Before leaving on a road trip I purchase novels at the used book store, my criteria for choosing books being the story's location, the cover art and title, and the quick descriptions inside the book jacket. So, I bought a qualifier, a "dark delirious journey down the highway of the contemporary soul...brutal, perverse and deeply alarming, a diabolical novel of the interstate." Perfect, right? Kicking and twisting the sleeping bag into a knot, waking up every half hour listening for clues in the silent forest, expecting the car to explode spontaneously as we cruise on the backroads. Then, about half way through this "mescaline slurpee" I turn the page and a small cash register receipt falls out for food the previous owner of the book had bought: CHZ Fry and 24oz soda and it was dated September 10, 2001. True story. I'm the Americanist.
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