‘The Wayside is often accidentally cruel if one allows that cruelty as a byproduct (rather than the aim) qualifies as an accident. When it kills- and it does kill- it usually does so with the same backward grimace a driver wears, having accidentally struck a rabbit on the highway. There is a glimmer of guilt that doesn’t quite and will never manifest as a real action item. The driver will continue to drive (then and likely for the rest of their lives). They have places to be. The rabbit is a sad, but perhaps inevitable casualty in the sort of accident that must happen all the time.

So, too, does the Wayside kill.

‘The Quarter Stealing Arcade’ is an exception to the rule. Founded, as is often the case, without any clear intention, ‘The Quarter Stealing Arcade’ is a labyrinth of rare and beloved game cabinets and pinball tables. The inside is hyper-lit and noisy, a casino atmosphere with a deep popcorn scent. There are no entrance fees. No membership tiers. Patrons are encouraged to engage with the machines, assuming they respect their age and value.

But none of the machines work.

Or.

They all almost do.

Every game in ‘The Quarter Stealing Arcade’ is broken in such a way that it will steal the quarters of its patrons. Some encourage players by counting inserted coins but refusing to move beyond the introductory screen. Others simply fail to acknowledge all monetary input. It took some time for the public to understand that this is true of every single machine in the shop- that the name was not a reference to the addictive nature of arcade gaming in general- that the hardline ‘no refunds’ policy was not due to the fallrate of aging machinery.

No, the owners prefer the machines the way they are. They have gone on record to state that, while some of the machines have been refurbished to near-operational, others have been purchased new and sabotaged in such a way that they will no longer function. This includes four cabinet games and one pinball machine that can be played nowhere else on earth.

The owners refuse to say why they’ve devoted their life to this endeavor, alluding only to the fact that ‘The Quarter Stealing Arcade’ turns a decent profit. Regulars come for the popcorn and claim the experience is equivalent to prodding one’s split lip with their tongue. Sometimes we are simply drawn to familiar pains.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

It’s not a day I’ve been dreading, exactly, this taste-test at ‘The World’s Worst Coffee Corner,’ but when I see just how little of the coffee at ‘Tony’s Café’ customers are able to drink, I worry. The servings are generous, by default. The menu above the counter suggests that larger sizes are available, though I have to assume this is a joke. The sitting area is empty, presumably due to the smell. It’s like someone learned to dry cat urine and has decided to burn it.

Burnt is Tony’s take on bad coffee. This I’ve read. The liquid he produces is paint-black, thick, and oily, served in special cups to combat the acidity of the brew.

But its drinkable- that’s the rule. The two cafes, racing each other to the bottom, both produce something that is legally a beverage. That is technically coffee.

It’s expensive. That’s what gets me. A tourist tax for coffee so bad that it’s a joke. I take a sip and barely hold it down. It seems to shrivel and dry my tongue. My throat tries to reject it but I coax the liquid down and it settles inside me, seeming to fizzle. I worry it will leave a hole in my stomach. It will likely emerge in much the same state it was consumed. I assume I’ll piss fire later, so little of the beverage being worth the effort of my body to process it.

‘It was ‘Joe’s Joe’ first and ‘Tony’s Café’ soon after: two little shops that produced such lackluster coffee in such close proximity that, when a local news article chronicled the journalist’s disgust at leaving one and winding up at the other, a race to the bottom was born. An annual competition sees crowds in the hundreds flocking to Edmonton, Nebraska to taste and be disgusted by the worsening coffee of these establishments.

The shape of the contest has changed over the years. ‘Joe’s Joe’ held a winning streak in the mid-nineties before it was revealed that their recipe had veered into the actually-toxic. ‘Tony’s Café’ held their own when points were still awarded for poor customer experience, employing deeply uncomfortable chrome stools and highly attractive, but cruel, baristas. Bizarre rules have been employed to keep things fair. The coffee must be vegetarian, for instance. It must pour with the viscosity of water. It cannot be served frozen or boiling. It must be served in a paper cup.

‘The World’s Worst Coffee Corner’ recently made The Post’s list of ‘Stupid Places to Spend Thirty Dollars,’ and the recognition has rekindled public interest. Lines are longer, now, which only serves to deepen the experience.’

I buy a very expensive bottle of water from a nearby mom-and-pop and attempt to palate cleanse while my digestive tract complains about the few drops of Tony’s. Then, it’s on to ‘Joe’s Joe’ where I’m given the option of roast in an atmosphere that is breathable, at least, but that smells nothing like coffee. This, it turns out, is because ‘Joe’s’ practices a long-term soaking process which produces a liquid that is hardly tinted amber but painfully, painfully sour and so highly caffeinated that my head begins to throb before the first drink has left my mouth. I pass out and wake up on a couch in the café several minutes later and overhear the men at the counter suggesting I’m the second collapse in the day, that the recipe will need to be tweaked to qualify as edible.

A loyalty card has been placed on my chest, a single punched coffee on my way to the 10^th free.

-traveler

There was another time I stopped at the ‘Long Haul Bus Depot,’ thinking I could check it off the list. That was back when I had the motorcycle, though. Nowhere to warm myself. A cold snap on the second day forced me to abandon the attempt. I was more cautious with my life, then. 

I figured I’d get back around to it eventually.

‘There are a lot of ‘rules’ floating around about the ‘Long Haul Bus Depot,’ but the only three that matter are:

1. Show up before noon. 
2. Wait three full 24-hour days. 
3. Don’t get on the bus at night. 

It is these three rules that stand the test of time and only these three that are conservative enough for the most risk-averse traveler. Some who board the bus early return. Some who board the bus at night return (but are changed). Nobody who has arrived before after noon on any given day has found the bus to be timely. It is a waste of twelve hours to arrive early and it seems to encourage the bus to arrive at night. Those who board at the proper time, having waited for the ‘right’ bus to show, are almost guaranteed to emerge at their destination unharmed.’

I’m not sure if the camper counts as waiting at the bus stop but, with no real deadlines looming, I park nearby and tailgate for a while, spending what seems like a respectable amount of time in the old bus shelter as is possible- even sleeping there. But I return to the camper to cook. And to relive myself, finding that the smell of warm urine too nearby keeps me up. And after a few false starts, during which strange buses come and go, the blood-red ‘Long Haul Bus’ stops for me and the hollowed-out man at the wheel beckons me to board, indicating, as he always does, that the ticket machine is broken and that no payment is required. 

The air near the bus feels colder. 

The tires leave wet tracks though no rain has fallen. 

The bus driver smiles down, failing to acknowledge my hesitation. He lets the moment drag on though I can see other passengers aboard, waiting, their faces obscured by condensation on the glass.

I shrug. “Think I’m due on the next one.” 

The bus driver nods and shuts the door and the ‘Long Haul Bus’ pulls away, the road empty until it’s out of sight. Then, as if a dam breaks, traffic resumes. 

-traveler

Via some trick of the volume or the spacing of the speakers or maybe something more orchestrated in the order in which the audio is played, the many voices of ‘The Audiobook Library’ come together in a small space to form the generic murmur of a crowd. It’s uncanny and it sounds so much like the real thing that I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder, ready to brush into a person that isn’t there.

When I focus in, I hear snippets of several novels, none of which I immediately recognize. It’s been ages since I read a book for fun. Ages since I read a book that wasn’t the guide. I used to have a paperback or two floating around the dash. I used to have several CDs from the middle of ‘The Catcher in the Rye.’ I haven’t properly started that novel. I haven’t properly finished it. I remember exactly where one of the discs was scratched, the way the words would loop.

But that’s gone now, too.

‘The Audiobook Library’ is small and empty but it sounds the opposite. I pull out my phone and start to record.

‘It has to do with copyright- that’s why the audiobooks can’t be properly checked-out or listened to individually. That’s why they’re all playing all the time. Does this make ‘The Audiobook Library’ something of a wash in terms of community resources?

Probably.

There are some rumors that the literary cacophony sometimes syncs, however, and reveal something else. The works coalesce into something new and beautiful.

This may well be a ploy on the part of ‘The Audiobook Library’ itself, which offers a steep lifetime membership and likely only sells a few.’

I try to play it in the trailer once I find my stride on the highway again but the recording doesn’t carry the weight of the lived experience. It was a stupid experiment, but a while has passed since I’ve been around a group of normal people and I thought it might help.

-traveler

‘Not technically open to the public or even legally witnessable, the country’s ‘Helium Depot’ has recently become something of a traveling Wayside attraction. Until now, the exact location of America’s helium stores was confidential, though it wasn’t exactly a secret people were dying to know. With the secret out, a great deal of effort is being put into reminding the public about the civic duty of looking-away-when-asked.

But it’s hard to look away. 

‘The Helium Depot’ appears to be constructed of some very strong and very light metal alloy- a warehouse that was untethered to the ground by the precious gas it once stored. With helium supplies running low, ‘The Helium Depot’ has entered the demented frenzy of an old birthday balloon, choosing not to fly or fall but to hang, morose, at varying altitudes between the sky and the ground. It rides a wind current through the middle of the country, having torn loose from its foundations during a recent storm and attempts to restrain it.

‘The Helium Depot’s’ little collisions have caused a great deal of damage as it passes slowly through Nevada and petitions for compensation are met with a waggling finger. Nobody is supposed to know about ‘The Helium Depot.’ That’s the law.

Requests for clarification on the legality of publishing this entry were answered by a man with a no-nonsense attitude and an unusually high voice who could not speak to the legal status of anything he couldn’t legally know about. 

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside