It’s the quick bypass that forgets the town.
The town itself has its own exit ramp a little ways down the highway-maybe a mile-which runs the length of the main street instead of joining it. Its small arrow pointing in the other direction, over to the other side of the overpass, where there’s just a gas station. And the building fades over the granite as I come closer to it, where there’s finally the ramped exit with the green, direction sign reading, Resorts World Catskills: the arrow pointing straight. Speeding up the highway that runs and cuts these small towns by the blade of a semi’s horn, blaring down the rumble strips, pumping smoke into the cold, thin air like someone’s breath. All my clothes-casino clothes-stacked and layered in the trunk while I stop for a sandwich somewhere in Jersey. From the city, I rode up in the afternoon a packed car like I had a family inside. Orange lights reflect off the building, in the distance, which I could see from a couple miles down the highway, peeking over the cliffs protecting Sullivan County a red light on its roof, blinking.
