‘It’s difficult to say whether the death cult behind ‘The All-Year Christmas Tree Arboretum’ recognizes a certain hypocrisy in their perpetuation of an off-season holiday. It seems likely enough that the angle is toward some mysterious higher purpose, given the unsettling references to the resurrection story embedded in their promotionals and a fervent use of the word ‘evergreen’ in contexts where it only just applies. A failure to see the irony in prolonging something that has already extended its natural lifecycle would represent a severe disconnect between their PR branch and the core beliefs they’ve never quite admitted to (nor ever fully denied).’

The friendliness with which I am greeted at ‘The All-Year Christmas Tree Arboretum’ sets the loudest of my internal alarm bells ringing. Three immaculate men in immaculate uniforms surround the bike before I’ve even reached for the strap at my helmet and for all their timeliness they wait, silently, for me to say something before speaking themselves. The air is dense with the smell of pine, the field beyond the fence a forest in clean lines. Hector sniffs meekly about in his cage and one of the men bends awkwardly to look at him.

“That’s Hector,” I say, “A rabbit.”

The creature’s hairlessness has made the clarification necessary several times now.

“Cute,” the man smiles, “Hello Hector!”

“I was going to walk him out on the curb before…”

“Please, bring him inside!” another of the men says, “Plenty of wild animals roam the arboretum and the small fellow’s droppings are as welcome there as any other!”

“He could stay,” the first man chimes in, sensing somehow that our partnership is temporary, “He would be taken care of, here, and when his long life ends his body will…”

The unspeaking man ends the suggestion by gently placing his hand on the first man’s back.

“Ah, well,” the first man says, “Perhaps a tour?”

Picture a nervous traveler walking a blind rabbit while three clean men patiently follow, each holding an axe that they’ve retrieved from the barn where a dozen more clean, smiling employees knelt as though interrupted in prayer. The men talk in circles around the subject of inevitability and death, each a cheerful vulture in their choice of words.

“It’s an honor to tend to life in the arboretum,” one man begins.

“Even if the fruits of our labor fall to the axe,” another continues, “The evergreen essence returned to dirt.”

“It costs nothing to fell a tree in this place,” another chimes in- or maybe it’s the first, “Nothing to the customer, that is. It costs the plant everything.”

“Nothing to the arboretum as a whole.”

“Nothing to the world.”

“But enough…”

We stop while Hector sniffles about in the grass.

“I believe your little rabbit has chosen,” a man says. All three hold out their axes.

“You saw what I drove in on, right?”

“We’d be happy to take care of the remains if you have no use for it. Firewood for a pyre.”

“A pyre?”

“A bonfire.”

“If you need wood, can’t you chop it down yourself?”

They laugh and hold out their axes. With no little reluctance, I let one of the men hold the end of Hector’s leash while I go about the suddenly distasteful business of chopping down the rabbit’s tree. One man shouts advice and encouragement. The others smile and weep loudly. Amidst the crash of the fall I swear I hear cheering from the direction of the barn, but it’s quiet again in the aftermath.

One of the weeping men silently returns Hector’s lead and the three of them begin to cut the tree into smaller pieces with a zeal that makes me nervous enough to carry the squirming animal out in my arms rather than trust his default meandering. I tell myself, on the drive out, that I’m made no more complicit in their occult dealings through my actions in the arboretum than I am made a sponsor for war in paying taxes, but find the thought falls flat.

I try to forget it altogether.

-traveler

Hector is so still, at times, so unresponsive to the world outside his thick serenity that I wonder if he hasn’t quietly died in the back of the carrier. More than once I have poked and prodded and called out to him through the open bars and he has either been in such a deep sleep or has had enough reason to fake such a state that he only ‘wakes’ upon tumbling out of the tilted box like a medicine ball before chewing at his lettuce in a drowsy stupor. A veterinarian has said the creature is old but reasonably healthy, minus the clear UV-callusing of the body and the probable abuse-callusing of the mind.

Water. Food. Comfortable bedding. These are the things Hector needs in retirement and I fall into the habit of providing them. The animal hardly notices.

‘‘Daylight Savings’ is the company with which the American bourgeois prefers to stockpile its summers. It’s headquartered in central Florida but maintains several regional branches for personal deposits and withdrawals, the density of which increases as one moves toward the U.S./Canada border. These locations are popular with the lower class, as well, who sometimes huddle near the buildings come winter, waiting for a bus or otherwise loitering with the goal of skimming a little warmth from the upper echelons.

This practice is based upon the misconception that ‘Daylight Savings’ still stores significant quantities of daylight in their regional sun safes. In reality, modern fiberoptic networks allow for the vast majority of deposited summer to be transferred immediately to a location that remains undisclosed and is very likely some sunny, offshore haven that caters specifically to shady forms of sun tax evasion.

The many lawyers employed by ‘Daylight Savings’ have stated that the cloak-and-dagger keeping of the nation’s excess summers are to avoid disasters like the botched daylight heist of 1886 that resulted in ‘The Oklahoma Sunspot’ and may have inadvertently triggered the nation’s ‘Big Die-Up.’

‘When all that stands between a few bandits and a scorched-earth disaster is a family-owned business like ‘Daylight Savings,’ they claim, ‘Then America must have faith in those who have invested the most in its daylight and in its security: the wealthy elite.’’

We don’t get very close to ‘The Oklahoma Sunspot’ before I notice Hector’s uncharacteristic agitation. He’s pacing back and forth in the carrier at the rim of the great, black disc and by the time we reach the edge of the scorching-proper he’s begun to chew his way out. Nothing in my research suggested that ‘The Sunspot’ emitted even faint radiation, but the rabbit is familiar with sunlight and wants nothing to do with the charred landscape where there once stood a town.

I drive far enough back that Hector calms and then we hike to a viewpoint just off the highway and up a short hill. From there, I snap a few pictures of the blast zone and spend some time fussing over sketches of the white-warped shadows of old buildings, each pointed away from the old sun bank with the same dire certainty as Hector.

-traveler

Traveling has made me comfortable in most environments, no matter how harsh or unpredictable the terrain, but the local bar is far and away the venue I dread most. I’m not talking about one in a chain of bars, regional, national, or otherwise. I’m not referring to the loud, popular bars downtown or along trendy streets. Not the brew-pubs. Not the clinical dives.

I’m talking about the discreet brown-brick locales with broken neon signs in the windows and two sets of warped plastic lawn furniture on the sidewalk out front where people hover to smoke. The place with a pool table that nobody uses and a single television in the corner, its screen vaguely rainbowed by some unrepaired collision, not muted, exactly, but at a volume that renders the words of sports commentators garbled. The place you step inside and wonder whether or not you need to be a war veteran to order a drink, where, at any given time, the total number of human legs is an odd number or an even number, oddly distributed.

I don’t know how long it takes to become a local at one of these places but my line of work has not yet yielded a residency and, until now, I haven’t yet understood how best to play my suspicious appearing role. It’s in my nature to act like a guest in somebody’s home, to compliment mundane features of the bar or force small talk with people sitting nearby. I inevitably get the feeling they would rather be left alone.

Against all odds, it’s Hector that changes the equation as I step into ‘Bar on 144^th’ and immediately spy ‘The Out of Order Jukebox’ across the room. It’s dead silent in the bar: an early Tuesday evening crowd, the majority of which looks up at me as I enter. Not the atmosphere I hoped for but very much in line with what I expected.

Hector shifts heavily in the kennel and I adjust my arm, roll my shoulder, and step up to the bar. The bartender, a woman in her sixties, scratches the skin above her eye and slides a decrepit plastic drinks menu across the way, asking what I’ll have without giving me time to consider. I order a drink and a basket of fries and a side salad and so little changes that I wonder whether she’s heard me or whether I said anything at all. Eventually, she speaks again:

“Who you got down there?”

“Sorry,” I tell her, “I can sit outside if he’s not allowed. I came in on a bike and…”

“Just curious.”

Fifteen minutes later, the bar denizens have all crowded around Hector who, looking like the wart off an old man’s back, chews at shredded carrots and occasionally hops about on the dirty wooden floor. He’s warmed, some, since the rescue. Seems comfortable in human hands. Petting doesn’t seem to evoke any response in the blind creature, which makes me wonder whether he can feel anything at all along his leathery back. He’s happy for gentle massaging and fresh vegetables and he expresses as much by rubbing his feet together. The small, doting crowd laughs as he hobbles over to nibble at an old man’s shoe laces. They feed him more of the salad, which arrived in record time, while I wait for the fries and fret about the jukebox.

‘One assumes that management keeps ‘The Out of Order Jukebox’ plugged into the wall mainly for aesthetic purposes and, perhaps, out of some respect for the whims of the machine which occasionally plays back-to-back albums for hours on end but is just as likely to dip into a bouts of silence that last days, sometimes weeks, at a time. ‘The Out of Order Jukebox’ responds to no outside input, happily rejecting quarters and disregarding coded requests. The original ‘out of order’ sign has been replaced with one carved from wood so that regulars can wordlessly point out the naivety of the uninitiated, these otherwise stoic locals inwardly grinning at the friendly insult.

Even more sporadic than the music are the flutterings of the machine’s inner catalogue, which have grown dusty in retirement. Hidden there, between the pages, is said to be a handwritten note- a line or two of unrecorded prose. Those who see it, or claim to have seen it, walk away with the mien of a person slightly changed for the better, having been granted a subtle happiness or small piece of wisdom.’

Another bout of laughter erupts from the locals and I turn to see Hector licking curiously at an empty beer bottle. I watch to make sure nobody thinks to get the decrepit rabbit drunk but swing back around when the silent jukebox twitches. Dust floats about inside the glass, surely disturbed by a change in the delicate inner atmosphere. I try to remember what page the catalog had been on when I first looked, try to peer through the curved glass along the sides to decide whether or not I believe there might be as esoteric truth wedged there.

Someone taps on my shoulder and I turn around to find the bartender. She points at the wooden ‘out of order’ sign and the bar erupts in laughter again. I smile in a way that I hope looks resigned to being the butt of the joke.

“Fries are on the table, hon,” the woman says, squeezing my shoulder, and they all go back to patting, feeding, and otherwise entertaining Hector.

I shrug at the jukebox and walk over to my food. I’m not sure what could make me happier.

-traveler

‘Curated, ostensibly, by the Rangers and run by the most bored man in the American South, ‘The Sunburn Experience’ is one of many cautionary adventures presented by the Wayside. In typical Wayside fashion, ‘The Experience’ draws inspiration from older fables in that its moral is ambiguous at best but delivered with enough trauma that one can’t help but recall the wisdom it imparts, subconsciously or otherwise.’

It should be said, somewhere, that I also visit the more mainstream national and state parks as I bounce between oceans. It would be impossible not to visit them, sometimes, they being a source of clean bathrooms and comfortable benches and water fountains in landscapes otherwise parched. More than that, though, I enjoy visiting them. It’s a worthy system, run by enthusiastic people. I have annual passes just about everywhere I go: a better value for me than most.

But I stand out at these parks.

Traveling has instilled the sort of paranoia in me that makes others afraid- a paranoia that doesn’t ever really wane but that certainly intensifies in environments that I have been conditioned to find dangerous. National and state parks, having much in common with their rejected Wayside cousins, are enough to trigger that response. The response is enough to agitate others, an ancient raising of hackles. I find myself tailed, sometimes, by well-meaning staff. Mostly, I find myself alone.

All this to say that I am in my element when I step into ‘The Sunburn Experience’ because it is a Wayside destination and I am already waiting for the other shoe to drop when a blast of UV radiation strikes me in the face as I open the door. I recoil and swing around a corner where I find the restrooms and a water fountain.

“Sorry,” a man’s voice calls, “That’s been acting up. It’s… hold on. It’s off now.”

I pull my sleeve over my hand and reach around the corner at head-height. I am promptly high-fived by the owner of the voice.

“All clear, like I said.”

‘The Sunburn Experience’ could very well be one of the smaller state park sites, consisting mainly of a single large room with several quick exhibits. Immediately opposite the door is a counter with four hatches, each increasingly difficult to look at for all the light blazing from underneath. Other displays are less… vibrant.

“Gotcha good,” the man says.

He’s not wrong. A mirror near the glowing hatches reveals a four-inch square of raw, pink skin centered on my nose.

“What are these for if not this?” I ask, gesturing to my face.

The man presses a button on one of the hatches and it swings open again. I shield my eyes and see him hold his own hand in front of the display. He shows me his arm when it closes- tan, perhaps, but unburned.

“We’ve got a selection of sunblocks to trial over there,” he says, pointing to something that looks like a soft-serve machine, “Some sunglasses… These are just for experimenting. So, they’re for what happened to your face, only you expect it.”

“Seems dangerous.”

“Lotta lobsters walking out of here,” he shrugs, “But they know better next time.”

The man looks about the room, betraying a certain pride that makes me like him a little more. I follow as he walks to another wall.

“Over here we’ve got our timeline- folks who start with this normally don’t get caught by the box-light. That’s a fresh burn- still hot.”

The timeline consists of several human backs embedded in the display, ranging from bright red to dry and peeling. The man presses his hand into the first and we watch the shape of it slowly fade from normal, to pinkish, and finally back to crimson.

“Try it out.”

I begin to spell my name with my finger and the display shifts uncomfortably.

“Sheesh, man,” he says, “Take it easy on the interns.”

I recoil and he laughs in a way that makes it difficult to tell if he’s being serious. He leads me past the timeline, casually pulling a strip of peeled skin from the last display, and toward a glass cage, the contents of which are a relative model of the desert that surrounds us.

Inside is a single, shaved rabbit, its skin motley with tanning. Above it are a variety of filters and, above those, an impressively large, thankfully-inactive lamp.

“Seems up your alley based on your performance back there,” he says, “Dial in a pattern on the display and get to toasting.”

The man taps through several animal prints and holds down a large, red button. Blinding light fills the little cage for a second or two before he lets off. The rabbit has become faintly tiger-striped and its bowl of celery has wilted.

“Hector!” the man calls through the glass, “Looking ferocious!”

The rabbits eyes are pale white. It picks lethargically at the celery.

‘The Sunburn Experience’ has no real security to speak of, but, upon shimmying open the door in the dead of night, I do forget about the malfunctioning counter and stumble blindly through the dark for several minutes before my sight returns.

Hector is a hefty, leather lump: naturally calm or tormented past a point of traumatic serenity. I spend exactly five minutes trying to convince him to wander off into the brush before admitting to myself that I would survive in the desert longer than the broken creature at my feet. He goes back into a comfortable kennel and the kennel goes on the back of the bike, insulated against wind to the best of my ability. I’ll look up shelters when I’m back in cell range.

‘The Sunburn Experience’ burns to the ground, not so strange considering the high intensity bulbs and the faulty displays. The story is picked up in the local papers and, by then, Hector and I are miles away.

-Traveler

A thin sliver of cell service reaches me at just the right moment and, rather than risk losing it for a more convenient pullover, I balance the motorcycle on the far edge of the shoulder and wait for the map to load. ‘The Hair Dump’ is not a tourist friendly place- not hidden, exactly, but purposefully unadvertised to prevent gawkers and fetishists from hanging around the front and trying to take pictures or collecting stray hair.

I confirm where I’m headed and pocket my phone in time to see a brunette tumbleweed flop lazily down the center of the highway.

Rumor has it that bribing one’s way into ‘The Hair Dump’ isn’t particularly hard, but I think I’ll content myself with the view from the gate.

‘One assumes the government could manufacture a reasonable explanation for its federally funded collection of disposed human hair but it chooses not to. Instead, it all but refuses to acknowledge the existence of ‘The Hair Dump’ and speaks in threatening legalese to those who broadcast its location.’

A day later I stand over the bike in the parking lot of a department store, watching it shudder and choke and wondering what I could have possibly done to the thing. A man, loading groceries into his SUV, breaks away from his family and approaches, wordlessly kicking the exhaust with his boot. The pipe coughs out a baseball-sized clump of hair: jet black with blonde highlights. It expands slightly and rolls off in the breeze.

“What it is to be young,” the man chuckles, watching the thing depart.

Now, when I think of aging, I think of that little ball of hair and I wonder what wisdom the man had hoped to impart.

-traveler