‘Perhaps best described as a novelty pod hotel, ‘The Backseat Bed and Breakfast’ has taken a motley fleet of vehicles otherwise destined for the junkyard and repurposed them as strange little rooms within rooms. Stripped of their engines, the cars and trucks sit in tight garages and on custom hydraulic frames. Though one might pay a premium for finer upholstery or wider cars, the core experience of ‘The BBB’ is that of hucking one’s belongings into the trunk and curling into the backseat while the proprietary hydraulics gently rock the car from below and a simple light show mimics the headlights of an occasional passing car or the overhead streetlights of a quiet suburban neighborhood. Engine noises can be toggled and custom ambience, based upon preferred locales, is available upon request. One is welcome to consider what other backseat experiences might be relived at ‘The BBB,’ though the owners insist it is strictly a family friendly establishment.
Breakfast includes burned coffee and copycat items from popular fast food menus that taste so alike their inspiring dishes one must assume ‘The BBB’ employs a fast driver rather than an ingenious chef.’
My family had a boxy old sedan of some sort- I’ve never been much for makes and models. Business is slow enough at ‘The BBB’ that I get a little tour of the available rooms and find something similar at the lowest price tier. It isn’t a nice car- I didn’t expect it to be.
Hector spends the night in the passenger seat, sniffing at all the cracks and crevices before settling into sleep. I do some reading and click the overhead light off around nine. By then I can hardly keep my eyes open. The backseat is as I remember- only just wide enough. The precipice threatens each time I shift against the belt buckle of the middle seat. The plastic door creaks each time I try to find the room to stretch. It isn’t comfortable but I sleep anyway, smelling cigarettes and coffee in the fabric under a rolled up hoodie ‘The BBB’ provided as a pillow.
The car lurches and tosses me to the floor at seven sharp: the wakeup call I asked for in the form of a simulated speedbump. Hector hops onto my body from the front and tries to settle in for sleep again before I push him off and extricate myself. We eat our egg sandwich and hit the road, feeling as though we never really stopped.
-traveler
The Imp of the Perverse resides in Manhattan, of all places. Its den or its hovel, whatever you want to call it, is the only thing of interest in an unnamed stretch of grass just south of Central Park. There may be other imps like it- there surely are- but ‘America’s Imp’ resides in Manhattan and it’s Halloween again, meaning that it’s time to learn whether we’ll have six more weeks of dread.
I don’t like New York City. It’s cramped and difficult to navigate. Hector likes it for the diversity of scents. I wonder if he would appreciate the rodent population as much as he seemed to enjoy ‘The Prairie Dog Capital City,’ or if he’d find himself an outsider, like I do. I am somehow both too polite and too rough around the edges for New York. I can’t quite blend, no matter which way I lean.
‘America’s Imp’ is historically late to its own shadow-seeing but I arrive on time anyway, storing the motorcycle in a grossly overpriced lot nearly a mile away. We wait for hours.
‘Every once in a while a new bout of satanic panic spurs the government to perform research on ‘America’s Imp:’ setting out traps, mobilizing units with penetrating radar, and digging up the little park it calls home. They never find anything. The burrow from which it emerges inevitably terminates just below the earth and the burrow returns no matter how many times it is cemented over, rising up through cracks like the roots of an absent tree. Satanists have no better luck. ‘America’s Imp’ is neither intimidated nor impressed by summons and rituals.
‘America’s Imp’ emerges on Halloween as a puff of smoke. Violet means six more weeks of trouble. Black means a modicum of peace. Skeptics point out the many ways ‘America’s Imp’ is always wrong, no matter what it chooses. Believers say that’s just ‘America’s Imp’ doing what comes naturally.’
Hector and I are joined in the park by only a handful of spectators. Most Americans have made up their own mind about what the next few months will look like. A photographer asks if he can take a picture of the two of us and I decline as politely as possible, thinking of all the people I’m trying to avoid. The man doesn’t seem to mind too much. He tells me he’s come every year for a decade and has snagged a picture of the imp’s decision each time.
“We’re in a blue slump.” He tells me. “Fingers crossed for something better this year.”
“Fuck.” I tell him. “Fingers fucking crossed.”
-traveler
‘It goes without saying that one should do their best to ignore signs about ‘The Ramp.’ It isn’t easy, though. The signs are frequent and large and sometimes illuminated. Sometimes they move, a goading cowboy’s arm pointing the way or waggling his finger, warning you not to try the ramp and somehow daring you to try it in the process.
‘It wouldn’t be smart to try THE RAMP,’ the signs say, ‘No matter how cool it seems like it would be.’
‘Nobody has survived taking THE RAMP. Maybe you could- but probably not. Maybe, though. Nothing is impossible.’
‘Warning! THE RAMP’s gate is under repair. The entrance is open and free. This does not mean you should attempt to take THE RAMP, but nothing would stop you if you tried…’
‘THE RAMP is not for cowards. Are you a coward? Then do not take THE RAMP.’
‘The Ramp’ exists on a southern stretch of highway in Michigan. This will not be the book that tells you exactly where. It’s easy enough to find without invoking that sort of liability. ‘The Ramp’ appears well-made and seasonally maintained, constructed of rebar and concrete and silky smooth asphalt. The entrance slopes gently, at first, and ends with a steep little flourish. There is that deadly gap before the downward ramp rises from the other side to catch the would-be driver. It all seems reasonable from the road, as though any vehicle could cover the distance. As though any competent driver could leave ‘The Ramp’ with a rattled suspension and a story to tell their grandchildren.
No driver has yet claimed that story. Maybe you could- but probably not.
Maybe, though.
Nothing is impossible.
(entry sponsored by THE RAMP)
-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside
‘Hanging like some dread spider in the sky above Bartlett Forest is New Hampshire’s ‘Mitten Tree,’ a long dead elm that has been the subject of local yarn bombing for nearly a decade now. Once a cozy-seeming installation, its brittle branches have begun to bend and crack under the weight of decaying wool. Scarves and mittens unravel until their entrails, caught up in the wind, go looping back into the vast moldering network or slap wetly at distracted visitors. It smells of a drowned dog and that alone has been enough to dissuade the once fanatic crochet vandals. It is an abandoned place and, as of publication, is likely to slough off the Wayside within a year.’
It’s late evening by the time Hector and I make it out to the ‘Mitten Tree’ but the hiking isn’t so unpleasant. The trail is wide enough that the moon, just waning from full, provides plenty of light to walk by. Hector busies himself in piles of dry leaves, hopping between them, thrashing about, seeming to search for the perfect specimen. I’ve done a lot of research on rabbit nutrition since acquiring him from ‘The Sunburn Experience.’ The forums would disapprove of his eating wild grasses and leaves, but it seems cruel to stop him. Isn’t this what a wild rabbit would do?
The ‘Mitten Tree’ does stink and it has certainly taken on something of a sinister shape in decline. Only a few of its titular garments have maintained any semblance to the human hand and those that have wave eerily in the wind, silhouetted by moonlight. I sit and let Hector roll about in the leaves a little while longer. I wonder whether I have it in me to knit him a rabbit-sized sweater- whether instructions for that sort of thing exist on the internet somewhere. Surely I’m not the first person to worry about the temperature of a hairless rabbit.
Hector and I both leap when, apropos of nothing, the ‘Mitten Tree’ suddenly illuminates. Somebody has laced it with string lights and connected them all to a small solar battery and a timer. The lights play off several ornaments in delicate glass. In technicolor, the ‘Mitten Tree’ almost looks almost merry, again.
Hector is enraptured by the sight. I have to hold him back, afraid he’ll chew through a wire somewhere and electrocute himself. I’m impressed too and a little baffled. Haven’t we been on the edge of the winter for months now? I can’t remember the last time I noticed the holidays. It must have been Halloween five times since the last Christmas.
How long has it been autumn?
-traveler
It’s autumn at ‘The Fresh Air-boretum.’ A miniature forest of gold and brown air fresheners is situated over model terrain, sprawled over a massive wooden platform and roped off at an appropriate distance. The smell fills the silo that houses them. It’s sharp and chemical, foremost, with hints of pumpkin spice, cinnamon, and coffee, maybe. It’s impossible to smell anything else- not even the small preview of winter tucked away in a corner, supposedly pine and spearmint.
Hector wants nothing to do with it. He wants nothing to do with the masks we’re offered at the front to protect our sinuses. The woman there offers to watch him in his kennel.
‘The Fresh Air-boretum’ doubles as an air freshener museum so I leave a bag of carrots and try to hold my breath long enough to take in a little history.
‘Ignore what ‘The Fresh Air-boretum’ says about itself. It’s all likely true but it’s all ‘financial hardships’ and ‘one man’s dream’ and ‘a journey to restore a sense of smell.’ These cliché origin factoids conveniently skip the fact that, until 2011, ‘The Fresh Air-boretum’ concealed the legs of its exhibits with curtains and in March of that same year a janitor followed a trail of ants and discovered that a serial killer (or many serial killers) had been depositing the bodies of their victims underneath said tables. For years. Police pulled 23 bodies from the silo that day and no arrests were ever made.
The dead make for fertile earth, reader. No forest grows without the dead.’
I get most of the way through the ‘The Fresh Air-boretum’ before I give in to the urge to look under the platform. There is a body right there, right at my feet, and I scrabble backward, slam my head on the opposite wall. The air freshener forest sways gently as I realize the body is only a cut-out- a black silhouette with three words painted in white: ‘Thanks for coming!’
-traveler