Life on Interstate 90 (standard:Psychological fiction, 4171 words)
Author: Ryan C.	Added: Mar 24 2007	Views/Reads: 3142/2162	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A spiritual adventure from Buffalo to Boston.

When I was a child I kept mealworms as pet food.  As larvae, they are
blind, slow and unaware of the world outside of their habitat.  I began 
with one hundred larvae and was left with ten by the time their sad, 
incarcerated lives won my sympathy.  I decided to let the remaining ten 
to live and grow, with intentions of eventually freeing them.  A month 
passed and they began to morph into pupae.  In the final moments before 
hatching into an adult darkling beetle, they are crescent-shaped 
cocoons with curled and immobile legs.  Looking into the jar, I saw one 
of the pupae begin to move its legs, and I held it in my hand as it 
wriggled and hatched.  Immediately after hatching, the darkling 
beetle's exoskeleton is white and soft.  As I sat there and marveled at 
this miracle of nature, it fell off my hand, hit the floor, and 
promptly died – a victim of mass and gravity. 

I am on a great adventure.  Sixty-five miles behind me lies Buffalo, New
York.  The road I walk on is Interstate 90, and I am heading due east.  
My two week old white sneakers look as if I have worn them for years.  
They are covered in a combination of mud, dust and grass.  The soles 
are riddled with gravel and small shards of glass.  All I carry is a 
small backpack, which contains matches, a road map, and whatever 
leftover food I manage to save.  I have no wallet and no money in my 
pockets.  My hair is a mess, and I am developing an uneven, patchy 
beard.  It doesn't take very long to hit rock bottom. 

Sixty-five miles is a long way to walk.  That isn't including about 10
miles leaving Buffalo, which took half a day in itself.  I keep to the 
side of the road, sometimes venturing a little bit into the fields and 
woods around me.  The road is extremely flat and straight.  I can see 
in both directions for miles.  Police don't stand a chance of finding 
me.  That is, if what I am doing is illegal.  I'm not even sure if it 
is.  Undoubtedly, they would give me a hassle either way.  I run into 
the woods every time I think I see a squad car.  Sometimes, I even run 
from civilian cars and watch them from behind a tree.  I get a strange 
thrill from these one-way moments, even if only for a few seconds.  
Afterwards, they go on living their lives as if nothing had ever 
happened. 

Eating is tricky.  Every 20 miles or so, there is a rest stop.  At these
rest stops they have a gas station and several fast food stores, 
usually McDonalds and Dunkin' Donuts.  If I go into McDonalds late 
enough at night, sometimes I get free food.  They can only serve 
certain items on their menu at certain hours.  After midnight they stop 
serving most of their menu, and I can usually get a free McDonalds 
version of “apple pie,” or some leftover donuts.  It disgusts me to 
have to resort to begging for fast food, but I haven't figured another 
way yet.  It took me several experimental nights to figure out the 
method I'm using now.  On my second night, I ate food out of a garbage 
can.  Things will get better. I keep walking and eventually I get 
tired.  I leave the road and enter the woods.  I find an oak tree and 
curl in a ball under it.  I sleep deeply until the sun rises.  Nothing 
bothers me. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Early morning on Interstate 90 is truly beautiful.  Traffic is light,
and wildlife outnumbers hominids for a short while.  Silent birds flit 
overhead.  Deer make the bold switch from one side of the road to 
another, where they will go on to be disappointed that man has 
colonized that side as well. 

My progress is slow.  If I see something that captures my attention, I
stop and look at it for a while.  Yesterday, for example, I found a 
melted birthday cake on the side of the road.  My breaks are often and 
they can last for long periods of time.  I spent what could have been 
hours looking at a magnificent tree.  It had grown around a very old 
foundation.  Concrete disappeared into the trunk and reappeared on the 
other side.  The tree was twisted, with two clumps of branches reaching 
upwards, roaring in triumph.  I sat and marveled at this champion of 
nature.  One thing I do know is that I'm not in a hurry. 

On Interstate 90, there can be thirty miles between exits.  Today I find
an exit ramp and take it.  I find a place called “McMillan's Pub and I 
go inside.”  The inhabitants are dirty but I still feel as if I stick 
out.  I walk up to the barkeep and ask for a cherry coke. 



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