Rust Belt Requiem

It's the miles, not the years.

When you’re from Ohio, coming home to visit can feel like stepping one foot in the grave. I should’ve realized this at the first rest stop in the state, where we were greeted with piles of cigarette butts, dirty snow, and empty opioid emergency kits. Yes, I checked. The thin metal door was hanging open ever so slightly and I had to know.

Per my girlfriend, the women’s restroom featured sex trafficking helplines. Several people had availed themselves of the help line number via those little cut slips of paper at the bottom. Dystopian scenes aside, it’s been six years since the last time I was in Cleveland, my homeland. As the rest area proved, it’s not the years but the miles that get you.

Let me tell you about my trip.

In 2017 my wife and I decided we were sick of our so-called lives in Ohio. I was working a dead end job at a bodyshop. She was working at a sex toy shop. Our best friend was living in Florida and had just tried to kill himself. Only his brother walking in on it stopped the trigger on the shotgun in our friend’s mouth from doing its work. You see, our friend was former Army and done his fair share of Army things in Afghanistan. He wanted out, like so many of his departed buddies.

On the phone my friend and I talked. We came upon the idea of helping each other out via myself and my wife moving to Florida to be near him. Since “happy feet” were our natural state and we had plenty of experience (it would be our fourth move across the country) we packed up everything that would fit in a 2004 Chevy Malibu, sold or gave away the rest, and headed out. I cannot recommend this kinda of thing enough to anyone with even the slightest inclination to do it.

Miles, not the years.

We made it to Florida, found a place to live, and worked some odd jobs. I found stable work at a warehouse putting stuff in boxes. The work was simple, honest, with a cast of co-workers worthy of a Coen Brothers film. I’ll long remember the Haitian crew. Not sure how they all knew each other, but it was certainly some combination of friends and family. This exchange between myself and one of the lead guys shows it best.

“Hey, does it ever bother you when we speak Haitian to each other?”

“No, why?”

“Some of the other guys here get real upset about it.”

“Look, you know the only language I know is English. If you need me to know something, you know how to let me know.”

“What if we’re talking bad on you?”

“If you’re using Haitian, it’s not to my face, so why should I care?”

“Heh. Alright.”

It was a good life, stoically speaking. Now pause for a moment and consider everything that’s happened in the world since in 2020. Summon in your mind, if you can bear it, all the bullshit, all the ridiculousness, all the anxiety, and all the fear.

My 2019 overshadows all of it, without question, even now. Like the Saint of Killers from Preacher being hit in the face with a nuclear missile, my 2019 spits on the dirt with a sardonic quip.

“Not enough gun.”

Illness darkened that year in ways I will never recover from. Not only was I diagnosed with a chronic disease that, without medicine, will kill me painfully in a month’s time my wife suffered the loss of a major organ. Our life, our future, was mercilessly torn from us. At this stage, I must apologize to you, the reader. Further details are not for you to know, and that should tell you all you need. In the end, this period eventually lead to an amicable divorce.

Miles, not the years.

After nine months I was well enough to work again. I took a job at an insurance tech start up, my previous experience in auto insurance enough to get me in the door with people desperate for experience of any degree. Looking back, the place was corporate Darwinism in the extreme. My ability to survive took me as far as Poland, helping train new employees for an office we opened there. In fact, I celebrated my 40th birthday there. Of course, the best story from this time involves a Christmas party and vodka.

Koszalin, Poland is small town on the edge of the Baltic Sea. It’s a place that reminds me quite a lot of my hometown of Cleveland as it’s full of people living their lives with the vague sense they should be elsewhere. Any doubts about this are washed away by the dearth of young people in the city. The folks here were a shy bunch, especially around a foreigner like me.

Imagine my co-workers faces when this American from the corporate headquarters, sporting a literal cowboy hat, sashayed around their Christmas party with a bottle of vodka firmly in his grasp. I sauntered from group to group, filling glasses as I went. Whenever I was asked where my glass was, I simply motioned with the bottle and took a swig.

This was a big hit. However, my pulls from the bottle were much smaller than they seemed. What can I say? Natural showman.

Miles, not the years.

By the end of the year I was out of a job, let go in mass layoffs across the company due to a cratering tech sector. While this is certainly a bummer for anyone, it’s hard for me to get too excited about it now. I suppose it was hardly the worst thing that had ever happened. Plus, I’d met my current girlfriend at the office. She is a lovely, kind, smart woman that takes very good care of me.

Remember my best friend? His turn to save us. While I wasn’t too worried about losing my job, my illness was an obvious problem. He had a lead on a social studies teacher position at a high school, and as I had both a history degree and a pulse, was a perfect candidate. Bing bam boom, here I am again packing up my car with all earthly possessions, a beautiful woman, and moving to a brand new place I’d never been before. Happy feet satisfied once again.

Let’s fast forward to the present and my visit to Cleveland. If you’re keeping score at home, in six short years I’ve gone through all of the major life stressors (some in multiple) save the death of a loved one. Imagine my surprise that, on Christmas Eve at my parents place, the common refrain from my family was this:

“You haven’t changed at all!”

Looking back, I was in shock. What the fuck are these people talking about? How the hell is that possible? These people have no idea what I’ve been through! But then it strikes me: I think this requiem isn’t so much about the Rust Belt, but this period of my life and how I’m not the only one who’s changed. From the new lines on my elder cousin’s faces, to the maturity of their children grown into adults, to my old uncle’s Irish bear hug, their lives contain an immensity at least the size of mine, if not likely more.

My hometown just outside Cleveland, too. There’s a new-to-me public library, huge and gleaming. The old pub is gone replaced with this silly thing with strange paintings of lions in suits. They’ve jammed apartments into every square corner of available space. People walking with their spouses, their children, or their dogs. I saw a few familiar faces, each of us staring at the other with a vague sense of recollection but no real interest beyond that mysterious curiosity.

The immensity of all this change and more has been weighing on me, and until writing this just now I didn’t know how to resolve it. Now I do. Despite the grueling years and experience, it’s not the miles or the years or any of that pithy rot. It’s whether or not you listen, whether or not you learn, whether or not you do better with the miles you’ve left to walk.

The miles ahead, not the years.

In other words, life is not the amount of damage you can do but the amount of punishment you can take. And Rust Belters? You might say we can do this all day.

I know this is true because I see my cousin’s kids, my sister’s kids, and I see hope. Weak people don’t raise kids like that, kids that take up music, take up fulfilling work, smile and treat their elders kindly, and who most importantly laugh when a sip of my bourbon burns their eyes. If the world doesn’t blow its brains out, they will live strange, eventful lives. If it does, we’ll be glad they’re around because they’re gonna be tough like their Mom and Dad, like their Aunts and Uncles, like their grandparents.

Like me. I hope. I don’t have kids myself, but if fate is kind enough where that ship hasn’t sailed, I hope I raise them worthy of my family. Because hell, they’ve done a great job so far.

One last thing, before I let you go. My fellow Rust Belt expats: be proud of where you’re from. Be proud you left. Be proud you’ve lived your life the way you wanted to live it, but be ready. With the close of 2023 we know 2024 isn’t gonna be any easier. We all feel it. We all know a change is coming. Whatever it is, people are gonna need us to show them the way through.

Why? Because you can take a punch and keep on truckin’.

The miles ahead, not the years.

---

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 work, kindly consider a paid subscription. I work cheap!

Take care!