I will always remember the first long road trip I took by myself for many reasons, not the least of which will be the series of bad omens I witnessed as soon as I crossed the state line from Kentucky into Ohio. Actually, let me backtrack a bit on that last statement because I don’t want to offend anyone by insisting that the Cincinnati skyline is itself a bad omen, although I would argue that it definitely is. You’re driving through nice rolling hills and then it pops up all at once, like an acquaintance you don’t like at a bar, the kind that wants to sit at your table and talk too loudly about pointless shit like the one person you both know. It’s the geographical equivalent of sudden-onset stomach cramps that you know will lead to the most exquisitely explosive diarrhea.
Things I like about Cincinnati: The Reds, The chili, Grippo’s chips. Things I don’t like about it: the accent, how dirty everything looks, the smell of the Ohio river, the attitude people have about the chili, the way the Reds always break my heart, and a list of other things as long as the bridge I can’t way to cross back into the great state of Kentucky. Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to tell you about.
About twenty minutes north of the city of shit I noticed an ambulance and two cop cars stopped on the shoulder, all parked around a blue sedan with the driver and passenger doors open as if it had been abandoned, like the people in it just said “fuck it” and walked off into the fields that extend out for miles in all directions. When I got close enough to the commotion to see what was happening I noticed two paramedics and both cops standing around this fat guy on the pavement. He was splayed out on his back like he had fallen out of the sky and landed that way. The paramedics were both on their knees, one pumping air into his face with one of those squeeze bottle things and the other pushing on his chest with what looked like a herculean amount of force.
What I noticed last was that the man’s enormous gut wasn’t moving. There was no up and down, no rhythmic jiggling, no ocean waves rising out of his bulk and crashing as he exhaled, nothing like small hills swelling out of the Earth and then sinking back down. There wasn’t a damn thing like that. I sped by and in the rear-view I could see the two men pumping away, the one on the chest thrusting down with everything in his large arms, which look strong and veiny in my memory, but I don’t know that they were.
Honestly, I don’t remember much else about the trip. I remember the big details, like where I was going, what I did while I was there, the shitty hotel I stayed in; but all of those things just kind of dissolve into other memories. I mostly just remember the man laying there, his huge hairy stomach and everything attached to it completely motionless. I told myself that I would check the obits when I got home, but I never did. I just sort of assumed the worst. I haven’t taken a solo road trip since, but I don’t know if the fat man is the reason why. I do know that I’ll never forget how still he was, how he was so peaceful as everyone around him was losing their minds. He was the eye of the storm. Not such a bad way to go.
Keep the Map, Lose the Territory 