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Touched
Over the course of two road trips this spring, I was fortunate to have travelled the breadth of the continental United States. Coast to coast. Rhode Island in April and across the great expanse of the plains to Seattle last week. It truly is a magnificent, glorious, and, at times, a sorrily decadent place. (Travelling note: Canada does mountains better if that’s your thing. More dramatic, more inspiring, much more dangerous. American mountains seem intermittent—more for display purposes.)
Both trips—east and then west—showcased in abundance the resilience and durability of our neighbour’s place. Remnants of previous economic booms—lumber, textiles, machinery— that had fallen into decline are now humming with activity again. Factories displaced by microbreweries, tech incubators, and condos. Across Iowa and Nebraska and into Idaho and Washington, agriculture dominates as it always has—but more industrial than subsistence. Extraction industries— oil, natural gas, minerals, and such—are there, too, but they tend to be out of sight of the interstate. The divide between rich and poor is less evident than two decades ago. Not that it doesn’t exist—just further from the beaten commercial track.
There are few reminders of a consequential election looming in November. Occasionally, an on-ramp will present a smattering of simple campaign signs. Nothing too gross. Nothing of the sort one might expect from the ceaseless political conversation happening in that nation. In the party room next to Wyoming Ribs and Chops in Cheyenne, balloons and bunting festoon an event for a mayoral candidate. Suburban folks nibble on Wisconsin cheese while sipping wine from plastic stemware.
It is a race notable because one of the six candidates is virtual. VIC, as in Virtual Integrated Citizen, is a mayoral candidate chatbot built by OpenAI. State officials still must figure out if VIC can become a registered voter, which is required for inclusion on the ballot. Wyoming Secretary of State Chuck Gray doesn’t know how it would work if VIC were elected. His office has not yet prepared ballots but will “cross that bridge when they get there.” Another new frontier.
There were few hints of what we might generalize as the MAGA cult—splashed daily in Trump’s wake. But in a traffic cluster in the fruit-growing centre of Wenatchee, Washington, we followed a big black pickup truck for a time. Shiny, menacing, tall enough for all to see—and admire—the rugged undercarriage forged from metal and coiled steel. Two immense flags fluttered from the back of the pickup box. One was the standard issue, TRUMP 2024 Save America Again. About four feet by three feet. The other was a similarly sized black flag featuring a coiled rattlesnake warning: DON’T TREAD ON ME. The Gadsden flag draws its origins from the Revolutionary War—but today, it is more aligned with efforts to attack the Capitol on January 6, 2021.
Stuck in traffic, I have time to ponder an imaginary conversation with the young man and his one-person political parade/statement. I have questions. What has led him to invest so much energy and treasure into this display? The big, expensive truck (likely the better part of $100,0000) seems purchased to complement the flags rather than the other way around. According to every survey, the American economy is straining under the weight of inflation—but it doesn’t seem to be impacting this individual. Not visibly, in any event. Not from a lane of traffic away.
What does he imagine for his community? His nation? What does he want that he doesn’t have now? Is he inspired by ideas of what can be or of grievances requiring retribution? Or does he just want to be seen? Regarded?
I imagine such a conversation as abrupt and near-violent—but I don’t know because I didn’t engage. Few do in this tense moment in that country.
Growing up in Harrison’s Corners, on the eastern edge of Ontario, nothing much ever happened. It was, and remains, a cluster of maybe 15 homes at the intersection of Avonmore Road and County Road 18. Occasionally, we would hear about war in places such as Indochina, of hunger in Biafra, or the national celebration of Expo 67, but none of it ever touched our rural crossroads. Percy and Eileen Adams ran the general store from the front of their home at the Corners. It was our gravity. Our centre. Purple soda and barbecue chips. Sitting on the concrete steps. Just hacking around.
When boredom peaked, we would ride our bikes out the quarter mile south to the bridge over the Black River with our fishing rods. Pulling half a dozen sleek, wriggling, angry eels out of the dark, slow-moving water was easy.
One day, we found a human body on our way to the river. Midway between Adam’s store and the bridge, we very nearly whizzed by without noticing it. The corpus was lying neatly in the deepest part of the crevice, tall grass partly obscuring a clear view from the roadway. We approached slowly—inch by inch. Curiosity overwhelmed fear. As we drew nearer, we recognized the body as belonging to Lorne Beadry. A man in his 40s. Tall, thin and wiry. Faded plaid shirt. Work pants. No boots or shoes.
I pulled at Lorne’s shoulder to roll him over—to confirm identification. Lorne moaned lowly—or was it a growl? Then he vomited. A little bit at first, then a torrent. He wasn’t dead, just drunk in a ditch.
Our parents had warned us to stay wide of Lorne. They had described him as ‘touched’. We witnessed some of his peculiar behaviour from the steps at Adams General Store. Occasionally, someone would take Lorne to town (he didn’t drive a car, which is hard to do in Harrison’s Corners). There, he would buy precisely five pounds of 3-inch box nails. Upon returning to the Corners, he would hammer each nail into the hydro pole beside the store. All in one go. He would spend the afternoon this way.
If you go to the Corners today, you will find the pole— more metal than wood. We sat on the steps and watched. We didn’t engage. Didn’t ask what he was doing. Didn’t ask what he was hoping to accomplish.
We couldn’t relate to him. We minded our own business. Lorne had nothing to do with us.
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