2004-04-25 - 9:26 p.m.
A Sense of Entropy: Somebody That I Used to Know
By: Jenn K
Last month, I turned 22 years old. For as long as I can recall, my age has never fit me properly. Daily, I fight the desire to fast forward to 50, wish that my life were out of the way. Other times, I opt for 15; maybe one more chance to make high school worthwhile. Considering those aren’t options, I do the best I can.
I made a silent pledge years ago to always be somewhere else on my birthday. Before I got my driver’s license, this wasn’t the most achievable goal. Convincing your mom to cart you and a friend to some unknown region of suburbia isn’t the easiest of tasks. But since college, and since I obtained my very own set of wheels, not as many people are keeping constant tabs on my whereabouts.
Three years ago, Bonnie and I drove the length of the East Coast. Disney world was nice, and the Washington Monument was, well, monumental, but Georgia was perfect. Driving all night, we stopped with the arrival of the sun to try (for the first time ever) some real Southern grits. Hurriedly changing into tank tops and shorts to soak up the warmth that New York was in no hurry to offer, we parked next to some bursting lilac bushes that literally filled the air with scent. The roadside diner was unassuming in its linoleum floors and weary truck drivers. Tired waitresses shuffled from the kitchen carrying the most exotic food I had ever seen.
I was trapped here two years ago; taking the LIRR from my internship in the city where no one knew it was my birthday. The train felt cold and empty, packed with workforce zombies staring out at the rain beating down. Does everyone’s heart plummet when the train emerges from the darkened tunnels only to be pelted with heavy drops? I refused to spend time with anyone, ensnared in my own contemplative insecurities.
Last year Bon and I made our way to Ohio, crossing state lines in time to crash at some cheap hotel. The next morning, we barreled down the empty highways and promptly turned around, three miles in and already tired of what Ohio had to offer. After a self-enforced field trip though Dutch Country (I don’t remember much about the Amish, but I picked up some pretty sweet souvenirs), we finally reached home. The “Welcome to New York” sign had never looked more beautiful.
That brings us to this year.
Frankly, I was at a loss. Burdened by schoolwork and impending graduation, I couldn’t envision what might make my birthday worth remembering. Then I stumbled upon a website detailing a small town in Pennsylvania called Centralia. Mined until the early 1950’s, Centralia’s underground is full of empty coal channels. Sometime in the 60’s, these tunnels caught fire when town officials began to burn trash in earthen pits. Unchecked for close to forty years, the fires still burn.
Six stalwarts remain living in the otherwise abandoned town, summarily refusing every governmental attempt to have them removed.
M and I drove past the town several times, then through it, unknowingly. Four stops signs and plots of unadorned grass are all that remain. The houses that still stand are supported by massive brick columns, either to prevent them from tumbling into the scorched earth, or to keep them steady (the houses were built against one another much like San Francisco townhouses).
We parked the car next to signs that forecasted impending doom (“Warning: Toxic Mine Gas. May Cause Severe Injury or Death”). M gave them a worried glance as we clambered over the concrete barriers that blocked one of the burning stretches of road. Some kids had scrawled “Road to 666” and “Highway to Hell” in nuclear pink spray paint. The road looked normal; grey highway pavement adorned with thick yellow dashes. The air was hazy as we turned the corner. We stood looking at the length of the entire mile-long stretch, the asphalt rippling and buckling from the underground heat. Great scars ripped into the road, the trees that lined it were charred and dead. Smoke leaked from everything, billowing out with a sulfur smell and then quietly dissipating into the humid wind.
We walked back through the town and silently studied the squares flattened into the yards where houses used to stand. A hill behind the town was full of smoldering fissures, paths crossing in between gaping holes in the earth. We smiled at a man walking his dogs. The terriers leaped and bit at the smoke.
M and I, we didn’t say much. Something about that apocalyptic landscape has a way of quelling the inevitable inane comments. Instead we just walked hand and hand around the silent town and in hushed tones he said, “happy birthday.”
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