Going to Look for America
by David Henne
And there it was, shining in the night like Francis Scott Key's museóthat mystical wonder of our homeland. Like him, I too rose suddenly from sleep with the beauty of America dancing in my mind. Regardless of the time, which was about four AM, I knew I had to begin my journey right away. (Sure, maybe it was because I accidentally left that Simon and Garfunkel track on repeat before I fell asleep, but I wouldn't let that audio-hypnosis nonsense shortchange this newfound lucidity).
I threw together some makeshift luggage without considering my imported jeans and Italian blazer. This sack was loaded with Lynryd Skynyrd CDs, deep fried hamburgers, and my steel-toed, patriotic construction boots that were made in China. I began to write a letter to mother about my whereabouts, but ultimately decided to forego the paperworkóI resolved that I would call mom from a roadside telephone later that day, telling her to attend our planned trip to the nursery without me. The geraniums would have to wait; America was in bloom.
Neglecting my parasol I darted outside in the early morning rain. I'd been a buffoon up until this point, festering within the catacombs of my domicile, having the shores of Long Island keep me prisoner like Billy Joel's overbearing parents. I had to venture out while I still could. I considered my future for a moment, a glimpse of what might become of my sedentary self. I imagined waking up at sixty without knowing what color the grass was in North Dakota or how the grass tasted in Colorado. Or worst of all, not knowing what Kentucky looked like lying on the grass without its shirt on. No, this elderly imbecile would not be me! I jumped into my Cutlass Supreme and started the car, laughing into the upholstery while reflecting on the manic brilliance of my impetuousnessóthen quickly running back inside to put on my imported jeans because I'd forgotten to put on any pants, and I only owned that one pair.
I drove west from my house and contemplated on what glorious landmarks awaited me. The mighty Mississippi! The glorious Mount Rushmore! The untrustworthy Lake Eerie. I'd bring all these sights back within the timeless photography of my mind, and display them on the backdrop of retrospect. (If that didn't work, I had my digital camera). And the Westerners I'd meet! The differences in accents: drawls, slurs, twangsóI'd smile and nod during conversation with polite confusion and ambiguity. They'd respond with country authenticity, inviting me inside their houses and displaying that hospitable attitude middle-Americans are so renowned for. Then they'd kick me out after I'd accuse them all of supporting terrorism with their blind, vulnerable generosity.
Oh, America! I'm rushing towards you, driving my automobile across your majestic back with vigorous ambition, just like our founding fathers had done in their time!
That reminded me; I had to purchase some gas, if I was to fulfill my Manifest Destiny.
I pulled into the local petrol station and told the gentleman at full serve
to "fill'er up!" while darting inside to urinate (urinating
was the first of many things I'd neglected when the morning's
adrenaline kicked in). "What's the charge, my good American
sir?" I asked as I returned to my auto. Forty-two-fifty,
he informed me.
Forty.
Two.
Fifty.
. . .
I returned home in time to catch a couple quick hours of sleep before the morning trip to the nursery, making sure to eject the Simon and Garfunkel CD, and replacing it with some soothing Celine Dion.
. . . Oh, Canada! A magical land where American currency is still somewhat strong, I can feel your frozen kisses! I yearn for you! I can see an energy efficient dogsled racing me across your magnificent tundra!