The Road Through Oblivion

I just spent five hours driving from Anacortes, Washington, to Portland, Oregon, and I'm struggling to remember something about the trip. I don't do long drives alone much anymore, perhaps because the time is filled with little more than background noise, creating few memories and much lost time.

On this trip, A cop was directing traffic around a stalled 18-wheeler in Anacortes.

I heard the guy from Breaking Bad interviewed on Fresh Air. Later, I played some vintage Paul Simon. Still Crazy after all These Years left me morose.

I pulled into line behind a silver Prius at the gas station on the Swinomish reservation. After he'd filled his tank, the driver gave me a friendly wave, probably because I drive a Prius too. As a group, I think Prius drivers are constantly amazed that anyone chooses to drive something other than a Prius, unless maybe they need a truck.

I took the scenic route to the interstate, down a back road and through Mount Vernon. There was a train of seemingly infinite length blocking the road in Mount Vernon. The growling wall of a thing rattled and squealed through the heart of town for a nearly 15 minutes while the drivers of cars and trucks bound for Seattle and Portland and the Mount Vernon Food Co-Op stared vacantly at traffic lights shining red in all outbound directions.

When I finally reached I-5 and turned south, past Dick's Restaurant Supply, I had a flashback of the Christmas when I gave my mother a set of restaurant-quality chef's knives. She said she had always worried about what would happen if someone broke into the house and attacked her with one of her old knives. “Lord knows,” she said, “the newspaper would have reported I was killed with a blunt instrument.”

As evening came I fumbled with the MP3 player and the radio. The windshield wipers were on sometimes, off more often. Mostly I just drove snake-eyed, nothing registering but unexpected movements.

I vaguely remember glancing at the Space Needle and the Tacoma Dome, and reflecting for the thousandth time about how awful the residents of Federal Way must feel about living in a town named “Federal Way.” Puyallup may be pronounced as if it refers to a malodorous whallop in the face, but at least that name has color and history. As for Federal Way, I suspect nobody showed up for the naming committee meeting.

At 9:30 p.m., about 20 miles north of Vancouver, Washington, I called Susan to let her know my progress. She was still up and sounding fresh. She let on that she was a little pissed that I would be spending the night at our condo in Portland. She'd already staged it to make the perfect first time impression on the girl friend she's bringing down to see it next week, and she reminded me to put everything back exactly the way she'd left it.

The condo did look nice when I opened the door a half-hour later. There was, however, an unfortunate shell necklace laid around a bucket-sized candle in the middle of the small dining room table. I stared at it for a while, but left it alone.

So as not sully the kitchen, I walked down to the corner McMenamins for a late dinner. The server dropped a brochure on the table promising that I would become a “Cosmic Tripster” if I got my McMenamins passport stamped at every McMenamins in the world.

It's an intriguing idea. I wonder what I would remember.