By RUDY!
Portsmouth, OH — This small city stands between me and the interstate. Traffic slowed to a stuttering, miserable pace. Three lanes, all going in one direction, but some traffic manager managed to bungle the flow pattern. The cars around me are all older models, rusted, with plumes of exhaust, and all Ohio plates. Where did they all come from? Moments ago, on a barren 247, the leaves hung peacefully in the air in a wind-gravity equilibrium. They looked like birds silhouetted against the cloud covered sky and as I zoomed passed, I wished I could watch gravity win, and then, out of no where, Portsmouth.
The census says there are twenty thousand inhabitants, are they all out on the streets? Is this rush hour, it can’t be, it is 1PM. Lunch rush? Perhaps, but where are they eating? The only spots I’ve seen along this road are a McDonalds and a Burger King. These establishments are hardly worth enduring this gridlock. But maybe it is worth it to the people of Portsmouth? Or maybe this highway is like a river and on the tributaries is where the sweet spots reside. Or maybe people in small towns just cruise on the highway after lunch for no particular reason other than to get out of the house and partake in a community-wide event. Or is this some kind of pre-Thanksgiving parade practice run?
Could school be letting out early, so that this slow crawl down the highway is a result of the charged atmosphere that occurs at the beginning of an extended holiday leave? Charging the atmosphere does not sound like a good idea; the air is laden with the scent of aromatic hydrocarbons, their origin is probably a mix of local car pollution and the nearby Sunoco gasoline plant. The father and son in the mini-van next to me suggest school’s out.
The boy looks like he might be in high school: his acne, the weak attempt at a mustache, and his very pasty skin. But the cigarette in the hand dangling out the car window suggests otherwise. I wait for him to take a drag in front of his father. It happens. I wait for his father to scold him. It never happens. On my right, I pass the Portsmouth Cancer Treatment Center. I finally reach the interstate and my brief encounter with Portsmouth lapses.
