Holland Suggestions by John Dunning

Decision: The hell with it; it’s my vacation and I’ll go any damned way I choose. So I turned north on the state highway and found that it did indeed join U.S. 29, which cut diagonally across the state in almost a straight line to Washington. It was probably as fast as the interstate, if not faster.
    I don’t remember much about that morning’s drive. There were many towns, I know, and once I hit a bad spot where they had the road ripped up and cars were just crawling through. Somewhere I lost 29 and slipped over onto Route 17. It must have been early afternoon when I stopped for a hamburger at a roadside ice cream freeze. The morning had slipped by so easily I could hardly believe the time had gone. And when I started out again I saw that I had left 17 and was now on Route 50, heading west. My first reaction was strong disgust, but that was replaced at once by curiosity. The road felt right, even though the sun was in my eyes and the highway marker said Route 50 West. I resisted the urge to stop, check my direction, and correct it before I lost the entire day meandering. But that was too much trouble. It was too easy to go on and too much trouble to stop; as in a hypnotic trance, I knew exactly where I was and what was happening to me. I knew I could bring myself out of it any time I wanted to. But proving it just wasn’t worth the effort
    When I crossed the West Virginia state line I forced myself back to reality. Damn it, I was going the wrong way. I stopped for gas in a town called Capon Bridge. While the attendant was filling the tank I went inside and got a road map. But I stuffed the map into my back pocket and forgot it was there. I did notice the time; a large wall clock said five to one, and here I was some goddamn place in West Virginia, probably as far from New York as ever. Possibly, by pushing it, I could still make it late tonight, but I didn’t want to drive like that, especially when it wasn’t necessary. The worst of it was this strong new sensation I felt, almost an ambivalent attitude toward the whole New York project. My eagerness of the morning had vanished; doubt had taken its place. I paid the man and forced my attention backward, edging into the eastbound lane and accelerating quickly. Almost in tempo with my rising speedometer needle came my strongest attack of depression since mid-March. It grew, consumed me, and became a physical monster, clutching at my gut and ringing in my ears as though some little man inside me had set off the burglar alarm of my nervous system. Faster, harder, and louder it came: I had to stop; I was surely having a heart attack.
    I stopped at roadside and waited, breathing hard. Nothing happened. Immediately my distress eased and disappeared. Indigestion? Maybe, but I thought it was something else. Gingerly, remembering the numbers 50, 96, and 12, I eased around to turn back into the westbound lane. Only one car was coming up behind me, a large black Oldsmobile. I waited for it to pass, then turned back toward Capon Bridge.
    My decision took less than ten seconds. New York was out, at least for the moment, and something else was in. I watched the speedometer needle climb with mounting excitement.
    At dusk I crossed into Ohio.

4
    T HE FLASHING LIGHT OF a small motel caught my eye sometime after seven. Though the lure of the road was difficult to resist, I was simply too tired to go on. I turned in and registered, getting the last available room, if I could believe the old woman who rented it to me. The room was unnecessarily large, with a double bed, a single, and a rollaway. The fifteen dollars I paid for it was, I thought, a bit steep; since I never argue over bills I paid it, took the key, and made myself at home. I didn’t unload the car; took only my overnight bag and the Holland folder, locked all the doors, and headed nonstop for the shower. The water had a kind of yellow tint, like rust, but that cleared up in about five minutes, just as the temperature