Its 6:30 a.m. and at the stop sign, waiting to turn left out of the apartment complex, I am behind a rusty silver Chevy Cavalier, with a New York State license plate taped in the back window. The car appears to be driving itself, I can't see anyone in there, but their lights are on, and there's a bumper sticker that reads "My other car is a Chocobo." I was intrigued. As soon as I got to work, I looked it up and here's what the bumper sticker could have said: "My other car is an intelligent, friendly, large and normally flightless fantasy bird, that often assists heroes and can be ridden like horses." Designed for a video game, and according to Wikipedia, "Most often they can be caught in the wild and ridden without fear of random encounters, escaping after the player dismounts." This is a lot to think about when behind an apparently driverless car — was that what they meant by player dismount? And what about that taped license plate, is that the result of a random encounter? When I left my home last winter and made my way to this apartment high on a hill, did I enter a virtual world? Am I perched among friendly flightless birds?
Heading north, I pass a sign that posts the speed limit at 55 mph. I do this at 65 mph because I have decided this is ok.
As I near Exit 13 which is for Phoenix, I recall that twice in the six years I have commuted to Oswego, I have gotten to that exact spot when I slammed into a thick white blanket of lake effect snow. The kind of blanket you can't see through, no way to tell up from down, no trees, shadows or lights, nothing any further ahead than the dashboard, the back seat is the end of the world, like being swallowed up in the cotton at the top of the aspirin bottle. To be in a whiteout is to lose dimension. I can tell you that if you open your door a crack you can follow the line painted on the edge of the road, one hand on the wheel, the other on the door, your head about an inch off the ground - and if you crawl up the ramp and to the right, you'll find a Valero gas station. I have pulled into that parking lot both times, glad to have arrived anywhere. Once, I ventured into the store, where other stranded people were similarly disoriented, huddled by the racks of gum and newspapers, contemplating another snow brush. The guy behind the counter greeted us like we were long lost friends arriving at a pre-arranged winter gathering. He was an eager, jovial host, who hadn't had this much company or sold this much gum in a long time. My guess is that things aren't usually this busy at the Phoenix Valero gas station. But, there we were, a random assortment of travelers, shuffling around in our snow-bound vigil, looking nervously out at what we could barely see, doing our best at chit chat, anxious declarations of where we were expected to be at that moment. Knowing we were supposed to be somewhere else, but not wanting to hurt our host's feelings, he was seeming to take our eagerness to leave personally. I imagine that everyone was thinking the same thing — I could take my chances out there on the road, or stay here and eat Ho Hos and read the Swap Sheet. Again. Knowing that our host would probably suggest a sing-a-long, or serve those rotisserie hot dogs that had been cooking in the glass case since the night before, cut up like hors d'oeuvres and skewered on the toothpicks from aisle 2, I headed back out into the storm.
The Dunkin' Donuts in Fulton is now featuring lemonade donuts. The urgent, flashing neon sign told me so, making this seem much more like an emergency than the debut of a baked good. Lemonade donuts — this brings to mind a troublesome contradiction in states of matter: liquids and solids. But, then I remember that there are coffee tables,
so . . .
Somewhere near a VFW that has a tank in the front yard, I pass a sign that says "The 10 commandments are not multiple choice." Ok, then what are they? Short answer? Fill in the blank? Multiple choice brings to mind #2 pencils, which brings to mind the Dixon Ticonderoga brand and the multiple choice test rule-of-thumb which is to go with your first guess. I am sure they intended for the 10 commandments to be more specific than that, a little more on point than "go with your gut." Whoever they are. The people who spoke in those inviting sentences that begin with "Thou shall…" or "Thou shall not…" Who uses that language, I mean once you get off the Mayflower? Which brings to mind square buckle shoes. My mind is hopelessly lost in the tragedy of Pilgrims, when I realize I can't recall a single commandment — except "to thine own self be true." But wait, that's Shakespeare. I guess I would fill in the bubble for D) all of the above, which is always my first guess.
The sign in front of the Believer's Chapel in Fulton states in all capital letters (which would be yelling on email): "JESUS DIES FOR YOUR SINS." Right below that in much more civilized upper and lower case type: "Rummage Sale This Saturday, 9-4. " As if one was the inevitable result of the other. Jesus died for you, so to make up for it, used clothing will be available. Is a rummage sale a form of atonement?
I pass a yellow diamond-shaped road sign and on it a single directional arrow splits into several points at the top. Each arrow head going in a different direction or turning back on itself in a loop. It's the sign version of Medusa. And I said out loud as if to offer the sign some consolation, "Yeah, I hear you, I can't figure it out either."
At 7:30 I arrived at work — theoretically the beginning of my day, but it's really the midpoint of that paragraph I called Thursday.
