Wayne, NJ
- Publication: Alchemy
- Year: 2025
- Author or artist: Anthony Guerra (Alchemy Editor)
- Type: Non-fiction
Rest Stop: Newton, no, Wayne, NJ, 2:41 am:
We had smoked the morning away joint by joint.
This morning slugged along, as did the rest of the day. We drove, and stopped at every Walmart and Burger King. We lived off one chicken sandwich at a time and free refills of coffee at every juncture. We must’ve hit about three or four Wal-Marts and five or so Burger Kings. It was all in a day’s adventure to stay alive.
From Highway 30, we got into Philly after a two-and-a-half-day drive from Pittsburgh. Normally, this drive should take about three hours. I stopped at a church next to a turn-off on Hwy 30–Gettysburg, a small town in PA, where the horses and carriages still roam the asphalt streets, and sorrows of one of America’s most gruesome battles.
With the modern times rapidly rushing forward, the traditions of the past are still practiced to this day by the long line of descendants of those who keep Amish ways alive. The night before, I had slept in the car of a Walmart fifty feet away from a horse and buggy parking facility that resembled a stable—never have I seen such a thing. The wooden parking structure was equipped with an overhang, a shovel for the shit from the horses, and individual stables per each cart.
We drove through a gigantic Christian college. It bore elegantly carved stone with weathered bricks, enormous white columns, and flowing walkways. Upperlandsville, U.S.A.
By 3 o’clock in the afternoon, we reached Philly from the west end, just as rush hour picked up. We drove in circles in search of a park where we could sit in the grass, relax, laugh, and soak up the summer sun. We finally found a spot to shut off the motor, and slink amongst the city locals. We parked on Locust St., between 5th and 6th. Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell are on 5th, a block north.
I lit some tobacco, leashed up Squeak, and our dingy bodies hit the streets.
The sidewalks guided hella kids on a field trip; I spotted snipers on the rooftops, Homeland Security everywhere, and rangers overseeing the historic grounds in Philly surveying the public activity like a starving eagle.
The roads across the country, so far, had not been confusing but Jersey, what a spidery-clusterfuck.
There we were, at the heart of the nation’s pulse.
The streets were cobblestone and asphalt. The gardens were well-kept, and the grass was greener than the finest green grass you have ever seen. Park rangers walked up and down the streets on the beat. A couple of the guards were talkative, spouting a barrage of facts about the rich history of the surrounding areas. But mostly, it was their job to remain on overwatch, straight-faced, not fuckin’ around.
“The bell rings, and I must go among the grave ones and talk politics.” Benjamin Franklin’s words ring out in such a way that the silence of reading the quote sends a shot to my brain’s receptors. With the bell’s handset back, a swing of the mallet or tug of the rope would send out a vibration in pitch to attract many worldwide to stop, listen in, and hear—well, a ringing bell. The bell severely cracked, as we all learned in the classroom. It felt like the country was cracked, leaking its guts all over the soil.
The bell reads:
“Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.”
Either do away with all borders or recognize that they exist—but if we are going to have a government, run it in a way where everyone is equal for the sake of humanity and the well-being of us all. No matter where you are, we are all little pokies that jut off from the curvature of planet Earth.
Some choose to use power for their benefit at the expense of others—at the expense of the lives of others. Bush is doing an outstanding job of twisting this country around his little finger and bewitching the public with his pointy, strange smile. I was not around for Nixon’s infamous Watergate scandal, but it was not a time worth being around for, especially since they were using the media to disrupt reality in truth.
After the Liberty Bell, we walked across the street to Independence Hall where the Declaration of Independence was written and signed–again, school knowledge. It felt like being on a field trip. Maybe that is just what this is…this trip began two months ago.
The last tour was about to begin. Bobby and I stood lost, ticketless. The ticket lady told a lady, who was also ticketless, that she might be able to get in or something to that effect. So, we hopped in line with the non-ticketers and, by dumb luck, made it through the doors. The day before, we had absorbed the heavy air of Gettysburg, and now, a day later, was Independence Hall—brain overload of information of significant historical worth.
And here I am, standing in the same room where this nation’s rulebook was signed, where history lodged itself between cracks of wood beneath my feet.
We gathered in a small rectangular room with a projection screen to one side and, on the other, an oil painting depicting the day the Constitution birthed its first breath. Our tour guide dished out quality info like a seasoned professional. Her life to give knowledge is hers every day. The guide then escorted the group into the old-time jury room, where a trial of any kind would be placed on the chopping block, from small claims court to murder and treason. Committing treason was unamerican, especially in those days. Seems like something got lost along the way.
The signing of those papers changed everything. Without Ben Franklin pulling strings in France, we might not have gotten the help we needed, and those signers could have faced death for treason. As we know now, it worked out. But even back then, they knew what they were writing was not the final word—it was a start. The same goes for the Constitution, signed in the same building where we now stood, hundreds of years later, just steps away from where the big debates went down.
Wild emotions flooded through my head with every new piece of knowledge our pro tour guide spouted. I stood in the center of the room in silence. As if watching a movie, I imagined the fiery debates and the order in the court. The woman’s voice screeched—good acoustics in the room for everyone to hear clearly. Fun fact—the building itself took about twenty-five years to complete. The builders gave much thought to the place where the framers would hash out the nation’s secret codes, including the surrounding buildings and courtyards—more fine architecture. The tour was about a twenty-minute round trip, but worth a lifetime of memories.
After rambling around Philly trying to find the 94 West on-ramp, we flagged down a FedEx driver who escorted us to the freeway. We peeled off, onto the 94, and smoked another joint leaving Philly in our plume.
Next, we were in search of 202 North, a small highway that ran through average-sized towns and tiny ones, too. We drove the car till the gas light shone red. We had spent most of our gas getting lost following the damn road. The more weed we smoked, the more confused we got, and the more gas we burned.
The police officers in Wayne knew we had arrived. We had California plates, and an American flag sticker flaunting inverted colors, which was enough for them to buzz around the blocks a few times.
We decided to stop at a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot and plot out our next move. We needed a place to stay for the night. Ended up with a box of donuts. Another late-night group had gotten coffee after us, and in the parking lot, our two groups merged. They asked us about our plates, and why we were in Wayne, PA.
We spent a good hour or so outside the shop bullshitting. Ultimate bullshit, I told them my name was Sped *clap-clap* (in eighth notes) and got a couple of laughs—Sped was the nickname given to me along the way. I rolled with it. Mike handed over the guitar, and I started playing. Nikki tried to get me to play “The Butcher Song,” but after being stoned all day, I was not in the mood for singing—just playing. However, it did not take much to talk me into singingThen came the song I had already played fifty times or more, one of the few anthems of our trip: “Baby, I’m an Anarchist,” by Against Me! Then came my song about ink, simply called “The Ink Song.” Finally, the Woody Guthrie song, “I Ain’t Got No Home.” The end of that song would be the turning point of the night.
A brunette girl stayed around for the songs. I did not glance at her sitting on the curb, but I felt the silent communication in the air. I found her comforting, quiet, and a gentle soul. I felt lucky to have had small talk with her. She had only been to Mexico; otherwise, she had never left Wayne, Pa. I had been through many states but never out of the country. She was clean and well-kept. Unlike me, who was days out from my last proper shower. She had done-up nails and tanned skin, not orange but tan. She was smoking Parliaments. She sat and listened like a Greek statue in thought.
The friendly group had continually said that they would love to hit the road but did not think they could. But really, it is about leaving—set a day to leave and go, drive face-first into the unknown at blazing speeds. The brunette in the black sweatshirt had been lost in thought as I was playing, staring at me. Nothing much, but the eager feeling of connection floated amidst the eddying music during those short tunes.
We parted shortly after the last song. We filled the tank with whatever money we had. To our surprise, they dumped fifteen dollars in change with two one-dollar bills. Enough for another cup of coffee, and we found our way north to Hotel Rest Stop to retire our tired brains for the night.
4:07 am now, power off.