High lonesome on the old road.
There's something about motels. Maybe it's the condensation of that high lonesome feeling I get when I'm traveling alone, just my thoughts falling to a natural state of rest and rhythm. Sometimes, it's the endless unfolding of farmland around a thin strip of asphalt, and the way the flat land goes for miles and miles like it never does back home, amplifying the moment one inhabits, and sometimes it's those long night drives, mostly cradled in the scoop of light from headlights, with passing towns rising up in a flare of brilliance, then falling back into the mirrors like a fading memory.
I used to watch the lights in the passing houses and wonder what lives were playing out in there, and what those people I'd never meet were like in a conversation, or see a grown man awkwardly cycling down a farm track on a bike best deployed by a little girl with bags of meat swinging from the handlebars, on his way to who knows where.
When there were still hitchhikers, I would always pick them up, occasionally going way off course so I could drop them off to other destinations if the small talk was sufficiently amusing.
When I'd feel myself running out of steam, I'd look for the old places, the little mom and pop motels on the road that had been bypassed by the main highway a lifetime ago. When signs proudly claimed AMERICAN OWNED, I'd keep going, as those places invariably had bad internet and worse owners, and you'd never find a looser toilet seat than the one in a room maintained by a place with too many chintzy flags out front. I'd set a threshhold and a timeframe, start looking, then stop wherever I landed when the time ran out.
I'd unpack my things, using the luggage rack with the straps, carefully arranging my things into a home for the night, and would set up at the desk in my room, open up my computer, plug in my earphones, and set off to write from what I'd seen, and from those high lonesome feelings, where the world outside is on pause and I'm midway, with something to say in the half-light between realms.
The older I get, the less thrill there is in driving, but when there's somewhere utilitarian at the end of a day, with the AC turned up too cold and the sounds of passing tractor trailers filling the room, I could drive forever, jarring loose the narratives, then settle in with the tools of transcription and a little music, and begin.
©2025 Joe Belknap Wall
