Down and to the right, beyond the guard rail, was a smattering of houses, about the third such grouping we've passed, looking just like the toy houses under the tree and around the train set at Christmas. And between two of these tiny towns was a creek, or, though I didn't want to admit it at first, a brook. Whether it babbled I don't know. The windows were up, it being the week before Thanksgiving, so I couldn't hear.

There were trees, naked as the day they were born. Against the really blue sky and really white Whitmanbeard clouds, it jelled. Colors all right in your face, everything so much more crisp. And on top of one of the trees, the tallest of course, sat a blackbird--or just a black bird--a sentry looking the wrong way.      

That was probably right outside of Scranton, or right past the Poconos, who can tell. I get lost as soon as the street names run out of numbers. At the next gas station, you couldn't use a credit card at the pump--you had to go inside. I don't remember the last time I saw one of those. And inside, they didn't have a swiper, and instead had to run that giant metal monster over your poor little plastic, forcing the shadowy imprint onto the sheet beneath, a fat man getting up off the couch. Danny grabbed a Pittstown Super 8 brochure.

We drove through clouds. The windows were so dewy we had to turn on the wipers.

The sign at the next rest stop is old and faded, though still does its job more than competently, and more than confidently. On the overpass above, a tractor ambles right to left, making the semi coming the other way excuse itself, a little ashamedly, as it passes.

Everything is slowed down, really slowed down. Still shots, even. Maybe that's why they let you drive a little faster, 65 miles an hour. It's still 55 in the city, around Philly, isn't it? I mean, I don't know of many who actually drive 55, and they usually arrive alive, but that's another matter. I'm in the mountains, in the clouds here. The windows are dewy. Dewy!

The towns depress me. I'm not sure if it's because these people are slow, and have no knowledge that you can live faster, and they just don't know what they're missing, so I pity them; or if it's because they're smarter than me, and know that all that stuff is nothing, really.

Every tangible object we pass seems old, like it's dying. Everything that's made of metal is rusting. We just passed, down and to the right, fields and houses, paint chipping and balding, an old red white and blue schoolbus, some barrel-shaped tank outside a farm, and the farm's (we just drove by a pickup truck [which was rusting terribly], its driver looking very Peyton Manningish. Two guys beside him in the cab. Bumper stickers all over the rear of the truck. The one on the back of the cab's window reads, "Drive it like you stole it," and supplies its own punch line.) silo, all rusting. Cars were in the house's drive, or next to it on the grass, so people, presumably, lived in those houses and drove those cars. I say presumably because aside from the last gas station/restaurant/convenience store/arcade/shower area, I haven't seen a single human (besides Peyton and his boys).

Really foggy, cloudy really, and there are all these little ponds, bigger ponds, down and to the right. Creeks, and the fog and cloud are veiling it so well, I keep thinking Gollum is going to pop out of one of them.

There's a real estate place, Donnelly Homes--the sign is on the side of a barn.

Passed the Town of Horseheads. Then a little later, passed the Village of Horseheads.

Fell asleep and woke up between Rochester and Buffalo. More of the same down and to the right. Which is nothing. No activity. Short sentences. What do these people do all day? How is their time spent? Why don't they at least clean up, or paint, or scrape the rust off of some of their possessions?

Maybe it's just the roads we're on. I'm sure it's just the roads we're on. And us. I'm sure right now, at this very moment, in these towns we're passing and just beyond them, people are laughing and talking and having wild sex and eating and drinking and building things and fixing things and gambling and getting high and reading and watching things and having wild sex. I'm sure that in those towns where the roads don't have to be cemented are families named Winchester and Jackson who were contestants on the Family Feud and went on Judge Jackass to sue their old roommate for $89.90 because they got pudding all over their car driving to Forman Mills. What else do they have to do?

At the Falls, okay, you don't see the falls, you experience them, it's true, you need to feel and hear the roar, the rumble, you need to get completely soaked by the mists that come at you like you're standing in the shower trying to take pictures, you need to interact with people from all parts of the world, cameras from all parts of the world, wet hair from all parts of the world, and the mist keeps coming, loud and strong, with the rainbow sitting there, close but condescendingly forever just out of your reach.

And they keep coming, this rush of sentences, an orchestra of water playing long and loud, and you stand there getting wet trying to lean over the railing so you can take pictures of the tumbling water that turns slow motion whenever your mind tries to focus on it, and everything slows down and the water reminds you that it's been here before you and will be here after you, pounding the rocks, cascading down like millions of bursting roman candles.

Everyone in Canada, from the natives to the two girls at the hot dog stand to the workers in the souvenir shop, were so damn friendly, with Come Back Now and Sure and Thank You and real questions marks after their questions. Not like home, where people are nice and mean; they were so friendly I didn't really know how to respond to them, and kept mumbling Thank You at everything they said. I could barely make eye contact.

(Of course, the customs agent, the first person we meet back in America, eyes us with mistrust. Doesn't believe what we tell him, can't understand why we'd want to come to Canada just for a couple hours to see the falls. No, we must be drug smugglers, or people smugglers, or prescription medicine smugglers who have sick parents back home and who figure the best way to counteract the Medicare problem is to drive 13 hours a day from Philadelphia just to get some cheap medicine for Danny's high blood pressure father or water pills for my one kidney grandfather.

If only I would have thought it then, I'd have said that my friend and I actually came to Canada to get married; that really would've thrown the guy for a loop. He's holding tightly my passport and Danny's birth certificate. The line of cars behind us is getting longer, impatient. He tells us to put the car in park, open the trunk. Wants to know why we've brought jackets. And a cooler of water and nutragrain bars. Wants to know what we bought while we were in Canada. I told him I got a hot dog. He didn't seem too interested.)

We stop at a rest stop, Dandy Gas Station and Mini Mart, just outside of Corning, New York. I'm a sea bass getting reeled home by Philadelphia, the drunk fisherman taking the day off of work. There's only one person in front of me in line. I want gum, sour Starburst, and fruit snacks.

And gas. Beside the counter is a barrel full of Reese Peanut Butter Cups, 10 cents each. Which is really good, considering Dandy is selling packs of Reese Cups for 59 cents each, for two of them. The guy in front of me, who I'm sure is very nice but to me is out of Deliverance, gets ten dollars worth. In case you don't feel like doing the math, that's one hundred Reese Cups. And don't you know that the Dandy girl made sure there were 100 on the counter, so she knew how much to charge. Ten dollars. The guy paid in food stamps. 100 Reese Cups paid for with food stamps.

So I figure, okay, whatever, I've been on the road now today for about 11 hours, maybe some hallucination or mental straining is setting in, and things really aren't the way I see them at the moment. Of course, the guy tries to put them all in one plastic bag. The Dandy woman sees the problem, and asks if he'd like another bag. No, he'll be fine. And he was, until he picked the bag up and took one step toward the door, and all the Reese cups came shitting out of the bag's bottom.

Cue the banjo.

For long stretches on the drive home, we were the only car on the road. Darkness on the left, right, behind us, in front of us, above us. You get the point. But you could really open up that rental car. During the entire song of Jumpin Jack Flash, I kept the needle above 105, topping out at 117.

Last stop, back in Philly, convenience store and gas station, and we are treated so rudely, it feels so good. Reminded that there isn't anything special about us, and they don't need nor want us to Come Back Now.