Travel Reference
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be to my right (a conclusion I reached by imagining myself in a tiny car driving across a
big map of America), but the road twisted and wandered, causing the sun to drift teasingly
in front of me, first to this side of the road, then to that. For the first time all day, I had a
sense of being in the heart of a vast continent, in the middle of nowhere.
Abruptly the highway turned to gravel. Gypsum nuggets, jagged as arrowheads, flew up
againsttheundersideofthecarandmadeafearfuldin.Ihadvisionsofhosesrupturing,hot
oil spraying everywhere, me rolling to a steamy, hissing halt out here on this desolate road.
The wandering sun was just settling onto the horizon, splashing the sky with faint pinks.
Uneasily I drove on, and steeled myself for the prospect of a night spent beneath the stars,
withdoglikeanimalssniffingatmyfeetandsnakesfindingwarmthupatrouserleg.Ahead
ofmeontheroadanadvancingstormofdustbecameafteramomentapickuptruck,which
passedinahellbentfashion,sprayingthecarwithrockyprojectiles,whichthumpedagainst
the sides and bounced off the windows with a cracking sound, and then left me adrift in a
cloud of dust. I trundled on, peering helplessly through the murk. It cleared just in time to
show me that I was twenty feet from a T-junction with a stop sign. I was going fifty miles
anhour,whichongravelleavesyouwithastoppingdistanceofaboutthreemiles.Ilumped
on the brakes with all my teet and made a noise like Tarzan missing a vine as the car went
into a skid. It slide sideways past the stop sign and out onto a paved highway, where it
came to a halt, rocking gently from side to side. At that instant an enormous semitrailer
truck-all silver horns and flashing lights-blared mightily at me as it swept past, setting the
car to rocking again. Had I slid out onto the highway three seconds earlier it would have
crushed the car into something about the size of a bouillon cube. I pulled onto the shoulder
and got out to examine the damage. It looked as if the car had been divebombed with bags
of flour. Bits of raw metal showed through where paint had been pinged away. I thanked
God that my mother was so much smaller than me. I sighed, suddenly feeling lost and far
from home, and noticed ahead a road sign pointing the way to Quincy. I had come to a halt
facing in the right direction, so at least something had come of it.
Itwastimetostop.Justdowntheroadstoodalittletown,whichIshallcallDullardlestthe
people recognize themselves and take me to court or come to my house and batter me with
baseball bats. On the edge of town was an old motel which looked pretty seedy, though
judging by the absence of charred furniture in the front yard it was clearly a step up from
thesortofplace mydadwouldhavechosen.Ipulledontothegraveldriveandwentinside.
Awomanofaboutseventy-fivewassittingbehindthedesk.Sheworebutterflyglassesand
a beehive hairdo. She was doing one of those topics that require you to find words in a
mass of letters and circle them. I think it was called Word Puzzles for Morons.
“Help yew?” she drawled without looking up.
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