A Boring Interstate Story

He drove out of the driveway slow, thinking about what he left behind. Turned up the radio and settled in to the drive. It was early morning in August. Through his window he could see tall corn, fully tasseled. The beans were growing vines, closing the rows. The tops of the beets were up where they had been watered, flat where they were dry.

Drove down the hill to Highway 26 and turned east at Minatare. Looking out over the pasture his uncle owned, he saw prairie dogs he shot at as a boy. He put on his sunglasses and opened a packet of sunflower seeds, spitting the shells into an empty soda can in his cupholder. He took off his shoes and loosened his seatbelt.

Some of the farmers had just baled their hay, and the large round bales dotted the hills. He followed the North Platte on until he came to Lake McConaughy, driving exactly nine miles per hour faster than the speed limit, slowing down when he saw white cars, or anything with a ski rack.

In Ogallala he pulled up to the drive-through at Runza and ordered a Swiss-mushroom cabbage burger, French fries and a Dr. Pepper soda. As he drove onto Interstate 80, he put the soda in the cup holder and the sack on the floor by his feet. He held the wheel with his knees as unwrapped half of the cabbage burger. The cheese was hot and melted, savory with the cabbage and beef. He was careful not too eat too fast and burn his mouth. He ate the fries three at a time, wishing he could have ketchup, but not wanting to make a mess.

The food tasted good but it made his stomach hurt. As he passed North Platte he grew weary of the drive. He pushed the cruise control up until the speedometer read 82 and drove in the left lane. Nothing but open land all around him. Truck drivers looked at him when he passed, sometimes giving him a one-finger wave. He thought about the people in the cars, about where they were going, what they were doing with their lives. Cars with license plates from places other than Nebraska interested him the most.

The silos of Cozad and Gothenburg meant that he still had a long way to go. He turned down the radio and recited the three poems he knew – catching on parts of “The Genius of the Crowd.” The sun in the west made everything sharp and clear. Passed the meatpacking town of Lexington, where he had many friends, to Wood River. He pulled off at the Bosselman’s to fill gas. He bought a 20-ounce Mountain Dew, a can of mint Skoal, and a packet of Gardetto’s.

He got back in his car and watched the needle on the gas gauge go from E to F. It always gave him a good feeling to have a full tank of gas. It was a hundred miles to Lincoln and the sun was going down.

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