It’s an unwritten rule in New Jersey that there is absolutely no unnecessary stopping on the road. To be delayed on the road, even for one second, can produce levels of unnatural fury. If you do stop, you are threatened by middle fingers and mini baseball bats being brandished at you by crazed lunatics operating SUVs.
The Honda slowly and respectfully bumbles out onto the road. The other cars shoot like bullets around us, almost over us, onto the three-lane highway. The rodeo begins. The Honda is not used to such hostility. The Honda is used to friendly waves, hospitality, and smiles. The other cars are mad. They are, to say the least, frowning. I have a feeling this is not going to be a fun experience.
We slowly but surely gain the speed of just under 65 MPH, the posted speed limit in New Jersey. Freakishly bright headlights frequently speed up on our bumper at 90 MPH. They jerk violently into the next lane once they figure out we’re not going any faster. They blare their horns furiously in crazed bursts of anger. These drivers cannot believe that a car is driving in this fashion. Where do you think we are? We're not in rainbow-world anymore.
I recompose myself and think that we are just dealing with a few isolated cases of road rage. Maybe they had a bad day at work. Maybe they need a hug and a smile?
All of a sudden, in the far distance, I see what I now know as the epitome of my whole New Jersey experience.
A factory about a mile away is glowing red like the devil. It’s a skyscraper made of metal or concrete – I don’t know what it is because I can't see through the smog. The building has enough lights on it to blow up a whole city. My eyes get wider and wider as we speed towards it. The blood-red color is saturating the smog for miles around. Smokestacks surround its exterior like watchtowers, billowing black soot and foul smells that burn my nose hair. I thought I saw a Monarch butterfly go by and get instantly incinerated in a giant flame. This place looks like Satan's lair. Maybe those were the gates of hell back there. We are in hell, that's where we are! At least I know now.
I still don't know what this ridiculous charade of a place is, but it’s nearing me now, faster and faster. I will only get one brief second to look; it is coming at me with an immeasurable speed. My neck cranes back to look up in disbelief. My eyes are wide and stained red.
Then I saw it in red cursive font. "Budweiser."
It was just a Budweiser factory, not Satan's lair.
The Budweiser factory is one of Newark’s main tourist attractions. Here they manufacture "The King of Beers," the most popular beer in the U.S. People drive miles and miles from all over New Jersey and the continental U.S. to observe such a glorious and dignified sight. It personifies what it means to live in classy New Jersey at its best.
I finally slip out of my trance. Reality hits me like a concrete brick. At this point, I just can’t believe where I am. I can’t believe that this is my destiny, to live like this. The full magnitude of the situation is finally sinking in. I can already feel my golden Hawaiian tan fading to the color of a withered, gray raisin. Goodbye, luscious guava nectar out of a coconut shell. Hello, Budweiser out of aluminum cans.
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