Hell Away from Home: Living in New Jersey

For those of you who haven't read the book Why is New Jersey Still Part of America? (And other great mysteries), or better still, have not seen the critically-acclaimed short film entitled Newark: Potholes, Potheads and Structural Pockmarks, nor have ever had the pleasure of reading the non-existent National Geographic article called, New Jersey's Top 101 Sites that Its Tourists Won't Live to See...you, like me, are one of many ignorant outsiders the natives here call "quakalim," which translated means "quail-shaped-pentagon."

If you don't believe how bad New Jersey can be for you, look at what I just wrote. It's a run-on like no other, complete with poor grammar, slighted punctuation, and fictional words. ...And I've been living here less than a week!

For those of you who know me, you are no doubt appalled and distressed by my inability to communicate effectively. Fear not! -I'll be moving-or dying shortly. Also for those who know me, you are aware that I am not quick to pass judgment on any man, creature, woman, or historic landmark. I shun those who rush to deliver a negative verdict without first having experienced all the noun has to offer. I detest the practice of slander, which is born out of an acute ignorance of both truth and fact.

And so it is that after nearly 48 hours of living in this place, I feel I have earned the right and authority to declare to you: this place stinks.

Reason One: Faulty asphalt grafts.

It seems that in the not-so-distant past, a group of collective morons decided the roads in New Jersey were too flat, too even. They therefore decided to remove large chunks of pavement from the edges of the lanes where cars can't help but travel. Unlike potholes, which are caused by water freezing beneath the pavement, these manmade gaping voids are often perfectly rounded or squared and have several layers to them. Some even seem to be crafted in the shape of ancient runes, obviously created when the morons were at the peak of their craft.

But now finding themselves overwhelmed with huge amounts of asphalt, these same morons decided to dump the excess chunks onto the remaining roads, thereby filling them with debris and large piles of rock that, over time, formed and melded into solid, immovable mounds. Now no motorist can travel in New Jersey for over 36.4 miles without getting their car realigned, buying new tires and/or rims, and replacing their front and rear suspension. Believe me, if cars could talk, my dear Corolla would say, "I hate you and I quit."

Reason Two: Ask not for whom the road tolls-it tolls for thee.

For all intents and purposes, this really should be reason one. It seems that the afore-mentioned morons of New Jersey came to believe that because their roads were so exciting and so dynamic, they should charge admission for motorists to "ride" them-much akin to the roller coasters and thrill rides of amusement parks. And since nearly all the roads in NJ were now frequented by a combination of thrilling mounds and craters, it only made sense that nearly all the roads should have a fee. This fee is what we quakalim would call a "toll", or a "rip-off." And that's not the worst of it.

"No?" you ask. "No," says I.

If you know anything about me, you know that I am the worst mathematician in the world. My way with numbers is like Star Wars: The Phantom Menace: a farce. However, I know when things don't add up (pun intended). Let's say that Dick is driving on a two-lane road. There may be a lot of people on the road in front and behind him, but he only has to worry about the drivers beside him. But if for some reason the road suddenly becomes 25 lanes, each with its own stop sign, and those 25 lanes go back to two lanes almost immediately after the stop sign, Dick is gonna have some serious issues. Why? The simple equation of 'X+25/volume = 2 many freak'in carZ,' can help us see why. At any given moment, there are 25 cars in a horizontal line, and all of them need to fit into two lanes.

This complex metaphor is the best way I can describe the tolls here in New Jersey. In this case, I am Dick, and the stop signs are the tollbooths. With a setup like that, if you don't already have a compact car, chances are that sooner or later you'll end up with one.

Reason Three: Distorted Genetic Mutation of the Human Hand.

For reasons that still baffle scientists today, a bizarre transformation has occurred in the hands of people living in the northern states. It occurs most frequently in heavily urban areas and does not favor either sex. It is commonly seen in the right hand, though it is known to happen to the left as well-and in extreme cases, to both hands.

High-resolution x-rays show that the condition forms in the early fetus-stages and simply matures from that point on. It manifests itself visibly as an abnormal swelling in the center of the hand. A profile of one mutants' hand showed a lump the size of a tennis ball grotesquely protruding from his palm. The sizes of the lumps vary, but in every case, applying pressure to the protuberance creates a sound that perfectly mimics that of a car or truck horn. The result? Any time a north-dwelling mutant grabs something-an apple, a stick of deodorant, a steering wheel, or a handgun-the growth is compressed, which in turn generates a loud, high-frequency "honk" that can be heard by everyone in the tri-state area.

This explains why every blessed driver in New Jersey honks at least seventeen times a minute.

It certainly cannot be because they believe their honking is going to effect the way other people drive, and I am sure they don't think their tooting spasms are going to effectively communicate their displeasure with another individuals' actions or driving decisions. No. I am convinced that their growths are to blame.

He's driving...a fly lands on his cheek...he smacks it...Honk!

She's in a stick shift and has to get into second gear...Honk!

She shakes a fist at the injustices of street life...Honk!

Someone cuts him off and he grabs the .45 stashed in his glove box...Honk!

You get the idea. It's a terrible tragedy. -As opposed to a wonderful tragedy...

Reason Four: Abandon All Hope All Ye Who Enter Here...

I don't have anything to add to that. I just think I saw-or should have seen-a sign like that at the border.

Reason Five: A License to Kill

In most states, anyone who wants a drivers' license must take an exhaustive written exam as well as a supervised behind-the-wheel test. Apparently here in New Jersey, an individual who wants to drive must simply take a drug test. They don't even have to pass the drug test, they just have to take it. That's about it. The only additional hassle is that if someone is a drug dealer, they have to register their vehicle as, "Primarily for business use," and it is noted on their license just below their organ-donor status.

Reason Six: If It Feels Good, Do It!

Many of us quakalims are familiar with the word "yield," and the basic principles behind left/right turn lanes; I can assure you that both of these concepts are lost on the general populace here in New Jersey. A yield sign here means to hit the gas extra hard when you come outta the lane and hope that the people next to you have enough time to slow down to accommodate your merge. (This is particularly troublesome with the tollbooth scenario mentioned above.)

'Left Turn Only' and 'Right Turn Only' lanes are merely suggestions. If the person is in the left turn lane, but turning left wasn't in their plans, they simply go straight or turn right as they so desire. And that makes sense doesn't it? I mean, if you have to turn right to get to your friend's house, and the right lane and center lanes are full, why wouldn't you just turn right from the left lane? What possible good would it do to turn left? That wouldn't get you to your friend's house. In fact, it would take you further away! Now what kind of sense does that make? In Jersey, you make the turn that's right for you because you're all that matters.

Reason Seven: Gas Station Violation.

For many of us, (particularly men) our cars/trucks are our babies. There is a bond that forms between a human and a machine that can be (particularly for single men like myself) the strongest bond they have to anything. If you have never experienced this bond firsthand, I'm sure you know someone who has.

Beat change.

Pumping gas isn't a "fun" experience. It's not something you "want to do." It's "inconvenient." However, there are advantages. You get to stretch your legs and take a quick break from the rigors of the road. At some of the nicer stations, you can even clean your windshield and windows, put air in your tires, and empty your trash. And it's a great chance to feel productive. Once you pull into the station, your goal, your task is simply to put gasoline in your car. That's your responsibility. Crossing that driveway temporarily releases you from all the rest of life's hassles. You've got one job to do, and by gum you need to focus to get it done.

As you may have guessed, New Jersey kills all of that.

How? Absolute and unquestioned Full-Service at every single pump. That's right folks. If you go to a gas station, you will not be allowed to pump your own gas. As soon as you pull in and stop, someone runs over and stands right in front of your door. When you roll down your window to tell them to move, they hit your tank-release-lever, stick the nozzle in and start pumping.

And there's always more than one...

What does this mean? Well, on one level it means that there are no advantages to going into a gas station. You don't get to stretch your legs. You don't get to clean your windows or empty your trash. Can you ask John Doh-the stranger who just started pumping your gas-to do it for you? Sure...but it's gonna cost ya. So now there is no break from the stresses of life. You have no goal, nothing to accomplish. Your only option is to sit and worry about what you have to do later, or what you just did...or when you're gonna get back into a state that considers you competent enough to pump your own gas.

On a completely higher level, there's the whole issue of a complete stranger putt'in gas in your baby. I'm even less of a mechanic than I am a mathematician. I don't change my oil, I don't fix my brakes, and I don't replace my transmission. Fueling my car is the only time I have to bond with it. It's not an intimate time per se, but it is a time when I can thank it both with word and deed for all its hard work. I've never been a car, but I'm sure it likes gas as much as we humans like food. So just as you would reward your dog with some kind of treat for learning a new trick, so too do I feel that petroleum is a reward for my baby-especially for getting me around on this "roller coaster" that is New Jersey roadways. And now I can't even do that.

If you've ever experienced the very unsettling sensation of flushing the toilet while you're still on it, you'll know how it feels to be sitting in your car and hearing someone else messing around with your gas tank. Your initial reaction is to get out and chase whoever it is away; but then you remember it's the big scary look'in dude who doesn't speak English manning the pump, and so you don't move at all.

That does it for the reasons for staying out of Jersey in general. Now I'd like to take a minute to warn you about some of the nuances you might encounter in Newark. First, we've got a shower that has hot and cold flashes. I'll set the temperature of the water, and at random times throughout the duration of my shower, the water will suddenly grow extremely hot or exceedingly cold for 1 to 2 seconds at a time. It happens at least eight to twelve times per shower and makes the process about as stressful as everything else in this place.

The toilet doesn't really flush...gravity just eventually pulls the water down and out at a slightly accelerated rate. Sometimes you gotta flush it six times or so, and each time it seems to just barely make it. It's a test of faith, there's no question. Only in Newark NJ can a flushing toilet be considered a miracle.

The corridors and hallways all smell like a Japanese Food Market. For anyone who's ever been to a JFM, it mostly smells like raw fish, seaweed, and I guess Japan. Now that smell is fine when there is raw fish and seaweed in the room, but when its just carpet and walls...it makes you wonder.

Oh yeah...a cockroach just climbed out of our A/C unit, looked at me, honked, and crawled back inside. A bit unsettling, but just one of the many perks of living in New Jersey, my Hell away from home.