You turn the street corner in your little car, and - there it is again. How are you here again? You swear you just passed this exact stretch of road in the last state. . . and the state before that. . . and the one before that. . .
You shake your head to clear the stupor and check your GPS. Yep, there you are, a whole state away from where you were yesterday. So why is this so eerie?
You want to turn around and look for another street, but you keep driving as if on autopilot. Almost like you can’t stop. (But you can stop. Right? You could pull over right here. And - and you’d do it, too. It’s just that it doesn’t make sense for the trip. Maybe you’ll get some food in a minute.) The iconic signs line the street - white, yellow, and blue circle, red and white cowboy hat, and of course the golden arches. You don’t think it’s odd that you can’t read any of the words. You know what the signs mean anyway. And of course, the signs are an illusion. Everyone knows you only really have one choice.
Your car pulls into the driveway below the golden arches, and flies you through the drive-thru. You don’t remember ordering, but when you stop at the window, they hand you exactly what you wanted. How do you know it’s exactly what you wanted, before you’ve even opened the small paper bag? You don’t, but you trust them. It’s, you know, the golden arches. They understand.
(Unbeknownst to you, as you pull away, the faceless entity behind the register waves. They hope you have a good meal. A good day. A good life. A good death. They say that a million times a day and never at all. How could they? They don’t have a mouth. But of course they have a mouth. It smiles just like the golden arches of their company logo. And they need one to deliver the timeless slogan of their people.)
You do have a good meal. You don’t have a drink, it’s not quite salty enough, and you run out of sauce packets with half of your food left, but it is good nonetheless. You know it’s supposed to be. They told you so. Everyone told you so. Your bag and trash disappear into the backseat - joining the rest of the bags you’ve emptied during this trip. The backseat is empty. It doesn’t exist. It’s only you here. Who would you even bring? You know no one. The bags disappear into the nether.
So you continue to drive, almost aimlessly, vaguely knowing you’ve got a destination to be - but at the same time knowing there’s no rush, you can spend as much time here as you like - you’ll only end up here again in the next state.
A white plastic bag flutters across the road, the modern day tumbleweed. It distracts you for a moment, but not enough to throw off your course. (A brick couldn’t throw off your course.) But directly behind it stands a man. Powerful, intimidating, immovable - a brick couldn’t stop your little car, but apparently this man can. You roll to a stop inches from his knees and get out. (Finally.)
You stare deep into his eyes, and he stares back, seemingly digging into your soul. He smiles, and you feel it punch through your heart. You don’t know him, but simultaneously he is the most familiar face you’ve ever seen. An irritatingly familiar beat throbs in the back of your head. He tips his cowboy hat at you. And that’s when it hits you.
This is where he comes from.
This is where he comes from. . .
