Grit

We drove through Gary, Indiana at sunset. I was sleepy from the sun and I could feel the sand grinding into my scalp and a sunburn already flushing across my face. As we passed boarded up houses, and the kinds of monolithic buildings that it had never occurred to me that anyone would abandon, it seemed as though we were driving through the Midwest's particular brand of Wild West ghost town. I felt the sort of sadness you can feel in the core of your teeth, in the very roots of your trunk, as it were, and then suddenly I was overcome by a rage so intense it made me want to see the entire city razed to the ground. At that moment, sitting side by side in the car, listening to Neil Young, I knew we would always be tied to one another. What I didn't know at that moment was that, like the founders of so many worn out Rust Belt steel towns, I had put all my eggs in one basket, and tied the handle to the bow of the Titanic.