‘History has pegged ‘The Constellation Field’ as the same sort of difficult, but isolated, phenomenon as ‘The Bermuda Triangle.’ It’s historically difficult to navigate in and out of if one’s basis for navigation is the sky which, thankfully, is rarely the case anymore. And we would venture to say that the average American is so wildly out of touch with a clear night sky that the majority might not notice a difference. Not immediately. 

But Orion is missing, his belt seemingly dispersed. The North Star pulses well into the south and the ursas are combined into a creature even less likely than bears. The moon takes on a particular color when viewed from ‘The Constellation Field,’ its edges ultraviolet in a way that makes it appear lifted from the dark. Closer. It isn’t an illusion. The teeth of gaping onlookers glow in that light.

Some have attempted to establish a new set of constellations to be found exclusively in ‘The Constellation Field,’ but the ideas are largely drawn from the darker aspects of Alice in Wonderland and few have fully bought in, finding the whole proposition a little cheesy. A little embarrassing. One can’t help but see where they’re coming from, however. It isn’t so much that the stars in ‘The Constellation Field’ are wrong, but no astrophysicist has ever stood in the grass there and walked away thinking they were right either.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

‘The National Battery Recycling Center’ is an electric dump kept low in California, as though the US is hoping Mexico will accidentally take the land and have to deal with the final shape of whatever is brewing there.

Look at me. After so many years of reading the Guide I’m finally beginning to sound like the author.

A lot of the rumors about ‘The National Battery Recycling Center’ like to add cartels into the equation but I’ve determined that these are largely false and maybe mildly racist. Whatever dangers the wastelands hold are entirely American made and a look at the place through the rubberized (and now condemned) viewing area suggests no activity, legal or otherwise, is worth conducting inside.

‘It’s likely that ignorance played some part in the very early stages of ‘The National Battery Recycling Center,’ which was established before any technology might allow us to jettison our old batteries into space instead. What’s a handful of AAs in the dirt, after all? What’s a half pound of watch batteries going to do in the dry desert sand, baking under the sun going to do that affects anything outside of a yard’s radius?

Well, it turns out quite a bit.

A few batteries in the earth acts as a sort of general permission to add a few more and before it becomes a problem it becomes a tradition and people get feisty when you try to take away their traditions. A pile of batteries became a vein and the conductivity of the sand allowed for a current and soon the very ground was electrified and when the wind picked up the sand that same electricity would jump through the air and this all happened before people even considered that legislation might be passed to prevent battery dumping or to hire anyone to enforce those laws. Initially, all that happened was the release of a short PSA regarding the dangers of ‘The National Battery Recycling Center’ that brought national attention to the site and that, unfortunately, made it look very, very cool.

People started dying after that and the legislation came, as it always does, just a little too late.’

I don’t understand why the entries grow but never update. The storms have spread quite a bit since my edition of the Guide was published. Worse than the storms, though, is something happening underground, the same thing that condemned the rubberized shelter that I stand in only for a few minutes and only while the (very unofficial app) forecasts less danger. The viewing center’s rubber is melted into the sand around it and the bones of a family are fused within- just shards, now, after less respectful travelers have taken grim souvenirs.

Sometimes I wish I was religious enough to pay proper respects to the dead but, as it is, I stand quietly and think about the paper-thin membrane between life and death and choose to believe it’s enough.

-traveler

‘Consider ‘The Pawn Shop’ if you are missing a piece from your chess board. Located just outside Kansas City in a small building next to a massive, plaster pawn in white, it’s easy to spot and draws a dozen or so happenstance chess-loving travelers into its parking lot where roughly half as many travelers see fit to enter the store proper.

And it is a store, though the items inside bear no price tags.

The inventory of ‘The Pawn Shop’ consists entirely of pawns and they have them in every shape, size, material, and theme. It isn’t uncommon that reviews for ‘The Pawn Shop’ contain an amount of awe that they, for instance and despite the odds, had a specimen from the decades-old and wood-carved Biblical chess set, where each pawn is a different follower and Jesus is king and Mary, mother of Jesus, is uncomfortably queen. It isn’t uncommon either for those glowing, five-star reviews to be edited down months, or even years later when payment is due.

Pawns are not sold for money at ‘The Pawn Shop;’ they are traded for favors. And these favors have a tendency for putting innocent people in positions to be unwitting accessories to devious, sometimes criminal plots. Unlike the pawns, those favors can be bought and, for favors, ‘The Pawn Shop’ gladly accepts cash.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

Not as bad as the names makes it out to be, ‘The Interactive Skin Museum’ is suitable for all ages and does occasionally surprise travelers with little informational tidbits in the style of the true museum. We are happy to, once again, award the institution with the yearly ‘Pretty Bearable, all things considered’ award. It is well deserved.’

Sometimes, like this time, the Guide sets me up for disappointment. On average I would say that those destinations the Guide warns against are as bad, or a little less bad, than stated on the page. Alternatively, I would say that those places it describes as good (or in this case, bearable) are routinely significantly worse. Maybe this a quirk of author bias. Maybe money is being passed under the table. More likely than not, these places are just aging poorly and, if they’re aware of their ranking in the Guide, they may be letting things slip a little past the wiggle room suggested by any dubious honor Autumn by the Wayside deems fit to offer.

Take ‘The Interactive Skin Museum,’ for instance. Like Boring, OR and Butthole, MA, ‘The Interactive Skin Museum’ has doubled down on their provocative name to sell stupid merch and generally draw in visitors that otherwise wouldn’t care about animal pelts, which is at the core of the actual experience. The ‘skin’ in question here is the pelts and the ‘interactivity’ is a total freedom to touch and wear those pelts, some of which, if their information is true and correct, come from endangered or even extinct species. These rarities are thrown so casually in with the common skins of North American forest animals that one has to question exactly what experience the owners of ‘The Interactive Skin Museum’ hope people have. If it’s not an appreciation for (and mourning of) the skins of lost species, is it a reconnection with nature? A themed sensory experience? A marketing ploy?

Employees of ‘The Interactive Skin Museum’ are required to remark positively on the skin of every visitor. They are not allowed, however, to purposefully touch a visitor’s skin except in emergencies. These details are known because a copy of the museum’s employee handbook leaked onto the internet last year. The handbook is long and thorough and one of the emergencies it lists as an acceptable time to engage in physical contact with a visitor is during a ‘skin fire,’ which is not defined. A boxed-off tip near the bottom of the emergency situation guide encourages employees to comment positively on the skin of visitors’ even during a crisis.

To calm things.

The actual museum is a warehouse that is, I would say, half pelts and half the sort of dusty insects that consume pelts in an uncontrolled environment. Moths, mostly, and silver fish. Still, people can’t help but want to drape themselves in the skin of a buffalo before encouraging their traveling partners to then dress in, say, the hide of a tiger. Two animals that would not likely meet naturally. The internet is filled with images of these combinations fighting. Mating. Performing brief, sitcom-like skits. Some of it is actually pretty funny, until you have experienced the smell of the place, which is not sharp, really, or rotting but definitely bad. Moldering in a meaty way. Dry, like a rash in the fold of skin.

The Guide draws the line at ‘bearable,’ reusing the same image of an uncredited man wearing a bearskin and standing atop a pile of deer pelts for nearly a decade of new editions to drive the point home. I guess I can’t disagree as I can count myself among those who have borne it.

But it’s still worse than I expect.

-traveler

‘There was an Old Abandoned Mall, still open to the public, available for urban exploration off I-90 near Lookout Pass on the Idaho-Montana border. Readers have noted its absence in recent editions and so we’ve written a short blurb here, to explain.

‘The Old Abandoned Mall’ did not burn down. It is not haunted or cursed or the headquarters of a conservative militia. For a while, ‘The Old Abandoned Mall’ was host to an informal flea market where one could purchase eccentric trinkets and stolen electronics and sometimes firearms with legally dubious paperwork. An awareness of this gray market spread and it soon became expensive. Law enforcement made occasional appearances before a permanent security position was filled. The pickings became mundane but word was already out and new customers filed in.

The low rent, the crowds, and the heightened security soon caught the attention of local business owners. A cigar lounge opened. A craft store. Several more established iterations on the flea market appeared- vintage re-sellers. A hobby store took two vacancies, one for the storefront and another for hosting games. A pop-up coffee stall established itself nearby to serve the growing population of regulars.

‘The Old Abandoned Mall’ is no longer abandoned- no longer host to any particularly strange businesses or activities. It is a living, mundane place for the time being.

But rent has gone up. Interest is down. Watch here for when ‘The Old Abandoned Mall’ returns to the Wayside.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside