The purpose of this leg, then, is to make it home in time for Thanksgiving, no matter what the weather, our circumstance, or the comedy of John Hughes throws at us.
Despite being unloved and un-revved in the cold of Chicago for four days, the Purple Nimbus starts first time, but I allow him to warm his cockles for a few minutes whilst I plan the route for the day. I'm giving Emily a break for 24hours - she insists on taking the quickest route to any destination but, in this corner of the States, that means toll roads. (I haven't the heart to tell her to avoid them.) The total journey today is only three hours long, so I figure a toll-free day won't do us any harm. Indeed, we are more likely to see something of Indiana by taking the byroads as opposed to the freeway.
Before leaving the city limits we stop and pick up John Candy, who is, of course, dead. He, too, is trying to make it home in time for Thanksgiving. We are going to Boston, he is going to Boston, so it makes sense to have him along. Obviously, at first, I am reticent to let him join us. On first impression he doesn't particularly strike me as the sort of person we'd welcome in the van. For a start he almost made off with the Purple Nimbus while I wasn't looking, so keen was he to get home to his wife, Marie. And he talks a LOT, whereas Emily, the Nimbus and myself tend to let the ipod do the talking. Oh, and he's dead. Still, tis the season of goodwill, or almost tis the season of goodwill, so the corpse of John Candy takes the passenger seat and we set out east on US-20.
Seven days until Thanksgiving...
The state border with Indiana isn't very far from Chicago at all. As we cross we are met by the huge frame of industry: the refineries of über-multinationals line the road, hanging the smell of petrochemicals in the air as they claim to embrace the future.
This marks the first clear signs that I'm in the region of the country referred to as the Rust Belt - named because cities from the Midwest to the Northeast traditionally expanded their manufacturing sector to create jobs and increase profits but, over the last half a century or so, as labour costs were cheaper elsewhere, factory automation expanded and worldwide free trade agreements meant production costs were less overseas, the heavy industry of the area has fallen into decay.
We're having our own intermittent conundrums with automation: a natural problem of the ipod A->Z is its capacity to throw up awful embarrassing songs every now and again. So far I have remained strong and managed to resist skipping. Today we were blessed with 'Fix You' by Coldplay. Certainly no need to skip here of course - what a song. Chris Martin's voice sends shivers straight down my spine. He just seems to get me.
The latter end of the day features a nice juxtaposition to the Rust, as we encounter the first Amish of the trip. Traps trot past at the side of the road, with their blacked-out tints, their flashing lights (custom upgrade, so you can see them in the dark) and, as John Candy points out, their satellite-scrambling technology. He talks about it for quite some time. And I think he might be right. Every time we overtake a trap, Emily gurns like someone being unplugged from the Matrix, her hard-line to the stars temporarily cut. John Candy says something similar happened to Marie once.
There is more to the Amish than meets the eye. Mainly because you can't see them due to the tinted windows.
We spend the night at another State Park - they are proving quite useful with their 'rock up, sort yourself out, and stick ten dollars in an envelope' policy. Now, the interior of the Purple Nimbus isnt particularly big so, with the addition of John Candy to the party, you're probably thinking bedtime has the potential for awkwardness. Fortunately, John Candy is rather smaller than he was at the time of his passing, seventeen years of death having done more for his figure than any amount of public concern at his obesity while he was still alive could ever have done. In fact, the diet he is on right now seems to be working wonders. We've been together less than a day and I swear he's lost a chunk of weight already. Quite remarkable.
Six days until Thanksgiving...
The next morning I find John Candy's right shoe in the passenger footwell, amongst the maps. His right foot is with it. It figures. Today is defined by a heavy tiredness that grips me for the majority of the journey. We are moving into Ohio and more or less following the border with Michigan to the southern shores of Lake Erie, and a town called Geneva.
We make more stops than usual to give me a break from the road. I would let John Candy drive for a while except he insists on looking at you while he is talking (it's an actor thing, you've probably noticed it yourself). Nothing wrong with the eye contact of course, except when you are driving at 65mph and are ten feet behind an eighteen-wheeled lorry. I also don't think his hazard perception and his reaction times are up to much on account of his not being alive anymore.
The best substitute for a substitute driver is coffee. I grab one at one of the many service plazas along the route. Then proceed to spill it, all of it, as soon as I get back in the van. It goes more or less directly onto the passenger seat. For once, John Candy doesn't say anything. He just lolls his head to one side.
The Cribs' eponymous debut makes its way into the ipod A->Z at just the right moment; a hearty sing-song rouses me from my drowsiness in time for the final hour of today's drive. Even John Candy joins in with the chorus of Another Number, although I guess that's none too surprising given the rise of the Jarman brothers since the Spring of 2004. Having said that, having your song sung along to by the decomposing body of someone - a world-renowned Hollywood actor - who died ten years before anyone had even heard of you, must rate pretty high in a career.
As we pull into the campsite we are greeted by a magnificent two-tone sunset - a washed-out orange tuxedo atop a cummerbund of the palest yellow. None of us has seen anything like it before. I turn quietly to John Candy as he stops a single tear from disappearing into the hole in his cheek. He says this is the first time he has genuinely cried since the day he married Marie.
Five days until Thanksgiving...
Following a solid night's sleep, today's leg is relatively relaxed. We skirt around Lake Erie in the direction of Niagara Falls, New York. Everyone is quiet as the water laps against the shore to our left, and a warm content feeling permeates the van as 'Red Tree Song' by Danny and the Champions of the World plays out on the ipod. The feeling is that notion of knowing who you are and where you are, and why you are there at that precise moment in time, and it is great.
Four days until Thanksgiving...
We're on our way to a morning perusal of Niagara Falls. We pass a pair of neighbouring motels: the straight-up Algiers and the overtly suggestive Bit O' Paris. A strange combination. We also tail a bumper sticker of the Coronation Street road sign. I explain to the non-English amongst us its significance (or lack of it). The Niagara car park fronts a great glass structure full of services - food, information, gift shops - and it is blasting out Cher as we arrive. We make a hasty beeline for the rapids and get serenaded by the rather more tasteful 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' on the way.
John Candy insists on mimicking the lad from Superman II, by climbing the railings and alternately letting go with first his left hand, then his right. I tell him he is being silly, and shouldn't encourage the children like that. He is a role model, after all. People still look up to him. Even since his right foot fell off.
In reply, John Candy questions what makes me tick. He tells me all I do is drive somewhere, look at something, then drive somewhere else. He says I am absolutely no fun. Not like Marie at all.
After an hour of looking at lots of water falling down a cliff, I've had enough. In this case, I prefer my Icelandic waterfalls - more rugged, less in-the-middle-of-a-town. We head back to the Nimbus.
An air raid siren went off while we were relaxing in the back of the van last night. I googled "Tonawanda NY air raid siren", but there was nothing specific to worry us as far as I could tell.
Unfortunately it has put the willies up John Candy. He's convinced something bad is going to happen today. I tell him there is nothing to worry about - we're near to a lake not the sea, so no tsunamis, and we're far too far north for tornadoes. It doesn't do the trick though. Instead, John Candy starts smoking. I tell him smoking is a bad habit, which could be a lie (I'm not aware of any research into the effects of smoking on the dead). He says smoking was fine when he was acting with Catherine in Beetlejuice: if that dead smoking guy character was allowed to smoke, then so is he. I tell him, Okay, Catherine O'Hara was awesome in that film, but Otho from Beetlejuice wasn't played by him, it was some other actor called Glenn Shadix. It was in Home Alone that he acted with Catherine. This, weirdly, convinces him to stop smoking, even though it makes no sense whatsoever, and he throws the half-smoked cigarette out the window. Straight in through the open window of a passing rental car. Which instantaneously bursts into flames and burns to the ground in a matter of seconds. All that is left is the car radio.
I am absolutely flabbergasted. The corpse of John Candy plays dead.
Three days until Thanksgiving...
We spent the night lying low in a place named Cortland, at the Cortland Country Music Park. It was totally deserted, which was a stroke of luck - we didn't even see the proprietor so just followed his emailed instructions and left him a thank-you note with some cash.
We are making good progress towards Boston and the weather is yet to put in an appearance. Today is the day Emily chooses to be unpredictable, in a wholly good way. Our destination is virtually due east of Cortland, but the freeways zig-zag cross-country. So Emily decides we are going to cut some corners and leads us down some state and county roads rather than the highways. It makes a welcome change after the last couple of days, as we get to see a little more of the countryside. Unfortunately, we also witness destruction and near-destruction.
The route takes us through a small town called Prattsville, which appears to have borne the brunt of Hurricane Irene. Whole houses are ripped from their foundations and scattered like Kansas farmsteads in Oz, whilst the trees only line the banks of the river because they have been deposited there by the winds, horizontally. [Ed edit: research a couple of days later tells me Irene floods tore through Prattsville, virtually destroying it.] Just a few miles later we have our own near-catastrophic meeting with fate, as a gas guzzler speeds round a blind corner on our side of the road. I have to brake hard and swerve to avoid a head-on but, luckily, the majority of American roads have an ample hard shoulder. It was fully utilised in this case.
We pass close to the city of Schenectady. To the uninitiated, this is the home town of Caden Cotard, the lead character in the film Synecdoche, New York. My apologies if you have heard this before, but it is my opinion that Synecdoche is the greatest film ever made. You liked Being John Malkovic, Eternal Sunshine..., Adaptation? Well, they were all written by Charlie Kaufman. Synecdoche is the first time he took on the directing as well.
Our proximity to Schenectady means it is my turn to do the talking. I tell John Candy everything I can about the film: the perfect cast and their roles; the themes; the subtle clarity in the script; Kaufman; what it has led me to find online; what I have learnt of myself, of life. John Candy listens with an intensity that only a dead person can achieve, and he seems genuinely interested. Marie likes films too, he says. Her favourite is Bend It Like Beckham.
I apologise now if, having passed near to this town, I am compelled to live out my fanboy fantasies and create my own all-encompassing ever-expanding vision of the world. What with current world events, I would be lying if I said the thought hadn't already crossed my mind. A personal utopia...
If that does happen, the only reassurance I can give is that John Candy has offered to play the part of my corpse so, if I fail and my utopia winds up being just another dystopia, at least my eventual just-after-death scene will be credible.
Two days until Thanksgiving...
We are just one day of driving from Boston, so have ourselves a day-long break on the border of New York state and Massachusetts, in the Taconic State Park campground near a village called Copake Falls. In the morning we take the Purple Nimbus for his first 5000-mile check-up (he's actually got over 120,000 on the clock, but has passed 5000 with me at the controls). A Ranger-recommended auto repair shop in nearby Hillsdale does the job for him, and he actually does feel slightly smoother afterwards - something I wasn't expecting.
In the afternoon we take a stroll into the park, to the interestingly-named Bash Bish(!) falls, crossing the state line into Massachusetts as we do. We have the whole park to ourselves, it seems. It's quite something to look about you at the mountains and the forests and the rapids and think of that corner of the state as yours and yours alone. Sorry, yours and John Candy's alone.
John Candy and I talk on the way back to the campground. He says it's quite an undertaking, this trip of mine, and asks if I have any regrets in life. I tell him I think if there is an adult human anywhere who has absolutely no regrets they are an extremely privileged individual. And yes, I do. He asks whether I'm afraid of death. I tell him most of us, myself included, live our lives as if we are not going to die. And I'll only be afraid if death comes to me with the knowledge that I harbour regret at not having loved and been loved. He smiles at this, and asks me what I think love is. I tell him I don't think it is an emotion. I tell him it is far more powerful than that; something chemical, capable of triggering all the emotions. And I tell him I think I know how it works. And I can tell from the look on John Candy's moldy face that he thinks he knows too.
We get back to the campground and have ourselves a wee camp fire and we sing sea shantys to the stars and John Candy re-enacts his favourite scenes from The Great Outdoors and I re-enact the live-action version of The Snowman that my sister and I choreographed when we were young and the Purple Nimbus re-enacts the opening sequence to The A-Team and we laugh and we have fun and it has been a wonderful day together, a wonderful week together, and a part of me will be sad when Thanksgiving is upon us tomorrow night and we have to say goodbye to the corpse of John Candy.
One day until Thanksgiving...
There is little for us to do today other than make it to Boston. It rained all night and continues to drizzle into the morning and throughout the day. We take the toll road to the city and John Candy comes up trumps with a slightly icky quarter at the toll booth. The traffic is the heaviest I have seen outside of central LA, Thanksgiving swelling the roads. I think I read somewhere that 50% of Americans travel for the holiday.
Giving ourselves a whole week for the journey from Chicago appears to have paid off. No danger of last minute delays or adverse weather conditions to thwart us in our aim of getting to Boston. It doesn't even get cold enough today for the drizzle to turn to sleet, despite what was said on the forecasts. It has almost been too easy. The fruits of sound planning, perhaps.
John Candy gives directions to Emily and she leads us through the blocks of Boston to where John Candy wishes to go. Emily says: You have arrived. The time has come for us to say our goodbyes.
We warmly shake hands on the pavement alongside the Purple Nimbus and John Candy gives me a parting gift: a couple of layers of decayed skin off his palms. I'm fairly certain he meant to. He tells us to enjoy our Thanksgiving at the hostel, and to make the most of the rest of the road trip. And to make sure we have fun. I can see him waving (clutching his right foot under his arm) in the wing mirror as I pull out into the traffic.
I leave the Purple Nimbus with a friendly parking attendant and check in at the hostel. The room is small but warm and I store Emily in my locker and make up my bed. Later in the evening I can't help but think about the time since Chicago, the time we have spent with the corpse of John Candy. My memories are fond indeed. A little golden week in the midst of a 52-week vacation. It is a struggle to comprehend how lucky I am. Lucky in the life I am leading.
Lucky in the people that I know.
Just plain old lucky.
But then something occurs to me. John Candy. The stories he told us about his wife, Marie. Something just doesn't quite fit.
The Amish satellite scrambling affected Marie too...but female GPS's are called Emily, not Marie. John Candy said he hadn't cried genuinely since the day of their marriage, but I'm certain Gus Polinski (The Polka King of the Midwest) shed a tear in Home Alone!
And Marie's favourite film...Bend It Like Beckham? Really!? I simply don't believe it. I can't believe it! Surely there is only one film that could possibly be the favourite of the person married to John Candy. One film...
Uncle Buck!
By Jiminy!
I grab the keys and sprint to the parking lot, jump in the Purple Nimbus and race across town to where we said goodbye earlier in the day.
And there I find John Candy, exactly where we left him, kind of slumped half-sitting on the kerb, not really moving, what's left of his bulk awkwardly hanging to one side.
I help him to sit up.
There is no Marie, I say to him. He nods, she's dead too.
Cremated.
Come with us, to the hostel, I say. They are doing all manner of things for Thanksgiving, it'll be great.
So we get in the van and go to the hostel. And as we approach the reception desk, one of the staff looks at us and says, He can't come in here he's dead.
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