‘It isn’t just the line that seems strange but the birds that choose to sit on the line, each idle in a way that seems more like waiting than it should. And the birds that sit on the line only ever face inward, toward the center of the spiral, so that any traveler wishing to complete ‘The Electric Labyrinth’ will have to pass under their gaze. And the birds have been shown to watch these travelers, turning their heads and still waiting. And when the birds are scared, scared by a noisy or hostile traveler, they seem to hesitate before flying off. They take a second to consider and, under that gaze the second drags long enough to signal danger. No traveler fails to flinch. But the birds always choose to fly and they always come back when the traveler has gone, perched on ‘The Electric Labyrinth’ and waiting.’
I’ve cut through sections of ‘The Electric Labyrinth’ probably three dozen times in the last decade. It’s impossible not to cross it if you move through any of the country’s central thoroughfares and its lines hardly stand out among the others. The outer arm curves so subtly that it might as well be straight and the birds, well. The birds don’t stand out if you’re not looking for them.
To enter ‘The Electric Labyrinth’ proper is not technically authorized. A series of service roads that stay within the lines have been identified and only once does the road skirt the lines close enough that an uncareful driver might accidentally cross back out. For my part, I’m careful to keep the trailer well within bounds. I’m not sure if a tire over counts as a disqualification but in order to be absolutely sure I keep to the inside of the road, even when it skirts a ridge so closely that the back threatens to touch air.
And then I’m through the worst of it and, at times, I’m simply back on the interstate, completing short stints on civilized pavement before the inward curve of ‘The Electric Labyrinth’ forces me back off the shoulder and into the dirt where paths have been worn but hardly settled. The birds watch. I feel their eyes on me every moment, even after I turn the rearview mirrors to angles where I won’t see them reflected. Like everyone who passes through ‘The Electric Labyrinth,’ I wonder and worry that I might be what they’ve been waiting for.
The curves tighten and soon I am near the center, a single pole to which all the lines lead and, for a while, I am just yards away and still circling in ever tightening curves. To reach out and touch it would mean disqualification so I drive and I drive and the electric buzzing becomes loud and felt, everything building toward a shock that most claim is impossible.
I slow as the final pole aligns with the hood of the trailer, slow to a crawl so that when my bumper finally contacts the metal it is hardly a tap.
Then, a flash that reverberates along the line and sends the birds fluttering away. It’s a thing that only feels dangerous when it’s over. The engine stutters and the dashboard flashes ominously, dials waving like excited children beneath the plastic.
It all stops abruptly. The lights. The engine. A bird perches on top of the pole and doesn’t scare when I try the ignition. The trailer rumbles back to life and the fuel gauge, which had been at a quarter tank previously, indicates an overfullness I didn’t think was possible.
It’s not the easiest refueling I’ve had, but it’s the cheapest.
-traveler
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