No, “thunderstorm” is the wrong word. When the word “thunderstorm” is uttered, I think of a cleansing rain, and Zeus limiting his terror to taller objects far off in the distance. When the word “thunderstorm” is uttered, I think of a dark and stormy night, of graveyards and of a semi-goth’s paradise. When the word “thunderstorm” is uttered, I think of curling up in bed with a good book, with the pelting rain setting the scene for a serene environment that not even my trembling, whimpering, and silly dog, hiding under said bed like the boogeyman she supposes is making all that noise outside. In Iowa, where all is flat, everyone and everything is fair game. In my car, trying my best to maintain just the speed limit while dodging semis with a vision of twenty feet limited by fog and rain, there is no warm bed, no book. Rather stupidly, I kept this up for nearly an hour, until a bolt of lightening struck within 50 feet of my car. I will never forget the noise it made, a dry and raspy crack, the final huff of an old man’s last breath, a spark from Satan’s hammer striking an anvil when it should have struck me.
That is not a thunderstorm. That’s not even a maelstrom. What it is is sheer terror. I immediately pulled into the next rest area, and there I waited out the storm and spent the night.
The clouds break above the Nevada desert, and the rain begins to fall. Compared to sheer terror, this rain is a mere pussycat, and it’s purring and rubbing itself against my metaphorical leg. I turn on my windshield wipers, and in the dark they appear to have a strobe light effect, like some kind of bad LSD trip complementing this not-so-bad-but-in-fact-quite-good road trip. I stare at them for a moment more, and realize that this isn’t an “effect”; the wipers ARE strobing, the blades uneven and covered with the guts of dead bugs.
Maybe it’s just that time of year, or maybe it’s the fact that these non-urban or even suburban environs naturally have more bugs, or maybe it’s simply the fact that I’ve driven too far and too fast, but my windshield is smothered in bugs. Every time I stop for gas, I spritz and I scrub and I squeegee, and by the time I stop for gas they’re all back again, like suicide bombers specializing not in terror but in simply pissing off.
I’ve adopted a strategy for gas that is oddly reminiscent of one of my friend’s strategies for buying pot from a new dealer. He never buys it by weight; instead, he’ll buy it by dollar amount, so in case it’s crap he won’t feel bad for having spent only five bucks. Likewise, in case I find cheaper gas a few miles later, I won’t feel so bad for having spent only five bucks at the last fill up.
I haven’t filled myself up for several days. I’ve been living off water, poptarts, and Power Bars, and while they provide all of the necessary nutrition and then some, they leave something to be desired.
I curve around the bend, and suddenly lights from Sparks – I don’t understand why it doesn’t desire to be annexed by the more profitable Reno, since it is literally a block away – lift me out of the cave, and I find a Motel Six. I don’t want their bed, though it is a luxury I welcome, but I am dying for their shower. I woke up Monday and Tuesday in my car, feeling dirty as hell (though, truthfully, I probably wasn’t that bad; I’m practically on the edge of being one of those obsessive handwasher types). Tuesday night was spent in a little town in Wyoming, where I got my first and only speeding ticket going 43 in a 35 zone, and this Wednesday night is spent in Reno.
I call who I need to, I write this down, and I fall asleep, as Neo on HBO utters something or other about choice.