williamjesse.com
I wrote this when I returned to NY after visiting a friend in LA. My inspiration---sitting in traffic.
THE END OF BUTTON COPY
A Story from the End of Interstate 9
By William J Hopper
Far out along one of those expansive stretches of highway between somewhere between Massachusetts and the west coast, there existed a lonesome interstate sign. His shielded shape was not dissimilar from any other interstate markers along the road, but his design was certainly the oldest. His face was blue, and bore a large reflective ʻ9ʼ, giving him the formal name of Blue Nine.
Blue Nine was unashamedly a loner. His body jut out crookedly from a muddy ditch along the north side of the road. His shiny face was slicked with a layer of slate colored grime, which only washed away in the heaviest of summer rainstorms. He was the first marker some 25 miles since the last gas station, and the last marker until the state line, some 52 miles ahead. Needless to say he was a lone ranger, and it was imperative to do his job, and do it well, for there were not many others to do it for him.
As solemn as Blue Nine appeared, he was quite content. The most unique feature of his design were the small reflective circles that ran over the ʻ9ʼ in the center of his body. Each circle, or button, was evenly spaced, convex, and bold.
Sometimes on a humid July morning, the sky would open up and ten thousand water droplets would wash across his face, rinsing the smut off each button. As evening set in, the western sun would project streaks of sorbet tinted light across the dotted 9, and he would proudly bounce it back with all his strength. The reflection would sprint across the interstate, gliding parallel over the dashed yellow lines between the two lanes. His light traveled with sheer intensity, and if Blue Nine really concentrated, he thought it might reach the coast of California.
In this purest fundamental function, Blue Nine found the most comfort. He lived for the ephemeral moments when a car or truck would whoosh by, and he could stand confident to reassure the traveler that their destination lay somewhere ahead.
At night, each of his buttons reflected the black sky and all itʼs pinhole stars. On any given evening, just one of his buttons had the capacity to reflect 360 degrees of the sky. Itʼs amazing, really. If you consider having six thousand stars replicated over and over across your face. The wrinkles you and I bare are concave, and are too dull to reflect anything but the years weʼve spent on earth. But Blue Nineʼs buttons, each like an iris, would allow his cheeks to blaze with a hundred thousand stars. So you see, as bachelor of the interstate, he did quite well for himself. Without question he fulfilled his life-task with passion and fervor, even if he was at best, a lop-sided piece of steel sinking into the mud.
Over time he collected fast food bags, cigarette butts, beer bottles and the occasional Toyota hubcap around the base of his neck. This ruff collar was far less glamorous than any bed of wild daisies, but he owned it, even though his body listed dangerously towards the embankment.
One drowsy evening after a passing summer storm left the sky squeaky clean, a pair of headlights approached along the interstate where it dipped below the horizon. The car jerked back and forth as it came closer; itʼs driver intoxicated. Blue Nineʼs white trim washed out in the headlamps. In his last moment, the interstate sign stayed fixed to his spot, doing only what he knew. His reflections penetrated the darkness, in a vain final gesture to be noticed by the car.
Before his neck was bent and his face thrown into the ditch, a last thought flashed through his mind. He was grateful that the mud didnʼt get him.
****
Some weeks went by. Passing cars on the road did not miss Blue Nine, for there was no proof of his existence, save a few tire tracks burned into the asphalt that disappeared off the road into the ditch Then early one morning, a maroon pick up truck pulled over alongside the embankment. A man with an orange hardhat and calloused palms pulled the interstate sign from the brush and tossed the twisted metal body into the back of the truck.
The next morning, a new signpost was erected. They buried it in the ground, making sure it was nowhere near the muddy sinkhole of its forerunner. The new fixture was sharp-edged, pristine and radiant. It was so glaring in fact, that travelers had to drop their visors down or lower their sunglasses when they passed.
The most distinguishing feature of the New Nine however, was his flat face. He was entirely 2 dimensional. He was cheap. His 9 was plain, entirely buttonless. His lack of personality was the reason why many off course travelers passed him without taking notice, while they bickered over upside-down glove compartment maps.
As the maroon pick up bumped along the interstate, and the man in the orange hat wiped away corn muffin crumbs from his lap, Blue Nine laid in the back and experienced for the first time what it felt like to be moving. He knew the final stop of this drive would be the scrap yard, but he chose not to dwell on such a thought. In the meanwhile he cast his buttons to the sky and watched everything that passed him. He saw clouds float by, trees, telephone wires, birds, buildings, planes, other road signs, and even a kite. Somehow these were familiar destinations to him, though heʼd never seen them before. These were sites that he promised to many on their journey, and he could only trust the suit that he wore that these sites did in fact exist beyond him. It was the direction he provided to so many travelers that gave him the contentment of living. Now he was traveling his own route, and was in every way, satisfied.
