Georgia is for Others

I love a good road trip. Hell, a bad road trip is still better than the average work day. There's just something fulfilling about throwing a bunch of supplies and whatnot into a bag and setting out your door for distant locales. It satisfies, in a sadly safe way, the occasional bout of wanderlust that i suspect plagues most males from time to time.

This week i find myself in Georgia visiting a very dear friend of mine from high school, Matt Grajcar. He had moved down south of the Mason Dixon line about a year ago from the New York Metro (read: New Jersey) stomping grounds of our youth. Technically there was a four-year matriculation in Rochester in between NJ and GA, but my frostbitten toes still haven't forgiven my for spending a year up there, so i don't like to talk about it much.

As Matt's sister pointed out, the sky is enormous here. Everything just feels so spread out, almost stretched. You can drive for 15 minutes through northern New Jersey and pass through five or six different towns. Here, you'll never leave the city of Canton, though i couldn't for the life of me point out where exactly the town center is. Its as if the surrounding countryside had been populated to the point where they needed to put down some arbitrary boundaries and call it a new town. We'll call it Canton because otherwise we wouldn't know how to refer to this expanse of road in between Atlanta and North Bumblefuk.

The heat is oppressive. My immune system is quite strong, but my constitution is compromised by an inability to regulate temperature very readily. I overheat quickly and easily, and while my relatively ineffective sweat glands are a blessing in social situations, they are not up to the task of protecting me from the sun which feels all to close for my comfort. I swear the thing looks bigger down here.

The rain keeps me sane and hale. The clouds come up quickly out of nowhere, obscuring vast amounts of sky in a matter of minutes and pouring down a gentle layer of static over the life of sleepy Georgia. The patrons in my little coffee shop hunker down and wait for it to pass, tic-tacking on their laptops or murmuring over their game of Rummy. I alone venture into the vibrant precipitation, luxuriating in the soothing pattern of sensation over my shoulders and neck.

Then the bastard sun busts in like a bouncer breaking up a fight shoos the clouds on their way.

I think he's watching me. And i'm sure he doesn't like me.