Road to Nowhere

I had been on the road for days, or maybe weeks; the concept of time seemed like an illusion, a joke played by the universe. My real name was lost to me, buried beneath layers of disillusionment and existential fatigue. Aaron? Adam? Brandon? Carl? No, my name began with an “A,” whatever it was. Names were only a beginning, a means to an end. Descriptive things to be used as identifiers and discarded when their function was no longer relevant. Mine had been forgotten long ago, and I have adopted many since. Lately, it had been Max. The highway stretched endlessly before me, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the heart of the American night. My car, a rusty old Cadillac that had seen better days, rumbled beneath me like a loyal but equally weary companion. I call her “Luna”, because she always sees me through the night.

I wasn't sure why I was here, or where I was going. The world had lost its color, its meaning, like an old photograph fading into sepia-toned obscurity. It was as though the universe had pulled back the curtain, revealing a desolate stage devoid of purpose. I felt like a character in a story, one without a script, a role, or even a character arc. My mind was a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts, each one more absurd than the last. It was as if I had fallen into the rabbit hole, and there was no way out, no Cheshire cat to guide me, no Mad Hatter's tea party to provide a semblance of order.

Yet, despite the absurdity and meaninglessness that clung to my existence like the shit-stain of a boot heel, I couldn't stop driving. There was a force, a compulsion deep within me, urging me to continue. It was as if I was searching for something, though I couldn't quite put my finger on what that something was. I was simply following instinct at this point. Better to do the foolish with both eyes open than to convince myself I had a plan, as my grandfather used to say. To that end, I’d picked up some essentials to live out of my car and set out to go somewhere. Nowhere. Wherever. I couldn’t tell you the last time I shaved or combed my hair, although I had a shower yesterday. Gotta keep clean, when I can. That was my uncle, I think. The second half of the statement was “always use a condom”.

I had picked up a hitchhiker a few miles back, a woman who said her name was Nannette with wild, bloodshot eyes and a grin that sent shivers down my spine. She had materialized on the side of the road with her thumb out, like some kind of Nashville ghost. She called herself Nannette, and she spoke in riddles and rhymes, her words ignoring the lines of coherence. She claimed to be a Malkavian, and whether it was a persona or a reflection of her inner chaos, I couldn't say. She said it meant she was a vampire. I figured that was as good an explanation as any. I told her I was one of the Maiar. She wasn’t sure what that meant, so I told her it was a type of wizard. She nodded, understanding blooming across her face.

"Life is a circus," she said, her voice a low, seductive whisper that tugged at the frayed edges of my consciousness with an eeriness that was difficult to place. "And we're the clowns, dancing on the edge of oblivion, our painted smiles masking whatever it is that truly lies beneath."

I nodded, not because I understood her, but because it didn't matter. Nothing did. Looking out at the dark expanse of the desert, oblivion felt an appropriate term, and what was that white line on the highway meant to do, if not mark the edge? At least in this metaphor, I get to wear bright colors and act the fool. Love them or loathe them, it was difficult to be indifferent on the matter of clowns. A perfect canvas for projection.

Lulled into thought by the stream of consciousness sitting beside me, my mind began to wander back to a time when life had held some semblance of purpose. I remembered the face of a woman I had once loved, her laughter a distant echo in my memory. It had been a different world then, one filled with hope and dreams of a future that now seemed impossibly distant. I wondered what had become of her, whether she had found her own path or had succumbed to the same sense of futility that now plagued me? The thought of her brought a bittersweet ache to my chest, a reminder of the life I had lost.

Nannette, likely sensing my melancholy, leaned over and placed a hand on my shoulder. Her touch was surprisingly warm, a stark contrast to the cold, tarnished chrome of Luna’s detailing. "We all carry ghosts with us," she said softly, her voice carrying a note of sympathy. "The past has a way of catching up to us, no matter how fast we try to run from it." The way she looked at my face as she said it convinced me that she could read my mind, if only for a second. Maybe she really was a vampire.

“I had a wife, once,” I confessed, my gaze drifting to where my wedding ring used to sit. “We even discussed having kids one day, once I made Architect. Life had other plans, though. After I lost my job, she found happiness elsewhere. Now I’m just trying to do the same. I’m not running away from the past; I’m running towards the future,” I paused. “I hope, anyway.”

We drove on in what passed for apparent silence with Nannette, the road a too-big anaconda from some B-grade horror movie laid out before us as she idly chatted about following signals that were leading her somewhere. The radio emitted static-filled tunes from a bygone era, their melancholic melodies adding to the dissonance of what sounded vaguely like “Journey” being broadcast from a radio station a lifetime away. Nannette cocked her head to the side before reaching out a hand and turning the volume up. Before I knew it, my world had become a buzzing screech of static. Nannette began to speak along to “Don’t Stop Believing,” whether that’s what was playing or not. The overall effect gave me goosebumps.

The headlights carved a path through the darkness, revealing a desolate landscape of forgotten dreams and shattered illusions one slice at a time. Abandoned vehicles and trailers dotted the landscape at irregular intervals, coming up out of nowhere and turning back into vaguely large boulders just as quickly as I left them behind. I felt like I was in a dream, or maybe a nightmare. Reality was a distant memory in any case, a ghost of a world I used to know. I shook my head as what appeared to be a wolf, or maybe a large coyote, easily kept pace with the car, just off the side of the road. 85 mph. That couldn’t be right. It veered off into the night, answering a chilling howl from the distance. A sign materialized out of the darkness on the side of the road indicating that our exit was coming up in about an hour.

I was going Nowhere, truth be told, and I found myself thankful at the decision to stop and pick up Nannette. If nothing else, the way she babbled gave me something to focus on aside from the bleakness of the waste around us. All I knew was that out somewhere in front of me was a place called “Nowhere,” a so-called “Free City” located in the middle of the desert. It generally wasn’t a place that people sought out, but rather a place they ended up. I figured it was as good as any a place to wind up on purpose. Besides, I was curious. The way the kids back home spoke of the city, in hushed tones and with a tone of fear and awe, only added to the place’s attraction. Near as I could tell, Nannette just wanted a ride anywhere, and Nowhere seemed as good a place as any. I suppose that meant she was going home.

Nannette reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. She took a swig, her lips caressing the bottle's neck, and then offered it to me. I took it, not because I wanted it, but because it was something to do. My mouth parched itself in anticipation.

"Drink up, Max," she said, her voice drowned out by the volume of the static, her eyes glinting against the darkness. "It's the only way to numb the pain."

I reached out to turn down the radio to a more tolerable level before reaching for the bottle. I couldn't help but wonder if this was all there was to life. A never-ending journey on a road to nowhere, accompanied by a madwoman and a bottle of bourbon. It was a nihilistic existence, but it was all I had.

I took a long pull, the burning liquid searing my throat. It was like swallowing fire, but at least it felt real. The world had become a surreal, disjointed place, and the bourbon provided a welcome anchor to sanity, or what was left of it. I imagined this must be how Hemingway felt and could see the appeal of his solution to the problem.

As Nannette rambled, the landscape shifted around us, morphing from the barren desert into a surreal dreamscape as the signs of human habitation became more and more frequent. Giant cacti twisted into grotesque shapes, casting eerie shadows in the moonlight. The stars above dwindled, only the brightest constellations visible in ways that I had never seen before. It was as if we had crossed into another dimension, a realm where reality and imagination were indistinguishable. I pressed the gas pedal down a little harder, giving the Luna the go-ahead to pick up the pace a little. I was beginning to lose my nerve against the darkness. I grabbed the bottle and consumed the contents against the night, allowing the scorch of the liquid to temper my resolve. I did not let up on the gas pedal, however. Better to get Nowhere fast, as my grandmother used to say.

Nannette's presence, though unsettling, was strangely comforting in its oddities. We exchanged glances, unspoken words passing between us, a silent acknowledgment of our shared descent into the abyss. It was as if we were two sides of the same fractured coin, each reflecting the other's insanity.

"Max," Nannette began, her voice softer now, more grounded, "do you ever wonder why we're here? Why we're on this road to nowhere? I’ve seen people turn into demons right before my eyes, you know. My husband did that. Turned into a demon, I mean. He wasn’t human anymore. I’m not sure what he is now, but something about him changed. I saw it. I’m one of those, whaddayacallits, survivors."

I stared at the empty road ahead, the lines blurring together in a hypnotic dance. "I stopped wondering a long time ago. Why we’re here doesn't matter, Nannette. Nothing does. Your husband, my wife. Demons. Abuse. Neglect. Abandonment. Grief. Anger. In the end, it’s all just a challenge to be overcome. Nothing deeper than that."

Nannette, her eyes fixed on the otherworldly scenery, whispered, "Sometimes, Max, you have to lose yourself to find something greater. Embrace the chaos, and you might discover the hidden beauty in this world of illusions. Or keep fighting it and convince yourself that nothing matters. Either way, I can see the city coming up over the horizon. Whatever you’re going to do, you’ll have to figure it out one way or the other.”

The skyline of Nowhere was a jagged collage of architectural styles and epochs rising against the night, more impressive than the gal on Channel 9 said it would be. Skyscrapers reached for the sky, their heights punctuated by structures that seemed to defy the laws of gravity and reason. Gargoyles leered from the rooftops, their stone faces frozen in grotesque expressions, while neon signs flickered and sputtered, casting an eerie glow upon the streets below and wiping out the stars with their arrogance and pollution. The constant flux born of limitless freedom caused an ever-changing landscape, but somehow the core structures always seemed to remain standing. Underneath the haphazard stylizations, it was clear that somebody was maintaining the grounds upon which everything was built. I chuckled to myself. Always the architect, I guess, marveling at the logistics of it all. Nobody who has ever gone in and come back out has spilled the secrets, though. What happens in Nowhere stays in Nowhere. If you wish to find out, check it out for yourself. Pack extra underwear and twice as many socks as you think you’ll need. “Figure it out for myself” was precisely what I planned to do, too.

"Nannette, have you heard the legend of Nowhere?" I asked, interrupting as the city's bizarre skyline loomed on the horizon. Nannette turned to me, her eyes dancing.

"Legend?" she inquired.

I nodded, my gaze fixed on the city. "They say that Nowhere is a place where reality blurs, where dreams and nightmares coexist. Some believe it's a portal to another dimension. Others say it's a city built by those who have lost their way, searching for meaning. Whatever it is, it's said to hold secrets beyond imagination."

Nannette gave me a look. “You don’t have to go anywhere special to find all that,” she said simply. “I hear there’s a decent pizza joint somewhere in the city though. It’s ran by a guy who pedals his bicycle and pizza oven around the city, bringing the most delicious pizza you’ve ever tasted,” Nannette’s eyes grew cloudy for a moment as she trailed off before continuing, “Only there’s also all the other guys who know about that one guy and give you the worst pizza you’ve ever had with a smile. Bastards. They all go by the name ‘Rick Shaw’, making them impossible to tell apart.” Nannette spat out the window.

As a young man, I would’ve laughed at the story. Now that I was a little older, I simply assumed that Rick Shaw was a fiction from the start. A marketing ploy to keep selling bad pizza to a captive audience under the guise that, if you’re lucky, you’ll find the only Rick Shaw in the city with a slice of pizza that makes trying them all worth the effort. One of the worst things that I ever did for myself was learn the language of business. Once you see how the world works, it loses a lot of the charm.

I glanced over to take a good look at Nannette. Her attire was a hodgepodge of mismatched layers. She wore an oversized black blazer that had clearly seen better days, its faded fabric adorned with patches of various shapes and colors and the shoulder pads bulging out well beyond the end of her emaciated shoulders. Underneath, she was pure grunge—frayed, tight-fitting jeans, a button-down flannel shirt with missing buttons worn over an old Nirvana t-shirt, and a collection of mismatched socks that peeked out from beneath her scuffed ankle boots. Her wrists jingled with a cacophony of bangles and bracelets.

When Nannette spoke, her words danced on the edge of coherence, often delivered in cryptic rhymes and riddles that made less and less sense the longer I listened. She rambled between topics, touching on life and death and God and Satan and Demons and Reality as easily as if she were discussing what she had for breakfast. Her laughter, too, had a whiskey-soaked quality, as if she'd spent nights in smoky bars, sharing stories with the night owls and misfits. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her puff on the butt of her Newport. I passed her back the bottle, her words still filling the air.

Nannette and I sat inside Luna, sliding the bourbon back and forth as we drove towards the megalithic and labyrinthine city slowly coming into focus before us. The worn-out leather seats creaking as I shifted in the driver’s chair, the scent of stale weed and tobacco mingling with dusty memories lingering in the air. The car was a relic, a hulking beast that had weathered countless miles of asphalt and existential contemplation asking only for her fill of gasoline in return. Her dashboard, cracked and faded like the memories that plagued my thoughts, stared back at me with a stoic indifference. I noticed that Nannette was being quiet and glanced over. At some point she had lit a cigarette and was now enjoying the breeze, her eyes closed against the night.

The relentless desert winds whispered through the open windows, carrying the scent of distant rain—a promise of elusive relief from the oppressive heat. The breeze brought with it the faint aroma of creosote bushes and bramble roses, mingling with the acrid scent of Nannette's almost-finished cigarette. The taste of bourbon lingered on Max's lips, a fiery counterpoint to the coolness of the night, as if the universe itself couldn't decide whether to soothe or scorch.

I watched her as she took a drag, her bloodshot eyes reflected a world of weariness as they locked onto the city’s mind-boggling skyline. Her wild and unkempt charcoal-black hair framed a face burdened by time and used to unkindess. A platinum blonde bun, perched precariously atop her head, defied the laws of gravity. She already looked like she belonged, perfectly at ease sitting shotgun in the passenger side of a stranger’s car.

Nannette's voice, raspy and gravelly, cut through the haze of my thoughts. "Max," she began, her words flowing like a disjointed river of consciousness, "have you ever tasted the rain on your lips and wondered if it was the tears of gods or the sweat of angels?" I blinked, the question hanging in the air as I was taken aback by the abruptness of it. I could almost taste the rain, cool and refreshing, as it promised to wash away the dust of the road.

"I've tasted the rain," I replied, "but I've given up on where it comes from. It falls. I get wet. Life goes on."

Nannette's laughter, a haunting echo of a forgotten carnival, filled the car. She leaned back against the cracked upholstery, her fingers dancing with the rhythm of her own thoughts as her eyes darted around the Cadillac. They settled on a tube of lip balm in her purse. She puts it on, before absent-mindedly putting it in my cup-holder.

"You see, Max," she continued, her words a surreal tapestry of ideas, "reality is like a shattered mirror, reflecting fragments of the absurd and the mundane. We're just shards of that mirror, trying to piece together a coherent image in a world where coherence is an illusion. If you move the shards, the image changes. That’s why I’m out here, y’know? I’ve got kids back there, somewhere. But now I’m here, and I’m just trying to change the way I look at my shards to see if they show me something different.”

I nodded, my senses overwhelmed as they try desperately to keep up. I could feel Luna vibrating in anticipation under me, the rhythm of the road merging with Nannette's words to create a dissonant symphony that made it difficult to focus. I reached for the bottle of bourbon on the seat between us, its glass cool to the touch, and took a long swig. The burning sensation, like liquid fire, coursed through my veins, grounding me once again in the tangible world. If nothing else, Nannette had a point. Sort of. Buried somewhere beneath all the noise.

Nannette's fingers, adorned with rings that seemed to hold secrets of their own, traced patterns in the air as she continued to speak, seemingly oblivious to my existence despite speaking directly at me. “Do you ever wonder if we're all just characters in a cosmic dream, Max? The universe's attempt at storytelling, where the plot twists are as unpredictable as the road? Once you know where you’re going, you can get there well enough. I think there’s something to that."

She doesn’t wait for me to respond, as she turns the radio up once again. I gaze out at the ever-changing landscape, the desert morphing into a surreal dreamscape highlighted by the relatively straight and narrow nature of the highway and considered Nannette's words. I could almost taste the manufactured flavor of it all, like a fever dream from which I couldn't wake.

"Maybe," I said to myself, my voice a whisper against the din of the silent desert, "or maybe we're the ones dreaming, trying to make sense of a world that defies logic and reason."

She had a way of moving that was both graceful and unpredictable, a dancer caught in the throes of a chaotic waltz, unprepared and forced to rely solely on her improvisational skills to carry her through. Her gestures were accompanied by the rhythmic clinking of the trinkets adorning her wrists, creating a discordant but oddly mesmerizing symphony as she snatched the bottle and brought it to her lips. Nannette's presence was magnetic. It was difficult to keep my eyes from her, as if she were a hallucination borne of my own fractured psyche. Or maybe I was a hallucination of hers? That would explain why she looked surprised whenever I spoke. The bourbon she provided tasted real enough, though I couldn’t help but notice that I was not feeling drunk. Besides, I’m the one with the thoughts.

Nannette sighed; her gaze fixed on the dark, never-changing landscape outside as her fingers tapped out a syncopated rhythm on her thigh. I could sense her growing restlessness. "Maybe you're right, Max. Maybe the only way to survive this madness is to embrace it." Nannette's words hung in the air as I took another swig from the bourbon bottle. I didn’t recall saying anything of the sort.

And so, we drove on, two lost minds on a highway to nowhere, in a world that had lost all meaning. Luna’s engine humming steadily below us as she hungrily consumed the pavement revealed by the fading headlights. The night stretched out before us, an unforgiving canvas for our thoughts and our spiral into the unknown. The bourbon flowed, and with each passing mile, we delved deeper into the shadows of our own minds. How had Nannette put it? “Clowns dancing on the edge of oblivion.” It was a journey with vague destination, a quest without purpose, and in the depths of that night, I found a strange kind of solace—a connection with Nannette, with the madness of the world, and with my own terrified soul.