Isn’t this Main Street? Main Street, America? I demanded an explanation!
She didn’t seem to appreciate the gravitas of my quest; nor did she seem able to grasp that behinds those gates might lay the answer to her nation’s problems. For an instant, I thought I might have stumbled upon that evil empire- “Wall Street”. I executed an abrupt U-Turn and proceeded post haste in the opposite direction. Her final courtesy massaged my ear. “If you don’t get out of here, I’m going to call a cop”.
Pausing to regain my composure, I found myself on an overpass crossing the massive twelve lane interstate. On both sides, as far as I could see, malls stretched to the horizon.
Can this be the heart and soul of America? There were no homes. Can the opposite of “Wall Street” be a place where the only activity is buying and selling? I gave my bug some gas.
A few miles on the other side of the interstate, I drove up on a building. Because it was festooned with American flags, I stopped and went inside. It was a hardware store, a good old-fashioned hardware store. Most prominently displayed was a collection of cast-iron cookware. It was specially designed for those big Texas appetites. Oversized skillets, kettles, and saucepans proclaimed authenticity. Each article was adorned with large bold tags. Words hawked the worth of the wares. Some were boldly emblazoned in red, white and blue. Others were more graphic. Some cawed “Real Texas Cooking” and the others, found hidden beneath the Lone Star emblem, peeped “made in China”. As I left, knowing that Main Street couldn’t be “made in China”, I took another look at all those flags. Nah, it couldn’t be? My God, not the flags too?
Soon I reached “the other end” of Main Street. As if at the last chance saloon, I thirsted for a final shot; a straight up double dose of insight.
There were no malls here, no cul-de-sacs, and no gated communities. Small stores, busy streets, squealing children all crowded onto the sidewalks and into the storefronts. Buoyed by optimism, I accosted each and every startled passerby with my question.
Nobody spoke English.
I ran hither and fro tugging at sleeves, and demanding answers. Eventually, someone got through to me. Comprende policia?
. . . .
At the edge of the city, the road had no name. Oblivious, and with no destination, I sat in my car as it rolled along. The great metropolis, like a giant frozen dinner, lay packaged on the table, zip-locked inside a ring of small hills. Alongside the dusk, a different population gathered. Howling and yipping, they sought to feed on the edges
In this condition between light and shadow, I entered the desert. Off the map now, I plunged without illumination deeper and deeper into the barren, cold country. Here, neither “Main Street” nor “Wall Street” could survive. In this dimension, winds shifted sands into forms that rose and then melted away. Endless glimpses of infinite meaninglessness. On this line, my mind traveled un-compassed.
In the rear view mirror of the 1958 Fleetwood convertible, bright metallic red, that I was now driving, I saw a young, handsome, virile man. On the bench seat right next to me, under my arm, with her hand on my leg, nuzzled every woman I had ever loved. They were all there. Everyone I had ever loved, or had wanted to, sat smiling on the white leather tucked and tufted benches. Satch, who had brought his horn, was blowing with a perfect contentment “When the Saints Go Marching In”.
They were gone when I pulled up in front of the house.
A box of chocolates lay atop the white picket fence. Embroidered on its cover was “Home Sweet Home”.
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