Chapel Hill, NC to Jasper, GA
When you enter Georgia from South Carolina, you are presented with a Gomorrah-like display of “gentlemen’s clubs,” porno warehouses, peep show barracks and adult establishments promising every sort of toy you could possible shove up your duodenum. One such place called “Bedroom Eyes” (I think) had a plume of steam rising from its chimney thousands of feet into the air, as if the furious masturbating of three hundred truckers was creating enough kinetic energy to convert friction to hydro-electric power.
My tastes run a little more pedestrian. I have always loved the gigantic chain-owned Truck Stops, and no, not because of the ironic hipster value. I actually like them intrinsically. The “Flying J” or the “TA Truck Authority” establishments are a frequent haunt for my road trip dollar, much to the horror and disdain of my darling Tessa. She just doesn’t get how cool it is; the miles of polyester track suits, the wall full of rear view mirrors, the constantly-revolving cylinders of 4-day-old beef wieners stacked up like they were timber logs in an Oregon river.
People don’t realize the crazy deals you can get at a these places; cell phone accessories that usually cost $49.99 at a Radio Shack will cost $4.25 at a Flying J. At several of them you can check your email at a sit-down kiosk within smellshot of the men’s room