The Sun Is Shining on Worcester This Evening
I keep seeing signs for Concord, hoping the GPS won’t send me through there. Thankfully, the route between Ponyhenge and Reading seems to avoid it. Now I don’t have to worry about any memories it could stir. “Those feelings would just be temporary” anyways, which is a mantra that seems to have worked lately while still waiting for the supposedly cleansing perspective of time. As I ponder all that and push the rental car towards I-95, though, I wonder if I’m being too dramatic. “Too Xanga-y” is the description I scribble in the notebook at a red light, physically cringing as I remember the days of high school-era online journals. Shit, maybe this website and the work I’ve been sharing here for well over a decade is merely the same thing. And if it is, maybe that’s ok.
Ponyhenge. Lincoln, MA.
Fuck all that, though. The coffee’s kicked in, the sun’s shining, and I’m at a classic mansard roof McDonald’s craving a Big Mac. The kind my friend Doug and I used to eat after long days working at the amusement park.
McDonald’s. Reading, MA.
This sandwich is somehow both unfulfilling and everything I’ve ever wanted. On my phone, I see that there’s a bunch of cool shit pinned to the map, but I’ve only got one roll of 35mm in my bag. I have to be selective. Route 1 it is.
McDonald’s. Reading, MA.
• • •
I don’t think the season would matter much, but for the sake of really hammering this point home, let’s say it’s winter. Brutally cold with not much to look forward to because even when it technically arrives on the calendar—you know you’re gonna have to put “spring” in quotation marks as there’ll still be gray snow piled up everywhere. After responding to emails all day at a job that’s alright, but not what you really wanna do in life (because despite your best efforts to do that, you still gotta make rent), you walk outside into the last glimmers of January daylight.
It’s Friday and all you truly desire is to go home, walk the dog, and drift off with some cheap booze. Yet, you can’t risk wasting the weekend. Or, rather, you can’t risk that you might regret wasting the weekend. So, you head straight into the abyss of Route 1. There’s no monetary toll on this stretch of asphalt, but there is a mental one. Your turn signal’s flashing, but that means nothing to no one. It’s now or never.
Confrontation in the form of a harsh horn and pair of middle fingers isn’t what you want, but you also have no sympathy for those who still fly the Confederate flag or drive impractically large pickup trucks. If someone’s gotta get cut off this evening, it might as well be the country music cosplayer on the starboard side of your sedan.
Paul McCartney’s “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas” time comes on the radio. With no time to adjust the dial away from that auditory garbage—you make your move aggressively, yet gracefully. Two lanes crossed. Now just stick the landing.
You’re riding the breaks and signaling a slow down, but tis the time of holiday cheer—so you pray to Santa Claus that the person behind you won’t slam into your chipped-window car and cause an accident you can’t really afford (although, it would be a good excuse to finally get the windshield fixed).
By the grace of Old St. Nick, or Old Sir Paul, you’ve made it into the lot beneath the replica Leaning Tower of Pisa (pizza). Your reward? The warm, complementary bread basket of a going away party for your coworker who’s moving on to better things. The kinds of things that are nowhere near your horizon, but, you’ve just survived another jaunt on Route 1. So kick back, and “simply have a wonderful Christmas time.”
Now you’ve picked the ham off your slices of the shared Hawaiian pizza and you’re feeling up to joining a few folks across the street for drinks. Except it’s not really across the street. It’s on the other side of a six lane highway, one cut right down the middle by a rusted, chain-link fence.
You shiver in the car as you cautiously inch out of the liminal space where parking ends and Route 1 begins (or apparently, “Broadway” as it’s called (as if it’s not a highway masquerading as a main street)). You see an opening. It’s not great, but the cars are impatiently lining up behind you, each awaiting their own turn at the gauntlet. Thankfully, you slide into traffic with the only issue being a weak defroster. Peering out the window around the cloudy, cracked windshield you head south to a series of turnarounds, just to maneuver back north and finally be “across” twenty minutes later. The car’s heat has caught up, but you don’t need it. You’re about to relax from white knuckle suburban driving and shake off the winter blues with the warm embrace of kitschy Polynesian decor from another era.
A few High Life’s and a couple $15 pina coladas later, the world is now yours. For a moment, life feels as wonderful as Miller’s champagne. But just when you’re comfortable—that fucking song comes on. And you just ran into someone you didn’t want to see. It’s all a bit much and you could tough it out, but you’re free to do whatever you want. Perhaps it’s time to call it and control your own destiny. However, in order to do so, you must once again face the perils of Route 1. At least there’s a McDonalds along the way, though. That’ll cheer you up.
So you fight traffic once more and hit the drive-thru, coming up with cynical lines for online posts no one’s really going to read.
“The parking lots of Route 1 are like moats around castles of consumerism alongside a river of road rage.”
You’re pretty sure that most of that came from some book, though, the one you still haven’t finished reading in the last few months. No matter, you’ve got a sack of McDoubles and McChickens sitting on your passenger seat. You protect them as you would a child while facing Route 1 for the final time.
At least for today.
• • •
I don’t mean to speak for—or assume the experiences of— the good people who reside and work in Saugus, Massachusetts. That whole rant was just how I assume living and dealing with Route 1 on a regular basis is. I’m sure the rest of the town is lovely, but that thoroughfare seems tortuous. An over-engineered, ridiculous roadway that no matter how familiar it may seem, it’s still an albatross which reminds oneself: somewhere along the line you sinned and this is your penance. Speed limit is 50.
It’s not winter today, though. And even if this major street lined with furniture stores, strip malls, and chain restaurants is a nightmare to navigate—I’ve at least got Avis’ insurance. Plus, when I’m not catastrophizing elaborately sad scenarios in my head while stuck in traffic, there’s a few sights I do stop to see.
Things like the leaning pizza tower…
Prince Pizzeria. Saugus, MA.
….the cactus landmark that looks as if it was pulled straight out of old Vegas…
Route 1. Saugus, MA.
…and the random orange dinosaur.
Route 1. Saugus, MA.
There’s also this great “Hockey Town USA” sign where I’ve come across four men smoking cigs, swiggin’ Dunkin, and bitching about the ref from their rec league game. A Boston stereotype if there ever was one, but a scene that I have in fact just witnessed. That ref, apparently, screws them every week.
Hockey Town U.S.A. Route 1. Saugus, MA.
The final stop in this area is Kowloon. A place with deliciously strong tiki drinks and friendly locals who tell me all about their Keno strategies and the best food to order on a Saturday at 2:47 p.m.
Kowloon exterior. Route 1. Saugus, MA.
Kowloon exterior. Route 1. Saugus, MA.
Kowloon exterior. Route 1. Saugus, MA.
Kowloon patio. Route 1. Saugus, MA.
Instead of going into Boston like last time, I opt for Worcester, or as multiple people I’ve talked to during this particular visit to Massachusetts told me: “they” call it “The Woo.”
George’s Coney Island. Worcester, MA.
Worcester, MA.
Worcester, MA.
Worcester, MA.
I stop to photograph an old advertisement that beckons: “hi neighbor, have a Gansett.” Inside the bar it’s attached to, I take up the sign’s offer several times. There’s a Deanna Troi / Star Trek: The Next Generation commemorative plate on the wall and I end up watching 1990’s “Darkman” starring Liam Neeson with a few of the regulars. Although the facade outside says “Chadwick Square Diner,” this place is actually “Ralph’s,” a legendary bar and music venue. The clientele reflects the kinds of fans you might expect from some of the acts who’ve passed through here, but despite their “scenester” appearance—they’ve grown up too. Using the commercial breaks to discuss finances, kids, and families.
Ralph’s. Worcester, MA.
I pay my tab after the movie ends and the regulars go outside to smoke. The sun is shining on Worcester this evening.
Ralph’s. Worcester, MA.
Photographs made with a Pentax K1000 & Kodak Ultramax 400 35mm film.
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