The Trip

 The country was large, though not as flat as he’d first perceived. The Midwest was comprised of greenish hills, covered in scrub and a low place where the water collected and the pink tongue of a cow could be seen from the passing car. The roads, which seemed so central elsewhere, were just byways between row upon row of food. Here is where the country got all their food. The land here didn’t feel as wild as it did in the west, it felt like a place where it had settled, comfortable with itself. He could see tall grain silos, which reminded him of the story of Joseph and his brothers and how terrible parts of the Bible could be. Large bales of hay were stacked in empty fields as if posing for pictures though no one was there to take something in a sepia tone. There weren’t many rivers or trees, and he supposed that they’d have driven up north, towards certain places that were considered the west, soon there would be nothing but rivers and mountains and trees, places like Wyoming and Montana that he had only a vague sense of, not having been there, but imagining them, in all their untouched glory.

On the way, H and his friend spoke a great deal, though often H would find himself staring out the window, watching crows on wires, turkey vultures arcing in the sky and thinking of the plane. His friend, Phillip, loved film. He wanted to talk about silent films by French directors. H didn’t know anything about silent film and found the concept strange. Apparently 85 percent of communication was non-verbal. Maybe this meant that the silent films were only leaving out the ten percent that was less interesting. He tried to imagine a world in which every communication was non-verbal. Years later, he’d think of this car ride on his trip through Florence, looking after the affairs of a woman that he’d loved had met an untimely death. Not now.

The best part about driving is the conversation. Or maybe the best thing about driving is the wind running through your hands. At night they’d stay in a Motel 6 or a Super 8. If they were lucky the continental breakfast would be served starting at six. Otherwise, the two of them would head out onto near empty streets, bits of black tar paved towards the west, a newborn sun rising up over the dark husks of trees.