Day 15 - Gettysburg and the Suckling Fetus
I woke up this morning in Gettysburg next to a church. I’m starting to think of better locations to crash when I have to sleep in the Imposter, given the whole trying to be safe vs. not-being-arrested thing. Rest stops are a good bet because it’s actually acceptable to sleep in your car there – truckers do it all the time and us truckers have to look out for one another. Sleeping in a bar parking lot also is not a bad idea, assuming it’s closed and drunk people aren’t wandering out to bother you. That way if someone wakes you up and asks what you’re doing there, you just tell them you were at the bar and didn’t want to drive home drunk. I picked a church last night because I didn’t really have a better alternative, and I figured if anyone gave me crap I could just tell them I wanted to be closer to God. Who could fault me for that?
 Gettysburg was amazing, and not what I had anticipated. Mostly because I had this idiot picture in my head that it would be just this open field with maybe a little wall in it or something, like a Capture the Flag game (except with lots more killing). But Gettysburg actually stretched out over three days and more than a square mile of territory in southern PA. The battle is most famous for Lincoln's subsequent speech, but I tried to learn as much as I could about the actual battle itself.
 Finally I found this observation tower on the Confederate side of the line, from which I got my answers from this casual historian guy who just happened to be hanging out up there. I was particularly interested in the military strategy, so I asked him about this.
The turning point in the battle of Gettysburg (which in itself was a turning point in the war) was an ill-decided Confederate rush known as Pickett's charge, where a whole ton of southern soldiers charged across the battlefield and were mostly wiped out by the Union. The South had had the upper hand in the battle previously, but they lost so many men here that things quickly turned around. I've always wondered why anyone would ever try this charge tactic, as every WWI movie I've ever seen makes it look like the worst idea ever. But back in the days of the Neopoleanic Wars (and even in the U.S. Revolutionary war), it actually worked. Guns were really inaccurate and took forever to reload, so if an army charged a defensive line with enough men, not very many of them would be hit. Then, when they got about 50 feet away, they could let lose with a barrage of their own fire from much closer, devastating the defensive line. Then they set in to hand-to-hand combat and it was all over but the bayonetting.
However, by the Civil War rifles were much more accurate and quicker to reload, so a good defensive line could drop most of the advancing adversary before they even got close. Plus cannister cannons acted like giant shotguns, obliterating parts of lines that got too close. And yet, people still tried. Most of the generals, especially the southern ones, had been trained in Neopolonic tactics and still thought charging could work. One southern General, Longstreet, knew differently, and was opposed to Pickett's Charge from the beginning. But he stood in opposition to General Lee, and this is why nobody hears much about Longstreet anymore. The South charged, got wiped out, and eventually lost the war. Even in World War I were armies still employing this strategy, despite the devastating machine guns and artillery that cost so many lives. It seems to be the human way - develop the technology first and then develop the responsibility to use it.
 Anyway enough about war. The rest of the day was kind of a mad dash to see different people in different places. Bart in Rumson, NJ, Ari in Rutgers and finally zipping my way up into New York city to crash with Pat in Queens. All of this was supposed to happen in daylight, but one thing led to another... you know how it goes. I got my first glimpse of the ocean in eastern NJ, and Bart took me to a little streetcar-ish Diner since “Jersey does diners” and told me about the state’s existence as basically a parasite of other states.  Missouri might share most of its big cities with other states, but New Jersey doesn’t even have any big cities of its own, unless you count Newark (which I think most Jersians wouldn’t) and Atlantic City. As Bart put it, northern New Jersey is basically a suburb of New York City and southern New Jersey is basically a suburb of Philadelphia.  In fact, the state is even kind of shaped like a nursing baby (although it’s sucking away at some uninhabitied part of Pennsylvania that doesn’t seem to be producing much milk). It’s the suckling fetus state. Now don’t get me wrong, Jersey is a very pleasant, garden-adorned suckling parasite fetus, but without the massive industry provided by these hosts, NJ would just be Delaware.
After that I got delayed again with Ari, a future Rabbi and spiritual guru, so I couldn’t help but pick his brain about theology and the Matrix 2 and other such philosophical things, before moving on to NYC. Which is an extraordinarily difficult place to navigate, by the way, if you haven’t been there before. Trying to find one little house in Queens in the dark with very little direction is like looking for a needle in a dirty lake... wait. At one point I was at the 3-way intersection of 70th St, 70th Ave and 69th Rd. I was waiting for Pat to call me and tell me I should turn straight up in the air and go two blocks. Eventually we figured it out and shunned the 7-dollar-bud NY pubs in favor of the cheaper philosophy of Terminator 2 and beers.
Day 16 - Individuality
New York City is a lesson in individuality. There are something like 16 million people who live in NYC, each with their own past and future. But when all of them are out at once, pushing and jostling through an endless concrete carnival, the idea of anyone being noticed over everything else begins to seem pretty impossible. And yet they try. You’ll find in New York some of the most “noticeable” people anywhere, and yet as standout-ish as they are, they are neither noticed nor stand out here. The New York paradox.
Everyone kind of minds their own business here. Even the Walking Implement of Destruction was unable to attract attention. For those who don’t know, the Walking Implement of Destruction is what happens when all three Jury boys get together and decide to cause mischief. While none of us are particularly mischievous individually, the combination of the three has a synergistic effect, and trouble is born. Add a little malt liquor to the equation and construction equipment starts disappearing.
 Times Square lends an example, though more of a material one than personal. There seems to be a rule in New York that the closer your store or company is to Times Square, the more gaudy your sign has to be. Pat also has a theory that the sign of anyone within a four-block radius of the Square has to have a minimum wattage, and a certain number of light bulbs. Like more than 1000. Even the subway entrance sign looks like it belongs in Las Vegas. This applies directly to individuality – the more competition you have, the further you have to go to be seen. And yet, with everyone trying as hard as they can, the result is simply a blinding, deafening din. No one is listening to you in New York – which makes the city seem to many to be rude and uncaring, yet also provides an atmosphere of anonymity and acceptance. I imagine anyone who grew up in a very small town might appreciate this.
It was a day of a lot of new things for me – the first time I’d seen my brothers in a while, the first time I’d seen Central Park or Chinatown or Broadway or understood that these and practically anything else of importance in New York lies in Manhattan, the “real” city. It was also the first time I’ve been crapped on by a pidgeon, which was not a pleasant experience, but I figured it was only appropriate that my first time should be in Central Park.
Day 17 - Ground Zero
New York is also the richest and poorest place you’ll see, both at the same time. It’s kind of an amazing dichotomy, but anyone who doesn’t believe it should take a train two stops from the Upper East Side to Harlem. Actually a lot of Harlem is pretty nice compared to some areas of Brooklyn and the Bronx. But you can rent a crappy 1-bedroom loft for 2000 dollars a month and then furnish it with second hand furniture for a tenth of that. You can buy a shirt for 300 dollars at Bulgari or an entire wardrobe for 30 dollars at Conway. I spent 7 dollars on a delicious five-course Indian meal and then 7 more for a bottle of Bud Light at a bar. Mark dropped 100 dollars to cab to the airport and back but got a prime new watch and chain for 18. To say nothing of the ridiculously rich versus ridiculously poor people you find there. It really boggles the mind.
Today I saw Ground Zero, a place where tragedy and atrocity occurred for all people – rich, poor, whatever. I spent a fair amount of time going on and on about Gettysburg and some thoughts about that tragedy, now distant in this country’s memory. This one’s still a bit more raw, and I’m not going to attempt to sift meaning from it in the limited space and credibility of this website. My brother works with people who received emails from friends in the buildings saying things like “A plane just hit my building. I don’t have much time. I love you. I’ll see you in heaven.” I’m not going to try and touch that.
I do have a few photos, that might speak more than words can. One thing I would mention is I was a bit surprised by the comment wall near the site that people have scrawled on over the last two years. I thought it would be just a consolation autograph wall, but it appears opinions of all kinds have made their way to print – sympathetic, anti-democratic, and whatever kind of person who deems it appropriate to write “Hi! Timmy was here!” next to a place where 2,000 people died. I guess a melting pot we continue to be.
On a lighter note, the Walking Implement of Destruction has now consumed 18 double cheeseburgers, 8 apple pies and 6 sundaes from McDonalds this weekend. We’re not really trying either – we’ve only gone there twice, and eaten at a bunch of other places too. I told you, it’s synergy. And not just for defacing fountains and spooning homeless people.
Day 18 - Church in Harlem
This morning my brothers and I attended a church service in Harlem. We rose early and dressed up, not usual activities for the Jury boys left to their own devices. We even made Alex put on long pants, which he was not happy about since he hadn’t brought any and had to wear a pair of Mark’s. Even with the baggiest selection from Mark’s wardrobe, it was like trying to cram a watermelon into a tube sock, and Alex walked around all day with a scowl on his face, making stretching noises like he was wearing leather.
Mother Methodist Episcopal Zion Church, I believe it was called, off 137th and Lennox, was as spiritually invigorating as we had hoped. A giant non-air-conditioned sanctuary offered a two-and-a-half hour service filled with enthusiastic singing and perhaps even more enthusiastic preaching. At one point the minister was wandering through the pews yelling, which pleased everyone very much. Definitely an exciting side of religion.
A few other random things about New York. First, I had been warned about the honking thing, but it really is bad. We found this out as we drove around Brooklyn later looking for intersections mentioned in Busta Rhymes/Flipmode songs (Church and Troy represent). People honk at you given any reason at all, and a lot of times with no reason. I think all New Yorkers have some kind of horn Tourette’s. Seriously, you’ll just be sitting there in traffic and suddenly the guy behind you will start spazzing out and going off on his horn. I tried this for myself a few times, going ballistic on the horn when we were just sitting there at a stoplight. Nobody noticed. Also, despite having like 16 million people, I randomly ran into a guy I knew on the subway last night. I guess the city never stops surprising you.
Alex and I finally cleared out of the city around 8. Mark would be back to work tomorrow, and I was taking Alex back to Rhode Island on my way up north. It was here that the Spirit of the Roadtrip became problematic. So far on this journey I haven’t been too concerned with getting places in the most efficient way. I just kind of go, and if I miss an exit or take the wrong road, I just kind of keep going and figure out a new way to get there. It’s kind of a fun adaptive method to try when you’re not under time constraints. But occasionally it can bite you in the ass, as we found when we missed the exit to go up into Queens and through Connecticut to get to Providence. Alex is none-too-anal about directions either, and a quick look at the map showed us that if we just kept going east on Long Island, eventually at the very end of it there was a tunnel that went under the water and over to eastern Connecticut, possibly even a shortcut compared to the long way around.
At the risk of stating the obvious, Long Island really is long. Like 90 miles long, actually. Which seems not so bad when you’re driving it with hopes of finding a shortcut up to your destination, but much longer when you get to the end of it and realize there is no tunnel, and you have to go all the way back. At about 11:30 we came to the very eastern tip of Long Island, asked at a bar, and realized we were screwed. The tunnel on the map turned out to be a ferry path that didn’t actually exist either – the closest one was about 30 miles back down the road. Now, even this wouldn’t have been so bad, but there were a couple problems with this ferry.
- It took about 50 bucks and 3 hours to get across to Connecticut.
- It didn’t run on Sundays.
- It didn’t run at night.
With all these new obstacles in our way, we did the only thing responsible folks should do – we sat down and had a beer. And then we started back. All the way back, back down Long Island and through Queens and around the horn. At some point we became very tired, and very agitated that our 3.5 hour drive was turning into an 11 hour drive, and we began to make up Haiku expressing our frustration with not being able to get to Connecticut:
Oh, Connecticut
You connect here to there, but
what connects to you?
Or, the later and slightly angier version
Oh, Connecticut
You multi-syllabic state
I hate you so much.
It wasn’t really Connecticut’s fault, but it helped to vent/stay awake on the road. At least the state appeased us with some fatty 4am Denny’s, after which we just absolutely couldn’t stay awake any more and stopped the car for some Z’s next to an old model show-house.
Day 19 - Providence and Beyond
Well, apparently that show-house we passed out next to last night was actually a day care center, and Alex and I awoke abruptly at about 6:15 to a cop knocking on our window wanting to know what the hell two strange guys were doing passed out in a car as mothers dropped their five-year-olds off for the day. Amending what I said the other day about good places to sleep in a car, outside a Daycare center that will soon be opening is definitely not one of them. And Alex had even warned me not to go sleep with that nylon pulled over my head. Though he was the one who scattered yearbook pictures of young children all over the car.
The adrenaline from this little encounter lasted me for about half an hour on the road before it was back to struggling to stay awake. Definitely the most brutal driving of the trip so far. I guess that’s what we get for driving four hours out of the way and trusting an imaginary tunnel. Stupid tunnel. Anyhow we made it through the rest of Connecticut and all the way across Rhode Island to Providence. Which took about 25 minutes. Alex showed me around his school a bit (after sleeping and eating again, obviously), since I was the only family member who hadn’t seen his spot yet. Since this trip is a little low on people pictures, I figured I could at least represent my bros with pictures of their schools .
I’m in Maine now. Well, just barely – the Imposter and I squeaked across the border just before it got dark. From Providence it was up through Massachussettes and Boston into the scenic and apparently somewhat French New Hampshire. I’ve never heard the dairy store name “C’est Cheese!” before.  The semi-famous Route 16 carried us the rest of the way, providing sunset scenery and hills to keep things interesting. My only worry is the “Watch for Moose” signs that have now replaced the “Watch for Deer” signs, an animal-upgrade and added concern for driving. Whereas a deer would probably work the Imposter, the Moose would definitely do the job, as well as increasing my probability of an antler-through-the-windshield-related-casualty.
Day 20 - Augusta
I spent Day 20 in Augusta, Maine, going to Career Centers and government offices, asking them about Augusta’s employment system for a play I’m working on. Yeah, they thought it was strange too. Now I’m now in the mountains of New Hampshire again – it seems New England is plentiful in mountains, beautiful scenery and signs warning you about moose. Vermont will be my last stop on the East coast tour before I head down to where it’s really really hot.
I’ve been trying to do something interesting in each state, more than just getting gas and taking a picture of the Welcome sign. Except West Virginia of course, but nobody likes West Virginia. I don’t know what I’m going to do in Vermont – suggestions so far have included eating Ben & Jerry’s and getting married to a man. Apparently Vermont is one of the few states you can do that in. Even so, I might have to settle for some Cherry Garcia and maybe an obnoxious pink T-shirt, and head along on my way.
Day 21 - Enlightenment.com
They told him not to sleep in the car.
In a moment of frozen fear, Trevor's mind flashed back to his parents' warnings, and his confident replies. It was just one night, he'd told them. He had to go overnight. He had to work until 7, and there was no way he was going to make it all the way from Boston to Cleveland in time for the ceremony leaving early in the morning. He couldn't let his sister down. But he also couldn't let his work down - he'd only been there a month now since graduation and was still busting ass to prove itself. He didn't want to bother with a hotel; it would just be wasted time checking in and out. And he didn't feel like spending the money - he'd just put the last of his paycheck into a gift - a fireproof safe that now rode in the seat behind him. An odd wedding present to be sure, but his sister and Jake had said they needed something to keep valuables in, and this was more in his price range than a new china set. Finally his parents had offered to pay for the hotel, but Trevor had politely turned them down. It was a waste. Besides, he said, it would be like an adventure.
An adventure that was now tapping the barrel of a gun softly on his driver side window. Trevor's eyes flashed to the closed school building nearby, praying some faculty member might show up early, even though the purple of dawn was just beginning to crack the solid black. His stomach sank lower as he remembered it was a Saturday. Why had he parked here? Why didn't these small towns have rest stops, or at least open gas stations he could park behind? Instead he'd chosen this place, a quiet little lot behind a middle school where at least last night some traffic had been going by. But not any longer.
Trevor unbuckled his seat belt - the grim man holding the weapon was beginning to look agitated. Trevor recalled that he'd been smart enough to lock his wallet in the glove compartment. But even in his care, he hadn't thought of this. Surely this guy wouldn't shoot him through the glass just to steal a car and some stuff, would he? He thought about just slowly getting the keys from his pocket, starting the ignition and driving away. There had to be something he could do. But this wasn't something he could afford to be wrong about.
Trevor's mind worked furiously as he slowly unlocked the door and stepped out, hands slightly raised. "Look man, don't do anything dumb. There's houses all around here. You want the car, take it. Just leave me alone."
The man stared at him, a grizzled, desperate face twitching from the shadows of a sweatshirt hood. He glanced at the car as Trevor slowly pushed the door closed behind him. Then he raised his gun.
"The keys."
Trevor slowly reached into his pocket and removed a small set of keys. The man reached out his hand but Trevor stooped instead, toward the ground.
"Take it easy. Here they are. Wallet's in the glove compartment, there's some money in there. Take it. Just take it easy." Trevor set the key in on the cement, and backed up a few steps. "They're yours."
And he turned and ran. The man sniffed, and looked after. He'd never done this before. But it had been so easy. He picked up the keys as the sound of the boy's feet beat quickly across the lot. He examined the small silver pair of keys in his hand as he turned toward the car.
And the door locked. An automatic clicking sound, and then another, accompanied by a short horn honk. The man froze.
He fumbled for the keys and tried to put them into the lock. Too small. Then he saw it - a small silver safe in the back seat of the car.
Trevor hit the panic button on his remote and the horn honked loudly through the empty morning. And then he sprinted off. He was hoping the 200-foot range of the alarm system was better than that drifter had with his handgun, but on this he was willing to bet that it was. And his odds were getting better all the time as Trevor tore away from the locked car and the shocked man standing next to it, headed back towards that police station he had seen the night before.
 Today was as all roadtrip days should be, thanks to good food, good friends and Vermont. I got up not far from New Hampshire and not further from Canada, and settled into what would become one of the most scenic and meditative drives I’ve had so far. Breakfast at a small town café in northern Vermont, a swim in a lake where I didn’t lose my keys… it was all very Thoreau. Here’s a picture of the spot where I spent much of the morning.
 Occasionally I’d hit a city like Montpelier, one of the more obscure U.S. state capitals, which, like Augusta, was scarely big enough to be called a town, much less a city. Big towns really thin out up here, but that’s kind of what’s nice about it. I never did find the typical Vermont thing to do. I didn’t buy maple syrup, or eat Ben & Jerry’s, or get cashews (which are apparently also very prevalent). I just drove, and ran, and swam, and relaxed. Or maybe that’s what you do here.
At the risk of making my travel line look once again like Moses’ roadtrip through the desert, I decided to forego New York city for the night and head toward Ari in New Jersey, to return again to bid adieu to my brother the following morning. The original plan was to watch Matrix 2 and then discuss (over beers) any philosophical conversation it might spur. Unfortunately we hit a snag since the movie is no longer out in theatres, so we were forced to forego both the Matrix and the philosophy, with only the beer remaining. Our conversation at a local pub instead turned to ideas for future roadtrips, such as driving to all states in alphabetical order, and visiting any geographic locations we could remember being mentioned in rap songs. Both of these are truly awful ideas, of course; the first involves a trip that starts in Alabama, proceeds to Alaska, then back to Arkansas, and so on… we stopped trying to figure it out right about here. The second idea would involve an extensive tour of Brooklyn and Compton, and not much else. We decided we could do without making it down to A1A, Detroit Avenue. Sorry Vanilla.
Next, to a diner, where Ari informed me of the other two things to know about New Jersey, besides Bart’s two from the other day involving diners and Jersey being a suckling fetus. Ari’s were 24-hour diners (a slight enhancement on just regular diners) and the elusive notion of the Jersey Jughandles, a concept far too bizarre for me to go into here. If you’re really interested e-mail Ari and he’ll draw you one on his Palm Pilot.
Before passing out at about 4am, we also managed to concieve a couple new websites that may turn into future projects for hugesmile, including the I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-already-a-site site whitepeoplerapping.com, and the intriguing trivia site pornornotaporn.com. Porn or Not a Porn is actually a game co-invented by Ari and Jeremy Round, in which you come up with ambiguous-sounding websites such as hard.com, or vibrate.com, and then vote on whether or not it’s an actual smut site, or not a website at all. Guess which of these two will cause your browser to shut down from too many pop-ups?
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