Indiana

Driving through Indiana is like driving on a treadmill. You get nowhere, and after a while you start to zone and forget what normal walking is like, so you get off and feel like some kind of awkwardly shaped waterfowl gliding around the room until you almost hit a concrete barrier or the flashing lights show up because they think you must be strung out, drunk, or exhausted, but in fact it’s just Indiana, it’s just a million empty handicapped spots in the middle of a corn field and a dusty highway, a thousand rest stops with broken down bathrooms and out-of-order vending machines. A fat cop sweating out a ticket with a radar gun and a tabloid, smearing ink on greasy hands, waiting for you.