Town & Country

Note: I never claim that anything I write is very good, especially when I try to compare myself to Red. But I think this is probably one of the best things I have written, at least in awhile. I'll let you be the judge. The title does bug me though. Enjoy.

I smoothly turn the protruding black knob increasing the radio volume. The faster speeds begin to make my Chrysler Town & Country noisier. Perhaps it is just the voice of the man that I am listening to reading a book. My brain almost tricks me into asking him if he could read louder. This man reading a short story recorded onto CD, more than likely 10 plus years ago, is my only companion for his jaunt offering a false sense of accompaniment on this otherwise bleak drive. The highway is fairly empty making for easy cruise control maneuvering and allowing my mind to wander across the land. The vast corn fields are a shade somewhere between brown and green, stuck between life and death. The first story finishes and two short ones follow. I struggle to listen and comprehend what I am hearing. Doesn’t matter, I think to myself, I’ll just listen to them again later.
The edge of the suburbs starts to fade in from the distance. Groups of large houses begin to fill in between the fields. The irony strikes me that these people wanted to escape from the crowd of the city only to cram together in some housing development built on an old corn field the farmer was forced to sell. I seem to chuckle to myself trying to decide if either they have a misguided conception of the country or that they truly can’t live out here on their own. The first speaks to the perception, no the fact, that city folk don’t truly understand what the country is like. The latter is more akin to the primal instinct of the settlers needing to huddle together to protect themselves from the elements and beasts of the open country. Still, I just shake my head and keep on driving.
I notice there more vehicles on the road all of a sudden. They just appear. They aren’t streaming out of the various on ramps; they didn’t speed up behind me. They are just there as if to materialize out of the blue. This oddity continues the closer to the city I get. Massive office buildings line the left side of the highway. They seem to look more like fancy hotels, certainly more so than my place of work. That one has a basketball court, I point out, not audibly, but in my head as if my brain wants to make sure I am paying attention. The right side of the highway contains a high wall of stone. The old trees rise above it, their friends cut out years before to make way for this expanse of concrete, a monstrous symbol of efficiency and progress. The massive ramps swerve overhead like some grand scale water slide flushing the cars over the other roads depositing them down into the rushing river of exhaust and metal. Little trees are planted sporadically out in front of the office buildings, a true example of form over function. The large, aged trees seem to look down on them, as if scowling from disappointment that the young trees somehow sold out to the man by helping to make his creations of concrete and steel seem more organic. How did that first story go? I press to jog my memory out of the doldrums of the drive. I must have gotten something out of story to have trees jog my memory. Ah yes, as my mind clicks back. The potatoes attack the man and turn him into one, too. This presses me farther into wondering if trees think. In fact, I’ve always wondered if plants have feelings. They respond to their environment, but do they really have thoughts and feelings? Do they care what we do as long as they are allowed to exist?
I sweep the landscape again and notice the trees are gone. Not a one in sight, only an immense rail yard. Train cars are lined up for miles. Semi trucks litter the edges ready to speed off with loads of TVs, cell phones or some other junk imported from China. A retirement high rise sits between the rail yard and the approaching airport. Efficient use of space, I think to myself. The noise shouldn’t bother them too much. The air looks dirty here, the dirt looks dirty. It is as if the ground is rebelling against itself, against the monster it helped to create. I am almost to my destination. I look at the blazing green numerals on the dashboard. Seven hours from now, I can turn around and go back home.