Ohio Is Just Like That
| Amelia Meyer | untethered
Ohio Is Just Like That
Stopped at a service plaza on the Ohio Turnpike halfway between nowhere and nothing, to pee and do anything but stare at moving trucks for a while.
The women's bathroom is wet.
The floors are wet.
The walls are wet.
The stall dividers are wet.
The toilet seats are wet.
The toilet paper is wet.
The paper towels are wet.
The ceiling is wet.
The mirrors are wet.
There is standing water in the wet trash cans.
The bathroom is wet.
There is a wet trail of footprints from the bathroom to every exit of the plaza building.
There is no such trail from the men's bathroom.
Do the men not pee?
Or are they denied the privilege of wet?
One must wonder if the men are happy, deprived as they are of the wet.
There is 100 miles to my charge stop.
I pass a tanker of liquid hydrogen.
The right lane is closed.
A sports car passes me at over 30mph delta.
A collapsed farm drifts past.
There is 100 miles to my charge stop.
A field of rusty farm equipment passes.
The left lane is closed.
I pass a tanker of liquid hydrogen.
A line of high-tension towers marches away into free distance.
The sky reaches down to grab the horizon in every direction.
There is 100 miles to my charge stop.
A state trooper pulls out of his hiding spot in the median.
He is so close I cannot see his headlights in my rearview mirror.
He exits the turnpike 25 miles later.
There is 100 miles to my charge stop.
I pass a tanker of liquid hydrogen.
The right lane is closed.
A state trooper memorial sign is falling over.
The left lane is closed.
There is 100 miles to my charge stop.
A driver stands, watching an invisible flame consume a tanker of liquid hydrogen.
The sky gloats at us crawling along beneath it.
There are 100 miles to my charge stop.
I enter another county.
A woman screams past on a violet motorcycle, twin braids flying behind her as long as the bike.
The right lane is closed.
My podcast episodes are all finished.
The sky glares at me sullenly.
There are 100 miles to my charge stop.
I enter another county.
I pass a sign advertising food at a service plaza.
None of the logos are familiar.
Gas is $3.119 per gallon.
I enter another county.
There are 100 miles to my charge stop.
A field of radio masts strain up fruitlessly to scratch the leering sky.
I enter another county.
A woman stands on a portable lift, squeegeeing an array of solar panels.
There are 100 miles to my charge stop.
The service plaza for my charge stop is deserted.
One woman appears at the pizza counter.
They are out of pizza.
They are also out of salads.
They are out of ingredients for Italian or ham subs.
I can order a turkey sub, though.
I order a turkey sub.
She asks if I want anything else.
I order a drink.
They are out of drinks.
A triple-trailer FedEx drones past.
The flags move listless and limp on the pole outside the plaza building.
Another triple-trailer FedEx drones past.
The red light flashes on top of a water tower.
Another triple-trailer FedEx drones past.
The woman calls my name and hands me my sub and an empty cup.
I try the fountains.
They are out of drinks.
I had ordered the sub toasted.
The oven is broken.
I hand the woman back the empty cup.
She says it is for my drink.
I did not order a drink.
They are out of drinks.
I throw out the cup.
I put the sub in my car and return to the plaza to use the restroom.
The restroom is wet.