New Jersey Turnpike
Saturday in August. Warm not hot.
Traffic since Baltimore. Who are all these people? Where are they going? “Let’s just drive. That should be fine.” That’s what I said, “That should be fine.” What am I now? Retarded? Drive. Traffic from Baltimore through the Tappan Zee (and racecar rally racing along the Merrick.
Anyway, NJTP, John Fenwick Rest Area. Northbound, mile 5.4.
Women’s bathroom line? To the door.
Line for burger King? To the door.
Nathans? To the goddamn door.
Crowded. Hot. Hell. Pickpocket heaven.
Starbucks? Please. I’d rather die falling asleep on the road than stand in that line.
Who are these people? Why is there no one like me? Should I have taken the train? Flown? Who are these people? I’ve never seen so many characters; low-lifes, grifters, wiggers, foreigners, homies, glamour girls, people with no other choices, the elderly and the fat, fat Americans. Jesus, how fat can some of these people be? And, why are they in line for Nathans. Are you kidding me? Nathans, of all places!
Am I surprised? No. Not at all. I just forgot. I forgot these people. Being around the affluent, the intelligent, the hip, and the worldly in large degree, let me forget. I cannot do that. These people are all around us, some of these people vote. These are my people, our people, us. I don’t hate, fear, or look down upon these folk. I’m getting sloppy with my observations and negligent with my global context.
Walking dogs, changing babies, eating french fries (and Nathans). These people pass through the turnpike stops, often only one time ever.
But, who are the locals? The lucky few who get to see us every day. They don’t have to care or even be very nice. I’ve never seen so many characters; low-lifes, grifters, wiggers, foreigners, homies, glamour girls, people with no other choices, the elderly and the fat, fat Americans. Oh, I saw the BK manager. Whew! Where does one even start? Schlumpy? Is that a word? Maybe there is no other word – anywhere – to describe this gentleman. Timer on ludes? Figure that one out yourself.
Best and worst of all was the table cleaner. My worst nightmares come to life. She must have been about 70, maybe 75 years-old. Leg to torso of about 2 to 1. That is, her torso has shrunk to about the height of a birthday candle. Of course, her uniform probably requires her to tuck her shirt in…yikes, what a sight she was. Like a shriveled up, gray haired sawhorse. This old, old woman, wrist brace, nasty ass wet towel, sloshy, greasy (greazy) bucket. So slow moving, so fragile, so dead on her feet. I’ve joked that I’d be that employee someday, embarrassing my then teenage (or full grown) child at the mall or, in this case, the turnpike. I won’t joke about that again soon.
Hell is the John Fenwick Rest Area on the New Jersey Turnpike. I know this.
