End of the Road

I had an epiphany last night.  I was charged up.  I was excited.  And then. . . I didn't sleep so well.  I woke up feeling punky.  The bed sheets and cover were a twisted mess.  Pillowcases were scattered for the second night in a row.  What is going on, I wonder?  Will I ever recover?

Good son that I am, I took my mother to a bank in a different town on a busy highway to renew two CDs.  As I've said, that is what she does with her money.  That is how she invests.  And though she makes approximately 60% of the money she'd make if she invested in a safe mutual fund, she never has to worry about losing money.  And that makes her happy.  

After banking, we were across the street from a Jewish deli chain that I like, and that is where we had lunch.  It was raining just slightly, so we had a light coating of dampness when we entered the restaurant.  

It was freezing.  

When we sat down, my mother used her large napkin to dry off.  

"How are you folks doing today?"

"It's freezing in here," I said.  

The table next to us joined in.  They agreed.  So did another table nearby.  

"Is there anything you can do?" asked an Italian couple.  

"The temperature is managed by an electronic device.  I don't have any way to control it," said the hostess.  

Our server came to the table.  She said that she had just gotten into work and had walked through the parking lot in the rain and that she, too, was cold.  She had long, dark, reddish hair that was braided.  Her face was fair and pretty in an unsophisticated way.  Her clothing highlighted her pleasant figure.  Her smile was big and generous and showed her slightly crooked teeth.  She was very sweet but a little too animated when she talked, tilting her head too often and too much.  She was like many of the girls I'd gone to high school with, I thought, in my redneck cracker part of town.  She'd gotten a job as a waitress.  She had a child, a boy.  She'd been married briefly.  Now her mother helped her out with her son  In five years or ten, she'd still be working as a waitress.  She'd meet another man, a worker of some sort.  Her figure would begin to thicken.  There would be the occasional one week vacation at the beach or in some small town in the Appalachian Mountains.  

This is what I was thinking as I watched her go from table to table, friendly and likable.  She didn't know how to wish for more I thought.  Like so many, this was her destiny.  

It was too familiar.  A shiver ran through me.  Was it the cold, I wondered?  

I wanted to photograph her, of course, before the story had time to play out.  I wanted to photograph her as she was just now.  

She brought the food, two pastrami and corned beef sandwiches with sides of cole slaw.  I didn't say anything more than thank you.  

I dropped my mother off at her house and was home by three.  It was a little late for a nap, but I needed one.  I was up by four . 

And this is where the epiphany begins to unfold and unravel.  As it had been late for a nap, it was now early for a drink, but I had nothing else to do, so I made a Campari and lit a cheroot for the first time in months, and I went to the deck.  The sky was grey.  Rain was coming.  I had brought out a Leica with a wide angle 21mm lens attached.  I had become infatuated with this setup once again.  The Leica, as always, brought me tremendous pleasure merely to hold.  It is one of those unexplainable joys.  I checked my phone.  No calls, no texts.  The Campari was gone before the cheroot.  The first raindrops fell.  I left the cheroot in the ashtray and went back inside.  

A little after four.  I would make another Greek salad for dinner with the ingredients leftover from the night before.  My mother had eaten only half her sandwich but did not want it and left it with me, so there was that as well.  But the late lunch and the late nap and the early drink left me with a lot of time before I'd prepare the evening meal.  Whatever, I thought, and I opened a bottle of wine.  I sat down with my Kindle and picked up reading the trashy noir novel where I had left off.  Having just finished reading Cormac McCarthy's final two novels, I felt the need for a little bit of light reading.  Travis had suggested it to me, and he was right.  

I read until five.  I poured more wine and walked over to the bookshelf holding many of my large photo books.  I picked up one, "The Open Road."  It was a collection of road photographs beginning with Robert Frank and moving forward through time.  As the photos approached the present, I thought, they became less interesting in their intent.  But the road had changed, too.  

And then it hit me.  Sure.  I'd been searching for a new project for a long while.  Just then, I had stumbled onto a theme.  It hit me like a shockwave.  

"The End of the Road."

I'd take my own road trip.  Trips.  I'd photograph the pathetic contemporary landscape.  Congested highways.  All the things of value that had been lost.  The end of the American Dream.  The plastic sterility of contemporary life.  State lines.  Policemen.  Shuttered businesses.  Roadside attractions.  Oh my god. . . yes. . . all of it.  

I put the photo book away and went to the kitchen.  I filled my glass and began to chop vegetables, my mind full of future images.  I'd not be afraid.  I'd be bold.  I'd make such pictures. . . .

After dinner, I poured a scotch.  I turned on the t.v. and once again, the music won me over.  Holy Moses. . It was divinely inspired.  I'd found my theme!  "Going Up the Country"!

The great splendor and ecstasy of leaving, the adventure of travel.  I'd done it before.  I could do it again.  

The music and my wild imagination carried me through the night.  

It was early when I went to bed.  

That is what I recall, but now, as I said, I'm feeling punky.  Where did those marvelous images I thought of so vividly last night go?  I feel tired and lifeless.  I can only hope it is the result of the mania I'd had, the late nap, the early drinking, the music and the liquor. . . . 

Still, I think it is a marvelous idea.  "The End of the Road."  Seriously.  I can think of nothing better.