The Road to Clarity

Goodnight, America, how are ya?
Say don’t you know me, I’m your native son
—Arlo Guthrie, “The City of New Orleans”

I’m on 220 South again, running a gauntlet of orange-and-red neon signs. Somehow, even the air feels threatening in this shabby outpost of liquor stores and gun shops hunched alongside a towering sign for the Trump Store. But soon enough, the landscape I love takes over with its authentic oranges and reds: up and down rolling hills, the Southwest Virginia foliage is so beautiful that I get a catch in my throat.

The problem is that 50 miles of rural beauty amount to an EV charger desert. Foolishly, I didn’t charge up quite enough up front, so I have to rely on the kindness of strangers to get me that last 10 miles to Martinsville.

First, I pull into a little shop called Rachel’s something-or-other. I buy a Tastykake sticky bun and chat with Rachel about the weather—high winds have been blowing us every which way—before I explain my dilemma and ask to plug into an outlet.

She says, “I’m sorry, honey, but we ain’t got an outside outlet. If you go on down a ways…”

So I go on down a ways, munching a sticky bun that’s so sweet, I feel it in my sinuses like brain freeze. There’s a convenience store with an ice machine—a good sign—but on closer inspection, the outside outlet looks as if a wild animal has chewed on it. Inside, the woman at the counter is toothless, overtaxed, and unfailingly cheerful. It’s just her in there, and she’s taking the grill orders of a group of young Hispanic laborers, food that she also will have to cook. The workers look like kids with their smooth cheeks and shy, hesitant smiles. Only one of them speaks English, and the checkout clerk/short-order cook responds in an Appalachian accent so heavy that even I can’t quite understand her. Nevertheless, pointing and gesturing, they manage to order six chicken sandwiches.

Before she heads to the grill, the woman smiles at me and asks, “Watcha need, hon?”

I set a couple of Slim Jims and a coffee on the counter before asking what may or may not be the weirdest question she’ll get all day: can I snake a cord under the door and plug my car into that outlet there?

“Well, sure you can. Just pull on into that handicapped spot.”

Since there’s a second handicapped spot, I park only slightly guiltily in the first one and then drag the charger out of my trunk. The men are sipping their coffee in the morning sunshine, their arms bare in faded tees, and the one who speaks English holds the door for me as I plug in.

On a 120V trickle charge, it takes the car about half an hour to fortify itself for those few extra miles. In the car I read a chapter of Lev Grossman’s The Bright Sword, a retelling of Arthurian legend that’s full of quirky, misfit knights on quests. Adrift after the death of Arthur, the remaining Knights of the Round Table try to hold the line in a Britain on the verge of collapse. Even while they defend Camelot from attacking hordes, the knights are buffeted between the old pagan magic and an equally mysterious, often harshly exacting God. They seem like nothing so much as pawns in a bigger game.

After the workers have left, the clerk brings a folding chair outside, sits down, and turns her face up to the sun with an expression of bliss. She says something that I can’t quite make out, but I grin because it was probably funny.

Before I leave, I venture back into the dark store to find the restroom. It’s all the way in the back left corner past a door with a sign that says, “This is NOT the bathroom.” The store seems impossibly long, as if it were bigger inside than out, and along the way I pass shelves full of bits and bobs of hardware, things that you might need if something blows a gasket and you can’t make it to Walmart. The dusty randomness of it all reminds me of a dream I had years ago about a Museum of Lost Things. Maybe a hundred years will have passed by the time I find my way back out.

The ancient, antiseptic-smelling restroom grounds me in reality. The sink has a sign on it that says “OUT OF ORDER,” so probably nobody has washed their hands there for a very long time. I’m glad I didn’t order a chicken sandwich.

Why am I on this road again? What is my quest? I’m in search of two things: a kosher-halal turkey for a Friendsgiving feast, and a fuel-efficient car that will make it to wherever I need to go without plugging into random outlets.

First stop is Trader Joe’s. The traffic on Battleground Ave. is stressful, but at the store, everyone is so relaxed and friendly that I look behind me to see who they’re beaming at. A stranger who is not a store employee smiles into my eyes and says she hopes I have a wonderful rest of my day. We’re all bumping carts in the crowded aisles, but we’re in some magical bubble of hospitality where no one gets angry or impatient. Filled with wonder and gratitude, I cart off my glatt kosher turkey like Sir Galahad riding off with an enchanted sword.

With my turkey tucked into a cooler with frozen water bottles, I stop at a small dealership to test-drive a Honda Clarity and talk about a trade-in. I found the place through an online listing and several glowing Yelp reviews. Here on another busy city road is, seemingly, another enchanted bubble. The owner of the dealership is a laid-back Arab American guy with a heavy southern accent, and the salesman is a young African American man who seems surprised that I found them at all: most of their customers, he explains, are repeats and referrals. He asks me what I’d like to get for my trade-in and what I’d like to pay for the Clarity. There’s no swaggering bonhomie, no high-pressure sales, and once again, I feel pleasantly disoriented. Where am I?

I head home with a turkey and the possibility of a new car (to be determined next week if they can figure out how to apply the “clean vehicle” tax credit). It’s dusk by the time I reach the Museum of Natural History in Martinsville for one final charge. Somewhere nearby, a high school band is performing with a driving drumbeat that seems to herald what I’m seeing in the sky. Standing outside with mouth agape in a brisk fall wind, I watch the sunset roll down in one giant, flaming cloud.