before we become like them.

“One step ahead of you, sir,” he said, already rising to his feet and dusting the crumbs off his shirt.

We returned to the highway and resumed our drive. The road we just switched to was narrower and more winding than the previous major route. We had deviated from the suggested path to stop by a landmark that looked appealing, and after an awkward uphill climb finally reached it.

Blowing Rock was apparently the most exciting thing to see for miles, an exposed outcropping looming over a valley created at a continental divide between the ancient sedimentary mountains and the fresh, young chrystallines. For 6 bucks each, we could stand on an observation platform and look at all the trees hiding the beautiful mountain faces and slopes.

There wasn’t a series of little landmarks one could conceivably hike too, there weren’t impressive features you could spot from the deck, it was just a bunch of trees. The most astounding thing was the size of the giftshop, immense compared to the magnitude of the site. A large wall sized panorama picture was all the view we needed to take in before we turned and left.

“Well that certainly blew. This is one of those places you decided to visit cause it looked like a funny name when you saw it on the map, right?” I harped at Brick.”

“Yeah,” he answered sheepishly.

“Are you sorely disappointed?”

“Yes..”

“And have you learned your lesson?”

“Nope, onward to Troutman!” He shouted, breaking into a run for the silver vehicle, still warm and as anxious to get back on the road as we were.

10

«MODEL:Z-140X»

04-19-2309

I run the bottoms of my palms and finger tips along the smooth surface of the plastic case, slightly worn where they rest upon it. It’s rigid and semi-glossy with a weird graphite sparkle from something metallic in the composite; the familiar blend acrylic and styrene that makes up so much of the world around us. 87 individually molded and labeled tactile keys rest at the call of my tips, able to do anything from word processing and data input, to software function and OS control. The keypad is the conduit which I have to the digital exchange existing within the polymer walls and upon the silicon plains. There’s also a touch pad that makes up the bottom of the input surface, part of a pointing device that manipulates a cursor on the screen, like a virtual hand, to assist in navigation of the Graphical User Interface.
A GUI sounds fancy but whether it still comes with a pointing device or not, you probably have them in every gadget you own. From your computer and PDA to your texti or touchi, or even the heads-up in your vehicle. In your home-sphere entertainment center’s control panel or just the menu of your DVR. The bathroom mirror has one, the kitchen controls are on the door of the fridge; your home’s surface computer has one giant interface covering the entire tabletop. The atmosphere, electricity, plumbing and waste control terminals all have some rudimentary arrangements on top of that. The automated teller machine at the bank uses one, as well as the order-taker at any walk in restaurant and the help centers in most retail stores. It’s just an explorer or browser display; the neatly tabbed, filed and aesthetically rounded window you’re currently reading this through. It’s an underappreciated aspect of any operating system, one which all other elements of accessibility and function are contingent.
Without a GUI you’d be staring at raw data, possibly green text on a black screen like some antique CRT screen; archaic viewers that finally allowed us to give meaning to the term monitor, back in the first days of computers. You’d see the bare frame and structure that make up the system, all the lines of code laying about like so many cables without floor panels covering them, clear overhead ducts passing page after page of script with no ceiling tiles to mask. All the hubs would be exposed and bright with text streaming from it of all sorts of near unintelligibly tangled forms. Nothing would be indexed, as if everything were on one giant source page. No order, just sweet chaos made out of the most obedient of shapes. Or you could be using a sense computer, which is just as equally maddening.
It should go with out saying, but I would be driven insane if I couldn’t even use a basic root menu. I also wouldn’t be able to use the tablet surface built into the screen of my workstation. It has a stylus hidden in a spring-loaded bay within the case, a second pointing device that behaves like a pen when brought to the screen, which swivels around and folds flat to look like any regular portable. Well, maybe a little larger because it has an old battery cylinder along the back edge, a rounded bulge that makes it hard to fit in most bags designed for the modern portable that’s so popular these days. Those empirically white ones with all that chrome, dipped in an extra layer of clear acrylic to give protection and that weird luminescence. You know which ones I’m talking about, one of those real fancy digits. Of course you do, you’re probably using one right now. Mine is gargantuan compared to those.
You could be wondering why I would choose to use such a bulky instrument. Laptops, the ancestors of portable workstations, had folding screens, which created enough problems in themselves, but the delicate keyboard it revealed beneath was the biggest hassle. Not only was it a precarious design for something utilized so frequently, with top-heavy keys on tiny pins that connected a network of flat ribboned circuits, but they were incredibly hard to clean and any bit of water could cause the well-installed and hard-to-replace pad to go haywire. You couldn’t just plug in a new keyboard like on one of the stationary terminals in your home or at work, meaning many laptop owners would just replace the entire machine if anything were to happen to the most delicate–and most constantly used–input device.
My tablet PC isn’t so archaic though, it‘s generation could be considered Post-Laptops: systems designed beyond the capabilities of a conventional portable computer for the sake of selling a gimmick and usually to a target group, like artists or contractors. It may not be a typical touch screen, but the keyboard is a newer type of web-like sensor that doesn’t seem as susceptible to water. At least it has screws in the top I see that  I can undo to replace the keypad myself if anything were to happen to it. I’m quite comforted by that. The tablet pen and screen were revolutionary when this system was imagined, but by the time it could be manufactured easily, or inexpensively enough for me to afford one, new standard multi-touch interfaces were implemented in the market by much larger and better advertised companies, and now existed virtually everywhere. The pen is actually a complete novelty now when you can use your finger tip as a stylus in today’s art and editing programs.
Alright. Magic pen, sure cool. Though it was more ingenious back before you had to perform all the work on he same surface you viewed it on anyway, it’s still kinda neat. So you must still think I’m crazy for using an old keyboard when the touch screen pad you have can’t break, won’t get food or what-not stuck in it, and isn’t going to gork out when it gets a little damp. I guess the only thing that can be said is I’m a romantic and a sucker for innovation and unique gadgetry. I also love antiquity and, yes, some archaic things. I feel like those old machines had real soul in them, they had to work so much harder because they were more carefully handcrafted for real precision and longevity, less factory assembled and streamlined than most of the garbage indiscriminately pumped out today. The stuff they want you to keep buying so it doesn’t have to be great all that great of a product in the first place, since its designed to break down in two years.
But tapping my fingers on a flat surface just doesn’t seem right to the senses at all. I love the feel of real keys beneath my finger tips. Each is alert and stoic like some flat, bold-lettered nipple, waiting to receive and giving way to every push of my will before springing back up, ready for another. Every time with a satisfying noise. I feel like each word–nay, each letter is imbued with all the force with which I pound it’s key, giving off louder sounds the more intensity I use. I’m in complete control of this interface and it allows my mind and the blank page in front of me become as one. My thoughts flow freely to it.
I feel like the greats must have when they put down their immortal words on it, the strokes of their keys clacking away the whole night long in the echo of their empty rooms.

I run the bottoms of my palms and finger tips along the smooth surface of the plastic case, slightly worn where they rest upon it. It’s rigid and semi-glossy with a weird graphite sparkle from something metallic in the composite; the familiar blend acrylic and styrene that makes up so much of the world around us. 87 individually molded and labeled tactile keys rest at the call of my tips, able to do anything from word processing and data input, to software function and OS control. The keypad is the conduit which I have to the digital exchange existing within the polymer walls and upon the silicon plains. There’s also a touch pad that makes up the bottom of the input surface, part of a pointing device that manipulates a cursor on the screen, like a virtual hand, to assist in navigation of the Graphical User Interface.

A GUI sounds fancy but whether it still comes with a pointing device or not, you probably have them in every gadget you own. From your computer and PDA to your texti or touchi, or even the heads-up in your vehicle. In your home-sphere entertainment center’s control panel or just the menu of your DVR. The bathroom mirror has one, the kitchen controls are on the door of the fridge; your home’s surface computer has one giant interface covering the entire tabletop. The atmosphere, electricity, plumbing and waste control terminals all have some rudimentary arrangements on top of that. The automated teller machine at the bank uses one, as well as the order-taker at any walk in restaurant and the help centers in most retail stores. It’s just an explorer or browser display; the neatly tabbed, filed and aesthetically rounded window you’re currently reading this through. It’s an underappreciated aspect of any operating system, one which all other elements of accessibility and function are contingent.

Without a GUI you’d be staring at raw data, possibly green text on a black screen like some antique CRT screen; archaic viewers that finally allowed us to give meaning to the term monitor, back in the first days of computers. You’d see the bare frame and structure that make up the system, all the lines of code laying about like so many cables without floor panels covering them, clear overhead ducts passing page after page of script with no ceiling tiles to mask. All the hubs would be exposed and bright with text streaming from it of all sorts of near unintelligibly tangled forms. Nothing would be indexed, as if everything were on one giant source page. No order, just sweet chaos made out of the most obedient of shapes. Or you could be using a sense computer, which is just as equally maddening.

It should go with out saying, but I would be driven insane if I couldn’t even use a basic root menu. I also wouldn’t be able to use the tablet surface built into the screen of my workstation. It has a stylus hidden in a spring-loaded bay within the case, a second pointing device that behaves like a pen when brought to the screen, which swivels around and folds flat to look like any regular portable. Well, maybe a little larger because it has an old battery cylinder along the back edge, a rounded bulge that makes it hard to fit in most bags designed for the modern portable that’s so popular these days. Those empirically white ones with all that chrome, dipped in an extra layer of clear acrylic to give protection and that weird luminescence. You know which ones I’m talking about, one of those real fancy digits. Of course you do, you’re probably using one right now. Mine is gargantuan compared to those.

You could be wondering why I would choose to use such a bulky instrument. Laptops, the ancestors of portable workstations, had folding screens, which created enough problems in themselves, but the delicate keyboard it revealed beneath was the biggest hassle. Not only was it a precarious design for something utilized so frequently, with top-heavy keys on tiny pins that connected a network of flat ribboned circuits, but they were incredibly hard to clean and any bit of water could cause the well-installed and hard-to-replace pad to go haywire. You couldn’t just plug in a new keyboard like on one of the stationary terminals in your home or at work, meaning many laptop owners would just replace the entire machine if anything were to happen to the most delicate–and most constantly used–input device.

My tablet PC isn’t so archaic though, it‘s generation could be considered Post-Laptops: systems designed beyond the capabilities of a conventional portable computer for the sake of selling a gimmick and usually to a target group, like artists or contractors. It may not be a typical touch screen, but the keyboard is a newer type of web-like sensor that doesn’t seem as susceptible to water. At least it has screws in the top I see that  I can undo to replace the keypad myself if anything were to happen to it. I’m quite comforted by that. The tablet pen and screen were revolutionary when this system was imagined, but by the time it could be manufactured easily, or inexpensively enough for me to afford one, new standard multi-touch interfaces were implemented in the market by much larger and better advertised companies, and now existed virtually everywhere. The pen is actually a complete novelty now when you can use your finger tip as a stylus in today’s art and editing programs.

Alright. Magic pen, sure cool. Though it was more ingenious back before you had to perform all the work on he same surface you viewed it on anyway, it’s still kinda neat. So you must still think I’m crazy for using an old keyboard when the touch screen pad you have can’t break, won’t get food or what-not stuck in it, and isn’t going to gork out when it gets a little damp. I guess the only thing that can be said is I’m a romantic and a sucker for innovation and unique gadgetry. I also love antiquity and, yes, some archaic things. I feel like those old machines had real soul in them, they had to work so much harder because they were more carefully handcrafted for real precision and longevity, less factory assembled and streamlined than most of the garbage indiscriminately pumped out today. The stuff they want you to keep buying so it doesn’t have to be great all that great of a product in the first place, since its designed to break down in two years.

But tapping my fingers on a flat surface just doesn’t seem right to the senses at all. I love the feel of real keys beneath my finger tips. Each is alert and stoic like some flat, bold-lettered nipple, waiting to receive and giving way to every push of my will before springing back up, ready for another. Every time with a satisfying noise. I feel like each word–nay, each letter is imbued with all the force with which I pound it’s key, giving off louder sounds the more intensity I use. I’m in complete control of this interface and it allows my mind and the blank page in front of me become as one. My thoughts flow freely to it.

I feel like the greats must have when they put down their immortal words on it, the strokes of their keys clacking away the whole night long in the echo of their empty rooms.

06

Published in:  on 19 April, 2309 at 2:57 PM Comments (1)
Tags: , , , ,

«The Screen»

04-08-2309

Walking home last night, it was about 6 or 7 when I saw this girl on the other side of the street watching a video on her touchi. As we both pressed buttons on either side of the crosswalk, I caught her take a peek at me, then quickly return her attention to whatever she was watching on a screen that took up the entire side of her phone. As we passed each other in the middle, she focused as hard as she could on the digital image, intent on pretending I wasn’t there. I shook my head to myself as I reached the other side.

It’s said we spend over 12 hours a day staring a screen. It seems like a lot until you consider your phone, PDA, GPS, HUD, etc; think about your computer screen. Hell, I watched the news while I was taking a shower this morning. Even though when we have screens everywhere from our vehicles to our vanities, 12 hours a day staring at CRTs, LCDs or optic diode arrays is still a lot.

It’s also said that a little under half that time is spent staring at the teli screen alone. The TV world is a dangerous place to expose yourself to for extended periods of time. All the people that exist there are so beautiful and rich, and more successful than we’ll ever be. They lead fantastic lives and go on compelling and extravagant adventures. Stories that don’t have to be good, must just have exciting enough sequences to make the cut for TV audiences. These plots are still are automatically on a par more astounding than any real life event could be.

I think this leads to a supreme disconnect in our society. I’ve noticed everywhere I go, if someone is walking they’ll have their ears and/or eyes occupied with some form of gadgetry. Typically they’re listening to music emitted into their ears directly by tiny earbuds. No biggie, people have been listening to headphones with portable players for years. But these days, its always on their phone– and always texting. Seems you pull your texti or touchi out reflexively as soon as you’re about to walk by someone.

Best to have a good excuse for not making eye contact with someone, rather you get caught in an awkward staring match as you pass, because you’d rather not say anything to a stranger, right? Does anyone remember when people used to greet everyone they met all day? Does anyone care about a person they don’t know if they don’t look like they’re someone who can give you something?  How can you be sure they actually have what you need?

We know we can get it from the screen. Whatever we want or need, we know we just have to ask a screen to give it to us.

In order to develop properly, Allan says, one must establish stable, long term relationships with other people they trust and know, real face to face interaction with other humans. I think we’ve all but substituted these, creating relationships with people we don’t know–celebrities and media personalities. Just characters, fake people. We’ve mistaken our aliases and handles for our real names, our screennames becoming more synonymous with who we think we are. I almost wonder what reality is to some people, if they feel like they’re just playing a part. Do you realize there are no characters you can become cast as, you can always change your role.

And whenever I think about loneliness or feeling disconnected, I quickly realize there are at least half a thousand people living in Villa Venusia, and another two thousand in this square mile. Everyone’s in their own little world though, the screen their only eyes to see it with. And when nothing seen is real, they forget that the people and things they see out in the world aren‘t just fake too.

Meanwhile, just around the corner is a person whom I may have something I common with, someone I can have a conversation with and be friends with. Who knows, maybe even a girl I could be falling in love with.

I’m looking in all the wrong places and my eyes hurt too much. I have to stop staring at the screen.

thescreen

Published in:  on 7 April, 2309 at 2:06 PM Comments (2)
Tags: , , , , , , , ,