Revs and Cost are like finding an
Old Friend among strangers. Times uncounted have I found myself walking down an unfamiliar street, hard looks everywhere, Jim singing "
People are Strange" in the back of my head, only to catch Cost and Revs winking at me out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes a witty saying like “
NYC is Cost’s toilet bowl”, or “
Cost Fucked Madonna” greets me, as if to say, “What’s up, what’re you doin’ here?” Then there is that warm sense of familiarity that
Stephenson attributes the success of all of those generic chains clogging
America to. I feel,
at home.
The moment of realization came one morning at 7AM on a train into
Hoboken, the Pascack valley line, to be exact. Somewhere in that endless marsh between
Woodridge and Hoboken, near one of the largest
shipping container yards outside of
Newark. A cement
railroad trestle, about 30 feet high, 40 feet long.
Revs. 30 feet by 40 feet, white block letters. In the absolute
middle of nowhere. Rising out of the marsh like an alien
sigil, not yet discovered or touched by human thought. Unreachable by human feet.
After that, they became my
fnords. Everywhere.
10th Ave.
Houston street.
Queens,
Brooklyn,
Shaolin. There lies on the
Harlem River Drive an ancient piece of
machinery whose purpose I cannot fathom. Some kind of miniature oil refinery. And Emblazoned upon a mammary tank:
Revs.
Cost. I was never haunted though, no more than one is haunted by a favorite
bartender or a great cup of
coffee. Look for them. They’re there.