Riverside Walk With Me
Riverside Walk With Me
This is how religions start, isn't it?
This is a tale about the consequences of boredom, impulsivity, and the silliness of popular culture. It includes a meaningless town in Iowa, a titan of science fiction, and pure abject hilarity at the expense of an innocent young stranger. Come with me and imagine yourself embarking on an epic somehow lacking in meaning, moral, or any kind of point whatsoever. Embrace a hero’s journey for six retarded morons with nothing better to do. Let us begin.
The entire story is the begins at this Hollywood moment, right here:
That’s from Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home. For the uninitiated, it’s a film about a giant black cylinder in space screaming in whale song about how the whales are gone. It’s gonna flood Earth, Noah style. Because the Dutch can’t build dams fast enough, Captain James T. Kirk and the gang travel back in time utilizing the power of a Klingon Bird of Prey, the Sun, and some really good math from a recently resurrected Spock. They land in 1980s San “Not A Dumpster Fire Yet” Francisco, make tons of fish-out-of-water jokes, and kidnap some whales to bring… back to the future! Scotty also probably totally fucks up the timeline harder than Biff Tannen. The scene above is Kirk hitting up a nice science whale lady for information about whales or whatever.
Lost yet? I don’t care. Keep reading, scrub.
Riverside is a small town in Iowa with not much to recommend it. However, after this movie, someone was fast enough on the draw to declare to the world Kirk was talking about their specific place. As I imagine this wasn’t something too many people really gave a shit about it stuck eventually turning into Star Trek canon. Now presenting James Tiberius Kirk of Riverside, the only genius level repeat offender in the Midwest.
Speaking of, a lifetime ago I worked the insurance hustle. If you’ve had an auto accident I’ve done every part of that job except fix your car. The wages of these sins isn’t exactly death, but what one calls a catastrophe deployment. Basically, when big bad things happen and cause lots of insurance claims (like hurricanes, earthquakes, or in this case a hail storm) lots of people are sent by insurance companies to handle said claims. Since I still had delusions of grandeur from climbing the corporate ladder I happily volunteered to go.
This found me in Cedar Rapids, Iowa alone for three weeks driving all over God’s creation staring at tiny little dings on cars trying to figure out how to make the problem go away for a monolithic beast that didn’t know I existed as an actual human being with thoughts and feelings and dreams. Being the middle of August, it was also unbearably hot. The only positive was at my hotel where the night desk was manned by a very attractive young woman. Who turned out to be gay. This was back when that sort of thing still mattered as in when someone said they liked girls it meant they weren’t interested in boys or chopping off their tits. Novel, no? She was called a lesbian, children.
This all reminds me of that time I lay dying in the hospital. But at least I got morphine.
My apologies, I digress. So just how boring and stupid was this trip? There’s a random field in Iowa with a 12 oz bottle of Coke laying in repose. Lost, hungry, and pissed to high hell about it I’d stopped my car, stepped out with incandescent rage, and chucked the thing as far as I could. Dissatisfied it didn’t make it into the rows of corn I marched over to the bottle, picked it up, and heaved once again. I imagine it’s still there, all these years later, like some pathetic monument to my sins.
I also punched a dent into that rental car. Don’t tell anyone.
During this three week escapade into the depths of Iowa in August we got one day off. It was a Sunday, praise the Lord. As fortune would have it, I happened to be very close to a number of friends I’d met on an online gaming forum (this is another old time thing where you met people off the internet for reasons other than food delivery and meaningless sex). But what to do? Devil take him, Josh had the answer.
“Hey, you know what I’ve always wanted to see?”
“What?”
“Riverside, Iowa.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the “future birthplace” of James T. Kirk.”
“Huh?”
“You know, from Star Trek. Apparently this is the place. Got a monument and everything. It’s only 45 minutes from your hotel.”
“Fuck it, let’s do it. When’s the next time I’ll be out this way, anyway?”
Off we went like some bastardized version of the Magnificent Seven. Retardificent Six? Whatever the truth, if you ever get a time machine don’t go back and kill Hitler. Kill me. And my friends. But me first.
Riverside itself is difficult to remember. After two weeks of driving up and down Iowa, all the towns blend together in a beige, brick, bright green blur covered in tiny dents. This town was no different, save one giant difference: the enormous parade float of the U.S.S. Riverside, hull registry NCC-1818.
Even better? The museum. Where’s that? It’s right behind you.
Being the high status culture aficionados we were, of course we went inside to check it out. To call this place a “museum” was generous in the extreme. It was a combination gift shop/some dude’s toy collection set up in the space just off an actual goddamn living room. I’m pretty sure Mom was in the kitchen or a box in the basement. Hard to say for sure. Regardless, whoever ran this show seemed quite happy a group of six guys had walked in. He may of actually been named Norman Bates.
After about 10 minutes of stifling laughter at the ridiculousness of it (my parents had bought me some of this shit when I was a wee lad!) my compatriots bought a couple keepsakes and we left. Looking back, we’re probably lucky we didn’t end up putting lotion in a basket next to Mom’s corpse before filming a six-way Star Trek themed blowjob gang bang. I would’ve worn the Spock ears, for the record. Not the face, please.
After this we stopped by a gas station for some sugary drinks and headed up the road to our destination: a memorial marking the “future birthplace” of James Tiberius Kirk. Walking up the road, our friend Josh kept an eye on the map. Keep in mind the absolute drab zeitgeist of this place. Nondescript brick buildings in that off-sand shade of beige lined either side of the street. There were no stop lights to note. No businesses. Nothing up and down the length of the street save two signs: one for a beauty parlor and then another pointing back to our long sought after holy grail.
Wait, just what was it doing behind a beauty salon? Or at least what passes for one in this godforsaken purgatory? After a brisk debate we realized there was likely a fault line in this town over the issue. Perhaps actual warring factions, going back ages like the some bastardized nerd version of the Hatfields and McCoys (no relation)? Impossible to tell for sure.
I wish I could take you to that moment we rounded the corner and beheld what we beheld. The area was a small yard behind the salon, surrounded by the beige brick Theodosian Walls of Riverside. In the back stood a large crab apple tree, bare of its bounty in the August furnace. Beyond all that was one, singular characteristic: the horde. A swarm of flies moved like a salt and pepper TV static cloud about the space feeding on the rotted fruit that covered the area like a perverted snowfall, blackened and ripe and odorous in a winter wonder-hell. We gagged. We waved the flies from our faces and witnessed our faith’s reward. The plaque!
Future Birthplace of James T. Kirk March 22, 2228
Much to my amusement, no photos of this exist. Dumbstruck by absurd majesty, we neglected to take any of our own. On the internet, only the evidence of heresy remains: false images of the monument in clean, open spaces. But we know the truth. We know the glory of this holy relic tucked back behind the salon shaded by the Tree, nourished by the Fruit, and protected by the Flies.
The Tree. The Fruit. The Flies. The Tree. The Fruit. The Flies.
THE HARBINGERS OF THE KIRK, MAY HE LIVE FOREVER.
“Guys, you know this is how religions start, right? Everyone is gonna forget about it until some cheeky fuck in 2227 knocks a bitch up and claims his kid is the prophesied one.”
“Oh my God, you’re right Phisto.”
“Good thing we’ll be long dead.”
“Yeah, no shit. Let’s get out of here.”
Back at our parked cars, I stood with my back to the wall James Dean style. There was a large steel door to my right. My friends were arrayed in front of me in a semi-circle. We cracked our jokes, told our stories, and basically came down from it all. Six friends just enjoying each other’s company at the tail end of a supremely stupid-ass adventure.
Naturally, strip clubs came up.
One of our crew had been to all three of them in Cedar Rapids. Nasty affairs with the ridiculous names you expect from places like that. Somehow, he was surprised I hadn’t yet taken advantage of their services. In any case, every name was some play on genital imagery - log this or juicy that. Of course, being raging assholes with no sense of decorum we started trying to one up each other’s would-be strip club names. I’ll cut right to the quick, because that’s when that large steel door to the right of me opened. Unable to notice it because of my commitment to the bit, I grinned wide as I spoke the upcoming sentence. My friend’s eyes went to my right, their mouths agape, as the tension in our little crew magnified a hundred fold in an instant.
“Yeah, you might as well call it Giant Throbbing Cocks.”
At the final word a young man, not even out of high school, roughly brushed past me and through our semi-circle to his car. After rapidly entering the vehicle, he backed out of his parking spot and peeled out away from us. My friends burst out laughing, much too loud for any respectable group of men in a small town like Riverside on a broiling Sunday afternoon in August. One literally collapsed at the knees and rolled on the sidewalk, his slides virtually splitting open right there on the concrete.
Who was that kid? Where did he come from? Where was he going? What did he think was going on?
“I’m pretty sure that guy thought he was about to be ganged raped.”
“Think he was on his way to Bible study or something?”
“Imagine what he’s going to tell them!”
“There’s a gang of rapists about. Watch out! They almost got me!”
We laughed. We cried. We got the fuck out of Riverside, the future birthplace of James Tiberius Kirk. Probably for the best, because I can just imagine the tale that kid told the cops.
Thanks for reading!
Let me know your thoughts in the comments. I love engaging with readers, and these pieces are a means to that end. If you think this was worth your time, please share via Restack or personal recommendation. That means a lot to me.
If you want to support my writing, kindly consider a paid subscription. I work cheap!
This. Story. Would. Have been. Much. Better.
With a string. Of unnecessary. Pauses.
Nvm I thought this piece was going to be about the iconic teen show *Riverdale* and stopped reading halfway through