Simple America

That's what I call it. Because for me, that's all I can honestly attribute to these repetitive corn fields, out-of-date automobiles and satisfied locals.

I wake up in the same peculiar position as usual: stuffed like a burrito between rows 3 and 4 of Ezra the red van, usually sweating, always amused. I have a selective yet telling view of the outside world, and as I filter-out the tinted effects, I make a warm prediction of the day's forecast. Without question, there's a Walmart within a few hundred yards, and before I lift my elbows against the floor, I take a wild guess at today's color. I used to think all Walmarts were blue. Such is not the case. I've come to learn that there is no true pattern to the color of a Walmart sign. Green, blue, yellow, beige. And who knows what I've yet to see. Maybe a hot pink Walmart is exactly what Roswell needs in order to attract more extraterrestrials. Anyway, in the confines of a van there's not much else to do before rows 3 and 4 decide they're ready to wake up. If I can't bust out a crossword puzzle or conquer a Japanese number game, I might as well challenge myself as far as Walmart color schemes are concerned.
…

Nate warms up his vocal chords and begins the day with a song. A rooster, if you will. Except instead of a simple do-re-mi, it's more of a 'good morning, good morning, wake the **** up' kind of song. Anthony's feet typically frighten Ricky when they collapse from the loft like a dismembered corpse. Stevie says something; anything. And Mike stays curled in his own bed, tightly squeezed between rows 2 and 3, his feet somewhere near Wisconsin.

I climb over whatever limbs I need to, sort of like hiking through a forest after a bad thunderstorm, and take one final leap onto pavement. In a stark comparison to the Midwest air, I’m reminded of the van’s unfavorable smell. Ignore it, I tell myself. Breakfast.

I hoist my backpack over my shoulder and head for the wide silver doors, automatic with a sometimes-more-than-slight delay. Betty welcomes me inside like a grandmother I never knew I had displaced in the middle of Kansas, yet no more surprised to see me than the next customer. I head for the fresh [free] produce section, grab the greenest apple I can find and successfully maintain that tour can be ‘healthy’.
…

I stare at morning’s damage in the bathroom mirror. It’s just a mirror, yet in this strange situation, there’s something far less personal about my reflection. As if the million faces before me left a smudge over my forehead or an exhaled breath below this mouth. I brush my teeth and shake my wrists until the motion sensor reacts more readily to my parched hands. I left New York with naked wrists and roundabout speculations. But now, as I scrub away the filth in my palms, I can’t help staring at the messages I have tied around my skin. Warped Tour Guest Pass, “EPIC” in a string of beads, and “WISCONSIN” on what looks like a worn-down lemon peal. Although I’m never proud of the dirt caught beneath my fingernails, I’m oddly content with this life of bare necessity.

As routinely as the parking lot, the Betty, the apple, or the mirror, I always meet one more person. Usually an older man, he asks the inevitable question: So you’re traveling cross-country, are ya? And like clockwork I say yes, waiting for their unique input on my situation. Thus far I’ve met a man who mountain-biked the route himself, and another who never understood why people like me exist (he smiled, nevertheless).
…

I see pastures, shades of green and gold that continue for miles on end. The ten year old in me sees tornados on a rampage that are worth being chased, while the twenty one year old I am can’t imagine being stuck here. I’m still moderately enthused when we pass a herd of cattle, and I have no fucking idea why except utter fascination (no pun intended). You see, everywhere we go we stand out. From the way we dress to the energy we possess in these less than exciting parts of the country, it’s clear we’re not locals. And although I stick out, I can’t help but see them as the attraction.
…

Oklahoma welcomes me.
Anthony just got excited over bathing cows and I feel like less of a loser.

I’m out here. Somewhere in Simple America.