‘There are few public places as familiar and uncomfortable as ‘The National Reunion Hall,’ a venue that reeks of stale coffee and fifties-era cigarette smoke. Despite the matted carpets and dusty décor, ‘The Hall’ hasn’t taken a reservation in more than a decade, re-directing phone requests to a pre-recorded message without so much as a courtesy ring. The message, read aloud by a man that sounds as though he is speaking the words from his deathbed, indicates that there has been a spike in demand for places such as ‘The National Reunion Hall’ and that the owners will place a call back at the soonest moment. The message ends before allowing the caller to leave any of their information. There has been some speculation in recent years that the message is not pre-recorded at all. Samples have revealed slight variations in tone and instances of subtle throat-clearing that might be attributed to the dying man’s weakened state. Attempts to communicate with him or to shock him from his script with loud noises or lurid replies have failed. The man’s identity remains unknown and is ultimately irrelevant.
The trick, if one might call it that, is nobody needs a reservation to attend one of the daily reunions. There are no set lists- nobody checking names. This could be chalked up to sloppy management except that one always arrives at a reunion at which they belong. In that way, management is the furthest thing from sloppy. Management is impossibly, terrifyingly effective.’
When I arrive at ‘The National Reunion Hall,’ I find that my 20-year high school reunion is taking place, there. I leave without showing my face- literally without taking off my helmet- and I return two days later, assuming the coast has cleared. This time it is a traveler’s reunion and, though it remains eerily pertinent, I figure it is bound to be less personal and certainly less awkward than having to mingle with the weary present versions of my high school peers.
I’m wrong, of course. When I step into the hall I find it decorated and catered for a hundred people and only one other person has shown up- the Stranger who, loyal readers might remember, had previously decayed into a sort of wight and then a specter and then a more traditional shadow. My shadow. I check my shadow and see it remains much as it has been these past couple years. It shifts uneasily under the rainbow lights that swirl above a vacant dance floor.
The Stranger looks up from a plate of dainty sandwiches and seems as surprised to see me. He scans the hall in case anyone else has managed to sneak inside. He opens his mouth and lets a gob of bread and cheese fall out onto the paper plate.
“I thought you were dead,” he says.
Something shifts beneath his chair and I step backward, thinking it’s his own shadow that’s reaching out. It’s only a rabbit, its hair tied in long, gaudy braids alternating black and gray. It drops a half-chewed carrot on the floor and hisses so loud and so long that I worry it might pass out. Hector shivers in my arms.
“I thought the same about you.”
We are quiet for some time, each of us trying to figure out what to say next. I’m about to speak when the Stranger cuts me off.
“This is my fault,” he says, “I walked away from a reunion of the strangers when I first arrived here three days ago. I run in limited circles, you know, so ‘The National Reunion Hall’ must’ve had to scramble to come up with another reunion on the fly, bringing you back from the dead as a workaround. Sorry about that.”
The Stranger picks up the half-chewed sandwich and pops it back in his mouth. His rabbit hisses like a leaking balloon.
“That’s all right,” I say, and then I shake my head, “Wait, I mean, no- you were dead. Otherwise, though, yes. I agree.”
The music playing from the dance floor shifts to a slow song and the lights dim to sultry. The Stranger crumples a napkin onto his plate and scoops his rabbit up from the floor.
“Let’s not argue,” he says, and he begins to step backward between the chairs, mirroring the movements he once used to disappear into the darkness of ‘Echo Cave.’ “Maybe I’ll see you around,” he says, “Maybe-”
The Stranger yelps and trips backward over a folding chair. He’s gone before I’m able to weave my way through the tables, having disappeared into the institutional geometry of the carpet, I guess, or having slipped between the course fabric of the table cloths. I don’t pretend to understand the sort of magic he does. It’s quicker than exploiting the gray roads. More prone to glitches.
Hector sniffs cautiously at the Stranger’s chair while I bag up a week’s worth of food from the buffet, the very thin silver lining to this whole encounter. I suppose a man could eat perpetually at ‘The National Reunion Hall,’ but only if he were willing to spend each night re-living the past with the people he thought he left there. Everything comes at a cost on the Wayside and ‘The National Reunion Hall’ is just a hair outside of my budget for a repeat visit.
-traveler
A number of ghost suburbs dot the nation and I imagine visiting any one of them would be enough for my purposes. It’s only by chance that I come across an entry that considers the phenomenon as a whole while passing ‘Echo Field-’ the very first of its kind. Hector and I drive through and find it unwelcoming, but only so far as any suburb is unwelcome to strangers.
‘The oldest of the ghost suburbs tend to be a bit more run down than newer developments, in part because of neglect, sure, but mostly because they were built to be a little run down. The opinion, at the time, was that ghosts preferred a ruined aesthetic to anything that smacked of new life and the misconception nearly caused the whole idea to flop. Taking nearly a decade to fill, ‘Echo Springs’ and ‘Sweet Abyss’ were verifiable ghost towns (figuratively speaking), before newer, nicer ghost suburbs were established and demand outgrew development. ‘Springs’ and ‘Abyss’ were reframed as ‘playfully retro’ and the remaining units sold at twice the original asking price.
Recent legislation has paved the way for significant government subsidies in regards to the construction and purchase of ghost-adjacent housing units. Even those normally in opposition of generous housing subsidies have turned a blind-eye to this one. Aging, conservative lawmakers have championed the reform- in fact, most already have their eyes on a ‘retirement home.’’
-traveler
At its largest, ‘The Lawless Square’ of Eastern Mississippi was not at all unlike ‘The OSHA Violation Grounds.’ It was exactly what it claimed to be: a city block’s worth of land on which no federal or state laws were enforced. This is not to say they couldn’t be enforced- that would be in violation of the spirit of the thing. Any large enough militia could, theoretically, have taken control of ‘The Lawless Square’ and imposed laws upon the place, but only up to a time when an opposing militia might arrive with better weaponry and a new flavor of justice. In that regard, ‘The Lawless Square’ has never been all that different than any other place, really.
These days it’s all but impossible for a militia to hold ‘The Lawless Square,’ not for stricter rules, but for tighter borders. ‘The Square’ has been whittled away over the years and is now really more of a lawless circle, just two feet in diameter. So, while a particularly determined militia once stood five of its members on each others shoulders in an attempt to hold the place, all it took was one, entirely lawless push before the regime crumbled, both literally and figuratively, firing their entirely illegal automatic rifles all the way down and injuring a number of bystanders in the lawful zone before landing in Mississippi proper where they were promptly arrested for crimes they had only begun to commit during the fall.
‘The Lawless Square’ is no longer big enough to commit murders in. It’s not so convenient a spot for grand theft auto or any sort of heist-like scheme. ‘The Lawless Square’ is really only a place to do drugs now, really only a place where a single person can do just enough drugs that they retain the wherewithal to stand within the rough circle long enough that all traces of the illegal substance have left their system.
Police are known to gather nearby, hoping to nab people from their place in line rather than wait for the current resident of ‘The Lawless Square’ to cross the boundary back to lawfulness. For all the arrests that take place around ‘The Square,’ the area is technically the most crime ridden place in the country. Considering the constraints involved, ‘The Lawless Square’ itself is one of the safest places in America to be.’
With no crimes high on my list to commit, I don’t plan on waiting in line for a turn in ‘The Lawless Square,’ but when Hector and I arrive we find it empty. I cross-reference the coordinates with Autumn by the Wayside and with several others sources online, having heard rumors that sly officers will sometimes construct false lawless squares where, in reality, laws are completely enforceable. The location comes back as genuine and, in addition, I discover that autumn tends to be slow season for crime-committing in the area. A happy circumstance.
Cautiously, then, Hector and I step into bounds of ‘The Lawless Square’ and, for just a moment, I feel the weight lifted- I feel the sheer breadth of opportunity gaping out around me, begging me to act. I dig into my pack, trying to think of some small crime to commit to make it worth my while, but come away empty handed. We stand for a moment longer and step back out into the world.
-traveler
Earlier in my life I would have described my relationship with the sun as being fairly neutral; so neutral, in fact, that I likely would have raised an eyebrow at the overall idea of a relationship with sun- with the very premise of the question. That’s changed a great deal since I crashed the truck and have taken to exploring the Wayside on my bike. Since then, I have developed a keen awareness of my relationship with the sun and I can say, without hesitation, that it is oppositional.
Sunshine finds its way in through my clothes as easily as rain and, unlike rain, I don’t notice until it’s too late- until I’ve settled into my sleeping bag and the red-raw skin makes itself known. Sunshine strikes me in the eyes at odd times, blazing down from the sky predictably, sure, but bouncing off innocuous metal surfaces, too, always at inopportune moments.
And the heat.
There are ways of staying warm on the bike. Few to keep cool when it matters. I can wait out the rain and the snow but the heat, when it arrives, is unending. Nighttime hardly lingers on those occasions that I’m passing through the south in early autumn. The world never cools. The sun only blinks its eye.
I am skeptical of every destination but more skeptical of ‘The Sky Callus’ than I probably ought to be.
‘Vermont makes a big deal out of ‘The Sky Callus,’ hinting, but never claiming outright, that it somehow exists as a result of their dedication to the environment. This author does not debate the climate crisis nor does he tend to downplay the importance of living a green lifestyle, but it should be clear to anyone with any sense that a mottled atmosphere is a scarred one. Whatever comfort there is to be had under ‘The Sky Callus’ is representative of the calm before the storm, not the cloud’s silver lining.’
I don’t understand the mottling effect of ‘The Sky Callus’ any more than I understood the concept of a hole in the ozone layer. How does atmosphere form gaps? How does it bunch up in odd places? I assume there will be something, be it signage or a visitor’s center, at ‘The Sky Callus’ that might explain the science of it all in layman’s terms but am greeted, instead, with what may as well be a circus.
The tackiest form of tourism has taken root at ‘The Sky Callus.’ Sweaty men sell eight-dollar lemonade from garish trailers. Haphazard family businesses hawk fried goods. Every booth seems to be playing a variation of the same loud rock music- all of it beachy and upbeat and insistent.
The area beneath ‘The Sky Callus’ is clear, at least. Some authority has made it so that the vendors can’t exist on the field itself so they hover just on the outskirts, close enough that they can pass food over the fence. Visitors huddle in the center of the field where the racket is the least intrusive. They complain about the noise and sip their eight-dollar lemonades. Hector and I claim a spot halfway between the two factions, where we won’t be immediately solicited and where Hector’s strange body won’t excite the kids, or frighten them.
And, despite everything, we find peace. ‘The Sky Callus’ is such that it’s impossible to be sunburned underneath it. The light that trickles through is gentle and warming and the crowd wanes in the late afternoon when the air takes on a chill undercurrent that I don’t mind at all. At some point, I fall asleep.
When I wake, I find the moon above us, its own light made bleary and accusing by ‘The Callus.’ I have always felt guilty upon waking from stolen naps, though, so maybe I’m projecting. I haven’t begun to consider my relationship with the moon.
-traveler
I don’t tend to think of myself as an overly squeamish person. If anything, my threshold for violence has risen since the trip began. I’ve been subjected to violent acts and I’ve orchestrated a few myself, though usually only in self-defense. How far back have you been reading? It’s been mostly self-defense, right? Preemptive, occasionally, but self-defense all the same.
‘The Sounds of Violence’ advertises itself as a medical resource and an auditory journey rolled up into one grim experience. In practice, it’s much like any museum on a budget, which is to say that it’s dark and dusty and its exhibits are spaced apart so that the time it takes to view them all justifies the cost of entry. I’m handed a set of plush headphones at reception and an instructional pamphlet that is 75% content warning and 25% ‘exhibits will activate automatically.’ The woman behind the desk mouths something to me and I realize the headphones are of a higher quality than I suspected. I pull them down to my neck.
“Room doors close automatically too,” she explains, “so the sound of forward groups won’t disturb those behind them.”
I look around the lobby. I glance out into the parking lot. Aside from the woman behind the desk, I haven’t seen the face of another human being in nearly three hours. She doesn’t notice that I’m questioning her. Or she doesn’t care. It’s not her job to justify the building’s features to me.
When I enter the first room, the door swishes closed behind me at a speed that puts me a little on edge. There is a sense of finality about the motion that I confirm by receiving no reaction when I step toward it again. I skip past the exhibit and toward the forward-moving doors and am relieved to find that they swing open willingly. Then, I hear a sound like waterlogged sofa hitting cement and a man’s voice shrieking in pain.
I turn and see this exhibit’s title: ‘Injuries sustained while falling.’
‘There are two things worth knowing about ‘The Sounds of Violence’ as a destination.
The first is that they claim all of their audio clips have been taken from real incidents. It would be comforting to assume they are lying, considering the grotesque injuries on display in latter rooms and the unlikely odds that such high quality audio could be salvaged from, say, ‘an accident involving a necktie and a helicopter.’ It would be comfortable to believe that they’ve paid off some voice actors and edited the audio to make it sound almost clownish. Otherwise, those seemingly over-the-top vocalizations would be evidence of a level of human pain unknown to much of the population. It would be a gross insight into what we are capable of feeling as an animal-being.
The second thing worth knowing is that they offer a discounted annual membership and ‘basking’ events in which visitors are given unlimited time in a room between dusk and dawn. They often sell out of both.’
The visual exhibit is nothing more than a series of printed posters detailing, with medical diagrams, the sort of injuries being sustained in the audio clips. The waterlogged sofa man shattered both legs and broke his hip. A snippet of conversation follows- a woman’s voice talking casually about snow, before a metal twang interrupts her and she screams. There is a wet impact and a grunt and then a whir of noise. Tumbling, I think. There is a sound like a branch snapping and the woman screams again. The hectic white noise of her falling stops suddenly and is replaced by the woman’s whimpering. Another clip follows. A man says “I think I can jump that,” and I rush out of the room before I hear him proven wrong.
Illustrations for the next exhibit detail burn injuries. I’ve hardly had a chance to take them in when a groggy voice says: “Wake up, honey. Do you smell that? Is that smoke?” A mattress creaks. Blankets slough off to the floor. A door clicks open and the man shouts “Shit!” He screams.
I yank the headphones from my head and the screaming grows exponentially louder. There are no cords- no indication of the headset being powered at all. They’re construction headphones, made for muffling noise. The burning man’s cries come from speakers in the walls at a volume that tears into my ear drums. I pull the headphones back on and rush forward. Autumn by the Wayside says a full tour of ‘The Sounds of Violence’ takes an hour and I realize, for the first time, that the author never cuts corners.
It must have driven him insane a long time ago.
-traveler