The Jaunt
© 12.01.06 By Rory Peterson

Dawn hangs in the eastern sky awaiting the moment allotted for its birth. I glance at the clock on the dash; 6:47 A.M.

Unlike nearly every morning this week, I'm not (almost) late. That's not because I wised up and set my alarm for an earlier time, it's simply because I haven't any thing to be late for.

I often dreamed of this moment while driving to work. Freedom of time, an open highway and a full tank of gas. Rubbing shoulders with my fellow man as I cruise the avenues of sophistication and style. Where am I going? Who knows? When will I get there? I don't know. Maybe when I run out of gasoline.

By 8:15 I am nearly to Spokane, Washington. The morning sun shines brightly hindered only slightly by the city smog. I can see the high-rises in the distance and the air traffic from the airport. Maybe I'll head into Canada unless I decide to turn east and visit Montana.

I am ripped from my daydreaming as an eighteen wheeler roars past as I attempt to negotiate the freeway on-ramp. My otherwise lightly used Michelins leave a pair of black streaks on the asphalt as I scarcely escape a collision. Muttering under my breath I cautiously maintain my course in the right most lane - the one usually reserved for seniors piloting Lincoln Continentals.

Nine thirty in the morning finds me in one piece outside of a friendly, albeit rundown looking, gas station. My mission: a simple cup of coffee.

The clerk behind the counter looks friendly enough. I can only see one tattoo and part of another while most of the facial piercings are hidden behind long jet black hair. While the term "conservative" doesn't come immediately to mind, I have seen worse.

"Do you folks have, uh, sell any coffee?"

I divert my eyes from the dyed hair to the fun-size chip rack and back again - several times in quick succession. Perhaps an unconscious attempt to appear accustomed to strange and weird grooming preferences on my part.

Doubting whether the technique has its desired effect, I glance purposefully about the building, as if the coffee tank was actually within sight, my inquiry simply to show appreciation for the employee.

"Yeah, duh cothees in like, duh back."

I nod courteously and stride toward the rear of the store, immediately spotting the coffee. It sits next to a rack of magazines displaying scantily clad girls of artificially tanned beauty, and clean-shaven men that look like product testers at a steroid factory.

I arrive back at my car unscathed save for a touch of conscience. The coffee wasn't the best I'd had but it was hot and cheap.

While purchasing the coffee, there had been a rather uncomfortable moment of silence. I refrained from speaking, lest the tones of my voice reveal an apprehension toward Goth-demon personas. The clerk said nothing either; maybe the stud weighed heavy on the tongue. I can't recommend driving down a main thoroughfare in a large city while juggling hot coffee. The thrill may parallel that of sky diving but the chances of surviving run slightly lower.

I slow to a stop at a yellow light. I see no need to tempt a catastrophe by rushing through to bet the red but other motorists haven't the same idea. Like the one behind me for instance. A blaring horn conveys his opinion.

Glancing about, I notice a man seated on the sidewalk. The sign reads "stranded veteran, please help." A couple of crutches lean against the power pole. Seconds later the driver of a battered Cutlass roars around the corner hurling rotten fruit. The stranded veteran sprints after the offender screaming profanities audible over the traffic noise I sigh and pull forward as the light turns green.

10:45 A.M. While I ate only a light breakfast, I am not yet ready for lunch. Since I have no schedule and all day to get it done, I decide a bit of cinematic entertainment would hit the spot. A coliseum sized movie theater advertises the latest in humorous and witty animated films and I buy a ticket.

Moments later I find myself viewing a motion picture produced for apparently no other reason than to satisfy a lust for some kind of a combination of gore, sex and blood. I'm quite sure everything portrayed by the animated figures is illegal - even in California. Four and some half minutes are tidal-wave, and I find my way out of the tomb like hall.

Outside, I toss the stub in the gutter without thinking. Then suddenly I realize I'm on my way to becoming a native so I turn to pick it up. But sorting through scads of previous offences to restitute my own isn't very appealing so I just get in my car and drive away.

Perhaps Montana would be a good destination. I make my way in an easterly direction. I pass a university campus on my way out of town where traffic is slowed to a crawl. Hundreds of young people crowd the street and surrounding area, brandishing signs and screaming. Policemen attempt to hold back the mob, but are unable to spare every motorist an unnerving encounter with a psychotic demonstrator. I am one of the several unfortunate and a young woman in flip-flops and dreaded hair leans over and screams directly into my face, save for the car window, while pounding on my hood. I contemplate dooring the female activist, but think better of it and inch on.

An hour and some half later finds me blundering about in a detour for road construction. While not hopelessly lost, I have little idea where I am. By now I am hungry, and a small diner on the street corner looks inviting.

I park next to a Honda Civic with a sound system that would suit a concert hall. The man sitting in the driver's seat is clad in clothes several sizes too large, I assume he thinks the "gangsta" crowd is one to take pointers from. A few seconds later a girl wearing clothes several sizes too small comes out of the building. She gets in the car and they drive away, muffler blaring.

I order a sandwich and a soft drink. Half an hour later a waitress with a cell phone attached to her ear wanders into the dining area and attempts to serve my order to another costumer. Graciously he refuses and I nod appreciatively as the waitress makes a wild guess and heads toward me, the only other patron in the building.

After I discovered several strands of hair in my sandwich, I keenly felt the proverbial straw break the camels back. I left the diner and undertook the drive home.

When next I had time to spare, I simply read a book. It's far less expensive, much less wear and tear on the mind and body and one doesn't have to observe popular culture point blank. As a reaction, perhaps, I've decided to launch my own reality TV show. I'll call it "Extreme Culture Make Over." And no, you can't be in it.