"I made a phone call to the front desk to inquire about the phone."

Day 2 cont'd., cont'd.

________________

I circled the hotel an indeterminate number of times, hoping somehow that the elusive Palace Hotel would emerge through the mistiness of the late Jersey evening, a literal oasis, a savior for the road-weary- to no avail, of course. I decided to stop and ask for directions at the Radisson, and thought twice about it, my fatigue becoming paranoia about rude and embittered East coasters that must surely have had it in for me. Why is this city so goddamned hard to get around?! It was one in the morning. Surely the night clerk would steer me the wrong way. Fucking tourists. I'd do the same thing.

I parked in a no-parking zone, hazards ablaze. I peeled myself from the seat, legs and arms jittery from all the subsiding adrenalin, my fight or flight instinct disabled, mutated into an unfamiliar strain of 'drive or die,' a new bacteria that easily conquered my nerves. Walking to the door of the hotel, I felt high- in a bad way, though- and light flashed in my periphery, light that wasn't there, exploding into a million refracted points by the raindrops collecting on my eyelashes. Eyelashes and water- the stoned man's prism.

I made it to the door under a shining, wet maroon awning and pulled. And pulled again, just to be sure, like people do when doors are locked. And.. once more. The night man looked up, bored, used to the homeless, probably, that yearn for a lobby of repose. Wet, haggard, crazy-eyed- I could have been homeless. I made some sort of motion with my hand- Open the door. He pointed to the wall on my right- a telephone, sans buttons. I picked up the receiver, and directly was having a conversation through two glass doors and about 100 feet of lush carpet. Essentially, I was having a face-to-face phone conversation. As Brendan Kelly said, "There's two types of prisons, some say. One where you're locked up and everything's outside, and the other one- you're outside and everything's locked away."

The overweight man, stuffed into a shirt and half-vest, pointed the way. "Go that way, about five or six miles. You're on the completely wrong end of the street."

"That way," I pointed, mimicking his gesture. A not wholly unfriendly nod. "Thanks."
Click.
Back in the car, I felt better, but not relieved. We wound our way up the hilly street and emerged at an odd three way stoplight. It was red, and so naturally, I stopped. One line of traffic, off to my left in a sort of S-curve, was stopped as well. One line, to my right, at sort of an acute angle, was also stopped. I sighed- a momentary lapse.

A car pulled up behind me, stopped quickly, and inched closer. As I watched the headlights begin to set in the horizon of the bumper and mirror visibility, a car passed on the left, fast, right through the red light. Then the honks began. I can only imagine what the guy behind us was saying: "Fucking GO, Texas!"or "Dumbass hick! GO!" or "As a native Texan, I understand this fellow's confusion at this strange intersection, and perhaps if I gently honk, I can coax and encourage him to bolster enough confidence to FUCKING GO, DOUCHEBAG!"

Shit. The light's red here, but I guess I'll go. "Shit," I told Rebecca. Very cautiously, I edged into the intersection, and then zoomed through. "What the fuck was that?!" I pondered. Finally, though unbeknownst to us at the time, the worst was over. The horrible, seemingly destroyed by giant, spiked metal feet, construction laden road finally put the Palace Hotel into our line of vision. Elation. Exhaustive elation. We pulled into a spot on a hill and staggered, somewhat melancholy, into the lobby. We checked in, inquired about the continental breakfast we would not be attending in the morning, and rode the elevator up to the fifth floor of the 'under-renovation' hotel.

When the doors opened, thousands of us stared back at us. The entire hall was lined with one or two inch lengths of mirrors, seperated by dark strips of wood. This wasn't helping. This was Timothy Leary's vision of a hull in a 1940's pleasure cruise liner. A few more steps... a few more. We closed the door behind us, leaving the sounds of partying tourist groups just returning from the clubs in NYC to bounce off the mirrors and settle into the dark carpet and plaster ceilings and become part of the living history of the building, to give the hallway character, to help one to feel less alone when walking in solitude in the aging hotel.

I returned to the car to put our parking pass on the dashboard and to retrieve Rebecca's pillow. I returned to our freezing room. There was a thermostat on the wall, but we couldn't turn the air off. I told my mother I'd call her when we got there, so I tried to make a calling card call from the phone by the bed, and when Rebecca and I had both tried enough times to determine that it wasn't our fault that we couldn't dial out- we aren't stupid, for Christ's sake- I made a call to the front desk to inquire about the phone.

"In fact, I think we may have driven into the brownstone district."

Day 2, cont'd.

_________________

The final hundred miles to North Bergen, New Jersey, where our hotel was located, were appropriately the most grueling. Why should it get easier? We passed a giant building that said "Nestle" in giant blue letters on the side, and I began to speculate as to whether it was a factory or a distribution center, shortly before we passed a smaller building with wide, sweeping windows that appeared to be on the same property. Inside the building, backlit by what must have been 1,000 watt spotlights stood what appeared to be a giant vat, and we decided that this building was the actual Nestle Factory, which, though not marked by any signage, must surely have doubled as a fun tourist attraction for Jerseyites, or at least bored schoolchildren on field trips. We marvelled momentarily at the thought of thousands of gallons of molten chocolate percolating inside a big, brass pressure cooker.

I began to feel the comfort of the home stretch, imagining that this factory must be the beginning of what must be vast urban sprawl, growing further and further out of the giant industry of New York City- vericose veins of business branching out and out in search of cheaper real estate and softer blood cells to contaminate and render unattractive.

Unfortunately, this turned out to be an anomoly, as, aside from a few shopping districts and gas stations, the densely potholed, divided expressways, rust iron and corrugated steel of the Garden State's North Bergen were still a good sixty miles away. Presently, I focused my attention on driving rain and rude truckers, and as I felt my car hydroplaning every twenty seconds due to the next divot in the road, each one longer and deeper than the last, I hunched further and further over the steering wheel, feeling not unlike any number of stereotypical images of old men or women behind the wheel, my heart rate rising rapidly as Rebecca grew agitated aloud as she attempted to decipher the final, most confusing directions so generously bestowed upon us by the inhuman, cold and calculated brain of Mapquest.

I began to second guess, to question myself: "What the fuck am I doing right now? Why am I driving in New Jersey at one in the morning? Wouldn't it be weird if I died out here, 1,600 miles from home?" I began to think that Rebecca's mother would think that I had done it on purpose- taken her daughter from their happy home to commit a strange murder-suicide.

Finally, we sensed the nearness of the city; not from traffic- the highway was surprisingly empty, even for a Tuesday night. But, what do I know about traffic out east? The big rigs were still problematic, and the rain and puddling hadn't ceased, so tensions still walked a tight line in the car. I took a risk and exited the expressway to the other, unnecessarily divided part of the expressway- luckily- just in time to make the exit to the city highway that we needed to be on. According to my odometer, we were a mere two miles from our one-way, 1,596 mile journey.

As soon as relief began its washing effects on my mind, the sense of security was quickly swept away by a tide of fresh anxiety and worry. We had found our way to North Bergen, to be sure, but now to find the city street to turn onto. I crossed a horribly ugly steel, brown bridge, wondering if it was completed, or if mine would be the car that would finally buckle the ancient girders, imagining a disastrous death of stinking Jersey river and toppling I-beams. I looked off to my left- was that the skyline? It was too rainy and foggy to tell. A fine welcome, indeed.

We found the city road to our hotel, but I mistakenly took the way marked "Trucks Only." Some sort of out of the way, lesser traffic, wider lanes number that terrified me to no end. I felt we were surely lost. It just didn't feel right. I pulled into some sort of gas station and asked a cabbie and his partner the way. They looked at me awfully, and Rebecca lustfully, and gave me directions that were clearly a brush-off. I thanked them and faithfully took the way they prescribed.

Minutes later, I felt that they weren't lying. I spotted a Radisson. The hotel district! The hotel district? 'District' implies more than one, correct? I could see no other hotels around. In fact, I think we may have driven into the brownstone district.

"I wish I could've hung around truck stops when Nixon was in office."

Day 1 cont'd.

___________

At the end of our meal, we inquired about purchasing alcohol on a Sunday night in Tennessee, as the prospect of a fresh hotel room sans booze was a garish thought. We were pleased to find out from our perhaps overly knowledgable waitress that the alcohol laws there were actually more liberal than in Texas, which sounds absurd (at least to me, anyway), but nonetheless a pleasant surprise. We got a six-pack at a nearby gas station and continued on. I was driving 'in the zone,' and wanted so badly to whip the halfway point of our trip with a belt, which by my estimation would have meant travelling 1,000 miles the first day.

As the night approached the early morning late night of 4 a.m., we realized that most hotels require a checkout at or before noon, and we felt like getting as much sleep as possible without having to pay for two nights was a good idea. So, at 4:30, I relented, and pulled into a Days Inn in La Grange, Kentucky, and felt only mild satisfaction at having merely sort of elbowed the halfway point of our trip in the ribs in a large crowd while walking quickly by and behind it, wreaking a cowardly vengeance on it for having mercilessly stepped hard on my foot while it passed without so much as a second, or first, glance back in my direction- unapologetic, self-important and rude.

Rebecca stayed in the car while I got a room for one, and then we snuck in the back entrance, making sure to keep up the facade by not having Rebecca phone in our wake up call. It turns out I was really fatigued, only I didn't know it while we drove. That didn't stop me from drinking one, maybe two, beers and watching bad late night cable TV while Rebecca showered. (Excerpt missing here- damn ink pens and papyrus. -ed.) We went to sleep at or near six with plans to take advantage of the free continental breakfast between seven and ten the following morning, a plan that was quickly dashed the moment we closed our eyes. This would be a recurring theme for the following three nights. Not once on our journey did we consume any melon, burnt toast, bad coffee, or hotel scrambled eggs.

Day 2

________

The next morning we continued on- 700 miles to New York. I cannot remember when or where we ate, not that it's important. A lot of the day is a blur, though I do remember passing a sign somewhere in the mountains of Pennsylvania- a bonified, reflective, presumably state-sponsored sign that read, "Site of Fatal Bus Accident- 1988" in a shade of brown normally reserved for historical landmarks, tourist attractions, or tree sponsorship programs.

The mountains grew dense with fog and rain as darkness and semi-trucks crowded around my little car. The mountains lasted forever, and thinking about them now conjures a sense of depressedness, though at the time I was perfectly happy, if not just a tiny bit stressed about 18 wheelers and rain and death and an annoying windshield wiper blade that would be better termed a smearer. The roads were not too steep or winding in the Pyrenees, like those out west or in Hawaii, so there was an upside to it, I suppose. Earlier in the day, Rebecca discovered that our route was to take us directly through Washington, Pennsylvania, the town where her father currently resided, a man whom, before March of that year, she had not seen for five years. She called her mother to inquire as to whether or not she should call him to inform him that we were passing through.

Within minutes, the entire side of her father's family had heard the news- even her great-grandparents who were on vacation to the tiny, picturesque town, and plans were promptly made for a meeting and dinner on the way back home.

We emerged unscathed on the eastern side of the mountains, and what we lost in hilly altitude and curves in the road was made up for in increased rain and the hellish, slick, near destroyed roads of New Jersey. We stopped at a secluded rest stop about 100 miles from the city where I tried to help a man fish a quarter out of a pay phone that had become stuck in his haste to insert the coins and also read some fine, witty graffiti in the bathroom that involved Bush AND swastikas, as well as what seemed to be a legitimate gay personals ad space, complete with measurements, desires, abilities and actual phone numbers. Rebecca speculated that Bush is the only president that people tag bathroom walls in protest of. While the previous is a poorly written sentence, she conveyed her meaning, and I agreed at the time, but now that I think about it, I think I disagree. I wish I could've hung around truck stops when Nixon was in office.

"As middle class, young, white liberals, we naturally felt guilty."

This blog has become so stagnant that I can actually smell it when I log in these days. So, as an exercise in writing (and futility), I will, in the days to follow, post some writings that I did about my trip to New York a few years ago that have never seen the light of a backlit computer screen, in an effort to get my feet back on the ground of regular writing, and since the recent posts on this wretched mess have been about travel, I considered it to be somewhat apropos. Forgiveness, please, if any of what is to come is boring or uninspired. This is more for me than you. Enjoy. Or not. You know, whatever.

_______________________________________________________

Day 1
On Sunday morning, Rebecca and I arose at a leisurely hour- 10 or 10:30- and made final preparations and object gathering for our road trip to New York. We made it out of the apartment and into the car, all systems go, by 11:00, which surprised even me. We got gas and were ready for the open road when a snag arose: I had forgotten my map of NPR stations across the country- the map I essentially paid $35 for when I pledged membership to the local station, incidentally (or perhaps not) for the very reason of road trips. No matter. We were merely one minute from the apartment, so I returned and retrieved it, and we made our way, our long, three mile, arduous way to the interstate.

Interstate 30, to be exact. In our haste to get on the road, we failed to eat anything, and we were both quite hungry, not to mention a little queasy from a night of drinking with Nick and Steve the night before- a sort of unintentional bon voyage, as Steve headed to the farthest Western reaches of the continent the following morning- the polarity of life pulling each of us in opposite directions, at once the same.

We hit standstill traffic just east of downtown Dallas, a strange anomoly on a Sunday, orange cones and police cruisers directing traffic around an invisible accident, at least as it appeared when we passed it. We were anxious to eat, and the choices are not scarce on this stretch of road, but I was determined not to stop until I was unfamiliar with the territory around me. This is how I guage progress. Had we eaten anywhere before Rockwall (which is where I worked at the time -ed.) I would have lost the sense of being on the road, and would be liable to lounge and drag my feet. Rebecca complied, and we waited until we were approximately 82 miles from our starting point, and pulled into an unfamiliar town and ate at an unfamiliar IHOP amongst the post-church crowd.

Stuffed into a tiny two seat table in the back, I accidentally got too animated in a classic Jonathan rant, and said 'fuck' a little too loudly next to a family of five, three of which were under the age of six. Oops. We distracted ourselves from talking until the food came by playing children's games of shaping and reshaping straws into makeshift hearts, which quickly degenerated into some form of flick-soccer or hockey across the table, scoring goals and changing the rules mid-flick to make the game work to our own exclusive advantage. By one, we returned to the highway and continued, or rather, began the long trek.

We traveled approximately 882 miles the first day, eventually surrendering to the hypnosis of the road in La Grange, Kentucky, where we stopped at 4:30 a.m. at a Days Inn. On the way there, we passed through, amongst other little towns, Little Rock, Arkansas, Memphis, and Nashville, Tennessee. In either Memphis or Nashville, we stopped to eat dinner after minutes upon minutes of indecisiveness, at a Shoney's that, while quite crowded when we arrived, quickly cleared out as soon as we sat down. We sat next to one another, as we usually do, and faced the front of the restaurant. Soon, an overweight black woman and her daughter sat next to each other at the table directly in front of us- facing us- and in an instant we were essentially sharing a table with two complete strangers, face to face, as if we were communing with friends or family. With both of us as insecure and inept at dealing with social situations as we are, I cannot speak for Rebecca, but I for one was uncomfortable. I don't like people looking at me. Of course, I realize that this is a very conceited thought- as if the lady across from us even saw us, much less took the time to fully look at us. Her attention would likely have been focused on her daughter, who was clearly severely retarded, or mentally handicapped, or whatever it is you say these days, but even this was not the case.

Perhaps the eleven or twelve years that she has had to deal with her quite needy child had left her numb and spiteful or simply indifferent, which, at any rate, left her free to ignore her daughter and stare silently at her menu, addressing her child only when she became increasingly loud in calling for her mother to look at any number of, to the ordinary mind and perception, inane objects and details. She seemed to continually stare at us, which made me less uncomfortable than if a 'normal' person was doing it. When Rebecca got her baked potato, she hit her head on the low hanging light when she got up to dress it at the buffet table. The little girl found this hilarious, and laughed and laughed. I laughed, too. The little girl quickly diverted her attention to other things, and we ate.

After we left, Rebecca was honest enough to admit that watching the little girl eat (a ridiculously messy sight) was uncomfortable for her, and she had to stop looking in that direction altogether. I felt the same way, but I was reluctant to mention it, as I didn't want to seem like a close-minded fool, simply because a little girl ate messily. As middle class, young, white liberals, we naturally felt guilty.

Friends and Compatriots!

For all my friends from Myspace- my goddamn site has been hijacked and hacked. Maybe I'll get it back, and maybe I won't. Until further events warrant the answer, I shall remain close-lipped. Just prepare yourselves. That's all I'll say.

This is the business, and y'all ain't gettin' nothin' for free.

What is most feared has now become reality. I will return soon, with much aplomb, accolade, and machismo. This, to you, I vow. No one is reading this.

HP stands for Helpful Percy.

Copied below is an actual copy of an actual conversation I had online with an HP representative a few weeks ago when I was drunk. Good people, those HP'ers. I tried to draw him (or her, I'm not sure) out, but to no avail. Professionalism all the way with those people. Salt of the earth, those people! Those people- wow! Helpful, but not personable. And that's what I expect in a computer problem setting. "Take care of my problem, and then kindly fuck off, no matter what I say." Fix my computer, and then kiss my ass. That's why I bought the computer. So you can be subservient to me. Because I bought my computer from the company that you work for. BE SUBSERVIENT TO ME! As a consumer, I DEMAND it, even if I'm drunk!

Chat Transcript Begins Here.

Percy-Hello Jonathan.

jonathan pool- hello..

Percy- Welcome to HP Total Care for Pavilion Notebooks. My name is Percy. How may I assist you today?

jonathan pool-thank you for your courtesy..

jonathan pool- um..

jonathan pool- when i plug in my computer, the screen goes dim. when i unplug it, it gets bright.

Percy- Okay. Could you let me know the following System Information. Serial Number : Model Number : Product Number : The Model, Product and Serial numbers are located on the bottom of the notebook on a white sticker.

jonathan pool- hp pavilion zv6270us

jonathan pool- is that sufficient?

Percy- Yes,that's sufficient.

Percy- Could you please give me a couple of minutes to work on the issue?

jonathan pool- absolutely.

Percy- Thank you.

jonathan pool- Percy, for you, anything.

Percy- Thank you for your time Jonathan.

jonathan pool- Thank you!

Percy- To resolve this issue you need to adjust the Brightness of the display.

jonathan pool- Okay.

Percy- I would like to inform you that the brightness of the screen can be adjust by pressing the following keys Fn + F7 - To decrease the brightness Fn + F8 - To increase the brightness.

jonathan pool- Genius!

jonathan pool- Question..

Percy- You have to increase the brightness when the AC adapter is plugged in the wall socket.

jonathan pool- Is there any particular reason why the notebook would have switched the way it did?

jonathan pool- Because, before, it was doing the opposite.

jonathan pool- i.e., bright when plugged in and vice versa.

Percy- It will only reflect the previous settings.

jonathan pool- How do you mean?

Percy- The setting will be saved for every time they are changed.

jonathan pool- That's what I'm not sure of, because I didn't change any settings.

jonathan pool- So you're saying that if I make the screen dim when it's unplugged using the fn button, it will go dim the next time I unplug it?

Percy- That's correct.

Percy- Let me explain more that the settings for brightness will be saved by Windows whatever have been configured the last time. So if the brightness is made to minimum when AC power is connected then it reflects the same settings next time when you plug the adapter.

Percy- So Windows will make the appropriate settings for the display when the notebook is connected on battery and on AC adapter.

jonathan pool- Interesting. Might it have anything to do with watching things on real player when it was unplugged? like, does real player maybe default to a brighter setting?


Percy- So I suggest you to increase the brightness ( at plug-in position ) and then disconnect the Adapter. Now plug the adapter to test the results. To increase the brightness use Fn+F8 keys.To decrease the brightness use Fn+F7 keys.

Percy- No.

jonathan pool- Excellent. Thank you so much, Percy. You're the cat's meow. And I mean that!

Percy- Is there anything else I can assist you with today?

jonathan pool- Hmm.. no, I guess not. I'm just wondering how it switched the way it did. No matter, I suppose. Unless you have some insight.

Percy- Are you completely satisfied with our service today?

jonathan pool- More than you know.

Percy- I hope you have found this session helpful and informative. A copy of our Chat session will reach you shortly along with a Survey Questionnaire in 24 hours. Please do take your time to tell us what you think of our service. Our exclusive Owner Services will help keep all of your HP and Compaq products up and running. Please visit our Web site at: http://www.hp.com/home/ownerservices

jonathan pool- How are you doing, though?

Percy- I am doing well.Thank you.

Percy- Have a nice time Jonathan.

jonathan pool- They make you be completely professional, huh? You can't have much candid conversation, can you?

jonathan pool- The overnight shift, eh? Where are you guys? California?

jonathan pool- I'll leave you alone, I swear. Just wondering.

Percy- Yes. We are in California.

jonathan pool- How did I guess?

Percy- Have a nice time!

Chat Transcript Ends Here.

Right here is where I was attempting to apologize to my computer-savvy friend, Percy, for being drunk, but he/she didn't give me the chance. Just cut me off and sent me back to the HP homepage. I can't blame him/her, but I won't lie and say that it didn't sting a little. I'll probably never chat with Percy again, but I hope he/she knows that the job that he/she has is a shitty one where you can't even talk to a customer like a normal human being. Seriously, for the first few lines, I asssumed I was just talking to a computer generated response system. Until I asked questions that revealed otherwise. Although, I could be mistaken. I could've been talking to a robot the entire time. What do I know about technology? I'm sure they have computers smart enough to respond to bullshit questions like mine. I hope that's not the case, though. And, I hope that you, Percy, if you're an actual human being, that you find it in yourself, sooner rather than later, that human interaction is more important than a silly job with computers. I say that, but if I could deliver pizzas with a robot, I'd do it in a second. I hate interacting with strangers.