The Turnpike
Welcome to the good life! Marlon Ritchie thought as he stood in the living room of his Manhattan loft, still holding the key the real estate agent had given to him when he signed the papers at the closing.
As the Super Bowl's most recent MVP looked out the window at the panoramic view of Central Park and the city skyline beyond, he smiled at the irony that was life. His father, a construction laborer, had worked hard all his life and busted his ass to put his son through school, and here he was living in an apartment that cost more money than his father could have made in several lifetimes.
All because I could throw a football!
Sadly, his father, who died of a heart attack at age forty-two from smoking unfiltered cigarettes and eating too many greasy foods, never even got to see his son join the ranks of such luminaries as Joe Namath, Tom Brady, Peyton and Eli Manning, Terry Bradshaw and Joe Montana.
Marlon felt his eyes sting with unshed tears.
What's the matter with me? he wondered, rubbing his eyes. The American dream has come true for me. I have money, fame, good health. All I need now is to find the right girl, and I'll have it all.
"Strike that," he said with a laugh as he looked at the barren room. "The right girl and some furniture for this place."
Since his busy schedule of football practices and games, public appearances, endorsement commitments and charity events left him little free time, he had hired an interior decorator to make his home livable. When his cell phone rang, he assumed it would be Joaquin, the designer, calling to ask his opinion about a paint color or fabric pattern.
"Hi, Marlon."
There was no need for the caller, Damian Terhune, to identify himself. He and Marlon had been teammates in college and have remained close friends ever since.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Not much. I'm in town for the weekend, and I thought if you have some free time, we might go get a few drinks."
"Sounds good. When?"
"You doing anything now?"
"Not a thing. I'm just standing around, admiring the view from my new and empty apartment."
"Why don't you meet me at that bar in the Village, you know the one where I picked up the redheaded flight attendant last year?"
"Sure. I'll be there in about an hour. First, I have to stop at my hotel room and get changed. I don't even have my clothes here yet."
"See you then, buddy."
* * *
"Well, if it isn't Mr. MVP!" Damian, a second-string running back for the Pittsburgh Steelers, exclaimed as he hugged his old friend. "Am I supposed to genuflect and kiss your Super Bowl ring?"
"I'm not the Pope. Besides, I don't wear the ring, especially on the streets of New York. It's in a safety deposit box."
"Who would have thought you'd become a superstar when we were back in South Bend, praying before every game that we wouldn't do something stupid that would get us cut from the team? Like that would happen to you, the three-time All-America Team quarterback."
"Ah, our gold old days with the Fighting Irish! It seems like an eternity ago."
"For you maybe. For me, it was only yesterday."
"What'll you have to drink?" Marlon asked, hoping to prevent his friend from becoming maudlin.
"A rum and Coke."
The bartender recognized the football star and gave him a drink on the house.
"You're the man!" the barkeep exclaimed.
Soon other people in the bar became aware of the football player and crowded around him, asking for autographs. Some fans even took out their cell phones to have their photographs taken with the superstar athlete.
"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," Damian said. "You must be tired of all this attention already."
"It's not too bad."
When the last of the bar patrons got his or her autograph and selfie, the two men were temporarily left in peace.
"So, how's everything going in Pittsburgh?" Marlon asked.
"Ah, so-so," Damian replied with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. "Rumors have been flying around the clubhouse that I might get traded to Green Bay."
"No kidding?"
"Who would kid about a possible move to Wisconsin? And I thought Pennsylvania was bad!"
A large group of people came into the bar and quickly learned that Marlon Ritchie was on the premises. After another round of autographs and pictures, the football star noticed that his friend had gotten him another drink.
"I'm sorry about all this," he apologized.
"That's the price of fame, I suppose," Damian said. "Maybe I ought to be glad I'm only second string."
More people entered the already crowded bar. Marlon knew that it wouldn't be long before they descended upon him as well.
"Perhaps we could go someplace quieter," he suggested.
"I know a nice little place in Jersey."
"Let's go," Marlon said, quickly downing his drink.
"What are you doing?" Damian asked when he saw his friend raise his arm to hail a taxi.
"I didn't bring my car."
"We'll take mine," Damian offered and walked over to a Prius parked nearby. "Unless you don't want to be seen in a Toyota."
"I might be an MVP, but I'm still the same humble, down-to-earth guy you knew and loved back at Notre Dame," Marlon joked.
As he leaned forward to open the passenger door, a wave of dizziness swept over him.
"I guess I shouldn't have had two drinks on an empty stomach."
"We'll get something to eat in Jersey," Damian announced as he started the engine.
Marlon opened the window, hoping the fresh air would clear his head, but it didn't help. He lay his spinning head back, closed his eyes and listened to the music playing on the car stereo.
"My shadow's the only one that walks beside me."
"Green Day," he said with a smile. "When I was a senior in high school, I would have sold my soul to the devil to be Billie Joe Armstrong."
"Not me. My first love was always football. As long as I can remember I wanted to be Joe Montana. Now, I'd settle for being you."
"The way I feel right now, I'd gladly trade places with you."
As the Toyota approached the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, Marlon felt his tenuous grasp on consciousness begin to slip. In a last-ditch effort to hold on, he began to sing along with his former rock 'n' roll idol.
"I walk alone, I walk ...."
As the Prius entered the tunnel beneath the mighty Hudson River, darkness finally overcame the Super Bowl hero.
* * *
Awareness slowly returned, but there were no thoughts, no emotions, just random, unconnected sensations: a slight headache, a stiff neck, the warm sun shining on his face, the hunger in his stomach. As he opened his eyes, Marlon's mind formed its first cognizant thought.
Where am I?
It took him several moments to recognize the interior of Damian's Prius. Bit by bit, his memory returned.
I was in the Village with Damian Terhune. We had a few drinks in a bar there. I suggested we go someplace quieter, and Damian said he knew of a place in Jersey.
Marlon lifted his head up from the passenger door where it had been resting and looked at the landscape outside. Trees, mountains and a deserted interstate were all he could see.
This must be western Jersey, he concluded. It's definitely not one of the more populous, industrialized areas near New York.
He turned to his left and noticed that the driver's seat was empty. The Toyota must have broken down or run out of gas.
Can an empty gas tank even stop a hybrid car, or will it continue to run on its battery once the fuel is gone? he wondered. And even if the car is as dead as a doornail or Jacob Marley, why wouldn't Damian have simply called AAA?
Anxious to get back to civilization, Marlon reached into his pocket for his iPhone. Surprisingly, there were no bars.
What? I don't believe it! I'm in New Jersey, the most densely populated state in the country, and I can't get a signal.
He sat in the Toyota a moment, considering his options.
Maybe the car's not dead, he thought hopefully.
The quarterback got out the passenger door, walked around the back of the car, which had been left on the shoulder of the road, and got into the driver's seat. Thankfully, the key was still in the ignition. He turned it.
"I walk this empty street on the boulevard of broken dreams."
The engine did not start, but the stereo worked.
Damian must have gone looking for a gas station—either that or a passing motorist gave him a lift.
Marlon decided to wait a few minutes for his friend's return. He sat in the car for a full fifteen minutes before realizing not a single car or truck had passed, traveling in either direction.
Maybe this isn't Route 80 after all, or maybe we're out of New Jersey and halfway through Pennsylvania.
Much of the central portion of the Keystone State consisted of mountains, trees and farms. That would explain both the lack of traffic on the road and the poor cell phone reception.
"But what the hell would we be doing in Pennsylvania?" he cried aloud. "Could Damian have been so drunk that he was headed back to Pittsburgh with me still in the car?"
Marlon's fears were confirmed when he got out of the car, walked about half a mile up the road and saw a sign indicating that he was on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
The Turnpike? Where is everybody then?
Opened in 1940 as the first long-distance, limited-access highway in the United States, the Pennsylvania Turnpike ran in an east-west direction from one end of the state to the other, passing through Philadelphia and Harrisburg, the capital. It was estimated that more than one hundred thousand cars traveled the busy highway every day.
There must have been a bad accident that closed the road, he reasoned.
Then he quickly saw the error of his thinking. An accident would not normally account for both lanes being empty. Even if there were a one hundred car pileup, there was bound to be a back-up in traffic on one side of the road or the other.
As he continued to walk in a westerly direction, Marlon noticed the poor condition of the highway's surface. Not only were there potholes that needed to be filled in, but there were deep cracks in the asphalt as well. It looked as though PennDOT had not resurfaced the highway in a decade or more.
I suppose if I just keep walking, I'll eventually find a town.
He suddenly regretted not leaving a note on the Toyota, letting Damian know where he was headed. Still, he had no intention of going back to the car. He would, as they say in England, "keep calm and carry on."
While strolling along the shoulder of the turnpike, Marlon began to sing, "I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known ...."
* * *
The Super Bowl MVP had walked only two and a half miles when he spotted another car up ahead. It, too, had pulled off on to the shoulder of the highway. The ten-year-old Subaru had seen better days. It was rusted and dented, no doubt the veteran of many a Pennsylvania winter snow or ice storm. Still, it was a welcome sight.
To Marlon's disappointment, no one was with the car. He stuck his head through the open driver's door window and noticed there was no key in the ignition.
His eyes were drawn to a newspaper, The Philadelphia Inquirer, which lay on the passenger seat. The headline was in a font so large and bold, it practically screamed at him: WW III. With trembling hands, he reached into the car, unfolded the paper and scanned the lead article.
Good God, no! he thought as he read about the surprise attacks on London, Paris, Tokyo and New York.
Fighting the growing panic he felt, Marlon ran back to Damian's Toyota. He yanked open the door, turned the key and removed the iPod from the stereo. He then dialed the tuner button until he found a working radio station.
"... there until further notice," the broadcaster said.
There were a number of jarring electronic noises followed by a replaying of the taped message.
"This is the Emergency Alert System. This is not a test. I repeat. This is not a test. The United States and Western Europe are under attack by enemy forces. London, Paris, New York and Washington, D.C., have been obliterated by hydrogen bombs. The President of the United States addressed the people from his bunker earlier this morning, requesting that all civilians seek shelter at once and remain there until further notice."
Marlon could not begin to imagine the depth of the destruction that must have occurred. The loss of life had to have been staggering.
As the EAS warning replayed again, he thought of all the iconic landmarks that were probably destroyed in the attacks: the State of Liberty, the Empire State Building, the White House, the Washington Monument, the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials, the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey and the Eiffel Tower.
The broadcaster's words finally managed to penetrate Marlon's thoughts.
"... requesting that all civilians seek shelter at once ...."
He had no idea where the nearest shelter was. In fact, he had been under the impression that there were none left since the end of the Cold War. He remembered his mother telling him about civil defense drills that were held in schools when she was a young girl to prepare children for just such a national emergency.
Suddenly, Damian's disappearance made sense. He was probably on his way to a shelter when the Prius ran out of gas. He then either got a ride with someone or took off to find a shelter on foot, unable to wake his friend and thus leaving him passed out on the front seat of the car.
It's every man for himself under such conditions.
World War III. As screwed up as the world was, he never believed it would actually come to that. Questions began to plague him. Who had attacked them? Did it really matter to those who were killed? Would the bombings end? If not, who would be next? Boston, Philadelphia, Los Angeles, Chicago? Where would it all stop? When there was no one else left alive to fight, he assumed. Why seek shelter in some hole in the ground? What would be left of the world he knew when he finally came out?
There might not be any more football, he thought sadly. That would mean goodbye to the good life!
"... This is not a test. I repeat. This is not ...."
Marlon put Damian's iPod back into the stereo, and the broadcaster's voice was replaced by Billie Joe Armstrong's. The song he sang took on a whole new meaning.
"I walk this empty street on the boulevard of broken dreams where the city sleeps and I'm the only one, and I walk alone."
Millions—no billions—of dreams were no doubt broken. And the great cities of London, New York, Paris, Tokyo and Washington were not sleeping; they were dead.
Was it only yesterday that he moved into his high-rise Manhattan loft and congratulated himself on making it to the good life? He supposed he was lucky to be alive. Who knew how many people had perished? Maybe Billie Joe Armstrong, his high school idol, or Joe Montana, Damian's hero—maybe even Damian himself. In this brave new world, anything was possible.
"One last time, Billie Joe—for old time's sake," Marlon said as he pressed the stereo's REPEAT button to replay the song from the beginning.
When the musical track came to an end, Marlon got out of the car, walked to the side of the road and picked up a heavy rock lying nearby in the dirt. Then he walked back to the Prius and proceeded to smash the passenger door window.
* * *
"What's he doing to my car?" Damian Terhune cried as he watched his friend on the television monitor.
"I don't know, but I don't like the look of this," Liv Troutman, the producer of Celebrity Practical Jokes said.
On the screen—just one of the dozens of video feeds that were coming from the television cameras hidden along the abandoned highway—the production crew saw Marlon Ritchie pick up a long, jagged shard of glass and slice open his left wrist.
"Oh, Christ!" the producer exclaimed.
She ordered the driver of the production van to get to the Prius as soon as possible and then dialed 911 on her cell phone. When the television crew pulled up behind Damian's Toyota, everyone scrambled out of the vehicle.
The Super Bowl MVP had just jammed the broken glass into his right wrist, and blood was spurting out onto the street.
"No!" Damian screamed in horror.
When Marlon saw his friend's face, his eyes glittered with happiness.
Liv Troutman tried to stem the flow of blood with her blazer, but the wound was too deep. The superstar athlete was fading fast.
"This was all just a joke," a tearful Damian Terhune explained. "You were being filmed for a television show. There's no war, no bombs. That fake newspaper was a prop. I put a drug in your drink at the bar. Then a member of the film crew gave you a shot to keep you asleep while we drove out here to this abandoned section of the Pennsylvania Turnpike."
"Why did you have to do this to yourself?" Liv Troutman cried. "None of it was real!"
Even as he heard the approaching medevac helicopter, Damian knew his friend was dying. That much was real!
"What the hell was I thinking?" he screamed at the producer. "He was my friend. Such a stupid, senseless way to die, out here on this damned highway. For what? Some asinine reality TV show!"
It's not a damned highway, Marlon Ritchie thought as his life slipped away. It's not the Pennsylvania Turnpike either; it's the boulevard of broken dreams.
I got the inspiration to write this story when I read about a 13-mile-long abandoned stretch of the Pennsylvania Turnpike that was bypassed with a new road in 1968.
Boulevard of Broken Dreams written by Billie Joe Armonstrong, Green Day. Warner Bros., Reprise
Image below is of Billie Joe Armonstrong.
Salem wanted to be Billie Joe Armstrong, so he cast a spell on himself. It was a pretty good job except for the ears, whiskers and tail.
