College Town: A Eulogy

When I left Macomb, Illinois I was bound and determined to write a fictionalized memoir, an account of my years (A bit like the much savaged Mr. Frey did but without the claim of fact only truth). I've often refrain from talking about my time there because that was material I was saving for the "book." So many years pass and in all my writing the only place Macomb is to be found is in old dusty journals and workshop created, stream of thought documents saved to a computer for later use. One short story exists (incomplete) and the introduction and out line of a novel (stored in folders and forgotten). When I stopped writing about Macomb I stopped writing altogether. (Not counting this blog). No poetry. No Stories. No Essays.

I am no Hunter S. Thompson. To write about Macomb, to talk about my memories I would often start with a phrase like, "So I was in the alley behind the bar getting stupid." or "So we had three cases of miller high life and a bottle of valium and the crack head was coming over with some hydroponics." Or , "So it's six am, the sun is coming up and I decide it's time to walk home to me bed four miles away."

Unless you are Hunter Thompson you walk away from these stories either saved or with purpose. I left because I ran out of money. My boss had me cut down to 2 days of work each week and she was thinking about firing me. (after three years with no raise or any sort of recognition from the owners my attitude wasn't exactly that of the perfect employee. Then there was the fact that my regulars didn't spend a lot of money because they were usually pretty stoned to start with). I didn't find God. I didn't get checked into a rehab program. I didn't swear off the bad stuff for all time. No drama not the stuff of great novels or bad movies. Just the kind of stuff that happens in real life.

I was depressed and poor living in a economically depressed area where everyone except the cops and lawyers were depressed and poor (well the cops and lawyers weren't poor at least). Factories closed. The Big box stores opened on the highways leading into town and the businesses in town started to fail. Everyone I knew and cared about was having a terrible life except maybe the college students and they moved away in short order.

I can't write about Macomb like it was some mad drunken bash. The booze was just the side note. People hurt and took the only medicine they could afford. I can't vilify Macomb or the people, because I cared for them deeply. I can't speak to addiction because my only physical addiction was to cigarettes. I really can't speak to the poverty as I always know in the back of my mind that when all else fails I could go home.

So I put the town to rest for the time being. I say my goodbyes. Perhaps I cry a little (inside) knowing there are people in the town I'd love to see, knowing that there could be no soap opera or desperate housewife half as dramatic as the east end of town. I take my old stories, poems and journals and shelve em. It is time embrace life.

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