Boyle’s Piltdown Lounge occupied an otherwise barren patch of gravel alongside a road that passes beneath the New York State Thruway somewhere between the Dolgeville and Canajoharie exits. It was close to the overpass, on the north side, so you could only glimpse it for a second or two from the west-bound lane if you were driving at the limit. I passed it dozens of times over the years on my trips home to Rochester from my father’s place upstate. Nothing more than a waypoint, really, that kept the white live fever in check and confirmed that, yes, I was covering ground and would eventually escape the interminable tedium of the highway.

The mere glimpse of the place, despite reminding me of the distance and hours remaining, was in itself a comfort. I wasn’t lost, I hadn’t reached my exit but hadn’t missed it either. I could return to daydreaming or wherever the mind goes when you’re in a state of forced physical inactivity and constant attention to the task at hand, staying between the lines for hours on end. In such a state, the fleeting image of Boyle’s Piltdown Lounge, the faded sign, a few rusty pickups out front would sometimes tip me into a fantasy of an alternate life, a barren existence in a desolate nowheresville of dust and asphalt and incessant whine of tires on pavement. And inside, country music blaring out of blown speakers, maybe a ball game on the tv over the bar. Maybe  both at the same time. Cheap booze and canned beer. Regulars at the bar at all hours, and a bartender who knows them all and brings their personal koozies up from under the bar as soon as soon as they walk in from the light to the dimness where time stands still.

This is how I pictured the place. I was curious and strangely drawn to it, but always resisted the impulse to take the next exit and find my way to that dim, desolate place. In this impulse I saw my father’s imprint. Not just the drink, but the longing for solitude in the company of familiar strangers. I never did take that exit, ashamed as I was, and still am, of that compulsion which can lead only to dissipation and loss, as it had for my father.

My father is long gone and I don’t make that trip anymore, but do occasionally have reason to drive that stretch of the Thruway. I can’t find Boyle’s Piltdown lounge anymore. I don’t know exactly where to look for it. Maybe it burned to the ground or was leveled to make way for a gas station or food mart. I’m glad it’s gone, because the impulse isn’t. I’ve found other places, though, closer to home. Different, but serving the same need. They are everywhere, if you look for them.