Across the Globe without a Plane
The rays of Izu bay
Day Two:
It’s like watching the ocean at night. Darkness pervades, but the sense of something massive and much greater than you happening just beyond the immense sands is overwhelming. Staring out into it your eyes adjust to the black and you begin to see the dancing forms of millions of years. It is then that if you stand there long enough a light starts to emerge. Initially just a single point, this far-off lighthouse draws you to it like a moth bulb, and you don’t really know why, except that maybe other moths too will be attracted to it. Where there is one, there are many. Where there are many, there is opportunity.
Oddly, I find myself standing in the rain in front of the only light source in the middle of nowhere at three in the morning. I say oddly, but this is an all-too-common occurrence these days: loitering outside of these oases of convenience stores at any and all hours of the day and night. I try to imagine how this must appear to the casual passerby, the odd early-risers, farmers yawning in their sheds, invisible UFOs hovering silently in the light predawn mist – this solitary figure – white in the land of off-white – standing before plexi-glass windows boasting of sales events and discounts in alien script, alcohol and tobacco, dirty magazines and rice balls, through which beam incredible wattage into the black void of rice paddies and scattered farm houses. This mute beacon shining out for no one in particular, save the infinite orchestral serenations of cicada and grasshopper in cacophonous harmonious dissonance, or perhaps the long haul truck driver in his quest for invigorating sustenance pushing him on through to morning and his never-quite-to-be final destination. A few of these types come and go, often stopping for a cigarette a few feet away at the overflowing ashtray stand, silent and perplexed at this absurd scene:
How the hell did he get here?
Am I so out of place? The proverbial black grain in the bowl of white rice.
Eventually they finish their smokes, or just get bored of pretending not to stare out of the corners of their eyes and leave for wherever it is they are going. I’m not going anywhere. I don’t have a plan. I’ve got no final destination.
The night man doesn’t seem to pay me any mind at all, nor does the patron behind the glass perusing the stacks of wrapped bukkake rape-porn mags, at least not at first glance. Yet it’s their apparent nonchalance which betrays them, this peripheral obsession with the why and how of my presence. The free radical standing outside between garbage can and payphone, the obvious answer in a what-doesn’t-belong-here tableau.
The fact remains, sad though it may be, I do belong here. This is my station, my appointed post, my ticket in hand, I am the loitering man.
The rain begins to come down heavier and the wet tires sounds on the pavement become more obvious in the distance as customers increase and dawn sneaks near. This being the middle of nowhere, most patrons leave their engines idling, keys dangling in the ignitions, while they run in for their morning teas and smokes. Most of these potential getaway cars are nothing the driving elite are clamoring to get behind the wheel of, yet more than a few shiny foreign made four wheel beauties of comfort and ease pull long enough to make me consider forgoing the difficulties of hitchhiking for a top to bottom country long spin via grand theft auto. Is it the would be morning news headlines: Car stolen in the mountains – nationwide manhunt begins for loitering white man noticed writing odd thoughts into notebook – which delays my criminal hand or rather my love of the hard trek? Whichever, my California upbringing has nothing to do with it, I convince myself, where be it a car, a bike or even a surfboard, a ride is just a ride.
Stand outside any of these shops long enough and you begin to blend in. You are just the thing next to the payphone, before the trash receptacle, no more than a physical obstruction on the way to dispose of unwanted wrappers and empty containers. Before long you notice these places are like massive bodies of water, the customers coming in like sets of waves, controlled by the moon or some such far off heavenly body. As this latest one ebbs out into the starless night the clerk begins his charges like some kind of strange alien sea creature: refresh the Oden, rotate the fried meat bits, alternatively heat and chill canned coffees, teas and soups, wheel out milk crates, restock porn manga and magazines, tong through the fuming ashtray stand and replace water receptacle, change trash bags and recycling, update bento expiration dates, and so on. Night gives way to the day. The seas continue to roll.
About The Trip Overland™
Subscribe to entries
Subscribe to comments
All content © 2012 by The Trip Overland™