The night after you left me, I went out in the rain. Usually, I’d be reading the paper at that time and you’d be going to bed. I took Route 66 to the Merritt and ended up driving up the Berlin Turnpike.
It was a Wednesday night and no cars were out. It started to sleet and I turned off the radio and the dashboard lights. I liked the darkness and the sound of the sleet on the windshield.
I passed all those old motels, their neon lights on since 1946. I wonder who the hell stays in those places. Fornicators, fugitives and the guy from Lolita. What was his name Humbert Humpfrey? I can’t remember. I smoked a lot and pretended I was Jack Kerouac, driving some beater to California. The road is just motels, porn shops, and diners over and over all the way from New Haven to Hartford. They stand timeless and forgotten.
I think Route 6 must be like this, from Cape Cod to Sacramento. One day I’m going to drive it. I’ll stay in the little motel cabins, sleep late and move on when I feel like it. I’ll eat in roadside hot-dog stands and diners, no Chilis or Outbacks.
I ended up in Hartford, the road was getting slippery. I found 91 and turned on the radio and drove back home without you.