Field Notes: Midwest Depravity

In a tiny steel mill town, in the middle of nowhere Illinois, was a local watering hole for the social and moral outcasts of the world.

Welcome to middle America.

The steel mill there shut its doors a few years back, leaving hundreds of union workers unemployed and unable to provide for their families.

And as you drive by the empty shell of what once was a thriving industry, you can’t help but admire the millions of tiny lights dotted across the factory.

Illuminating the unending darkness, as grey clouds pour out of the smokestacks.

A tiny sign of what life could be again.

Teddy’s, as I’ve decided to call it, was a twenty-minute drive from St. Louis. Then again, everything is about twenty-minutes from the city. It was a mild September evening that found me on Interstate-55, across the Mississippi and into southern Illinois.

The clock read 9:45p.m.

“Shit!” I thought. “How is it I’m always running late?”

I was off to meet an old friend, Nabby, and her band of deviants. They all grew up together and were either related by distant blood or marriage; except for Denny.

He just happened to live next door to one of them and decided to go along for the ride.

Pulling into the parking lot, I grabbed a bottle of cheap whiskey from the glove box, took a deep swig and walked right through the front doors.

I wasn’t seeing double yet, after spending the earlier part of my day drinking, which cleared my conscience of driving drunk across the border.

“I.D.!”

The old man at the door barked the request, examining me top to bottom. “Prick!” I whispered. He could have just asked me for my license instead of sounding like the goddamn gestapo.

I should have left right then and there. But, I obliged-despite my better judgment.

They were all there gyrating wildly on the wooden dance floor to some hip-hop song I didn’t know and didn’t much care for.

“You made it!” they shouted, while rushing towards me. Hugs and pleasantries were exchanged; the usual, “glad you didn’t get lost” or “wow, you actually decided to come out tonight” were slipped in.

The immediate realization that I didn’t have a drink brought an eerie silence to the moment. Looking dumbfounded, I excused myself and walked over to the bar where Dwayne was patiently waiting.

Ready to serve my choice of poison.

“I’ll take a whiskey and a Miller Lite please,” I said, smiling as I slid the ten dollars across the table. I’ve always made it a point to be polite-much more when out drinking.

Why?

Because for the next few hours these hard working men and women will hold your life in their hands. You fuck up and there is no telling the world of pain they may inflict upon you right then and there, or first thing in the morning when you wake-up in pain wanting to blow your brains out.

But, more importantly, they have the unfortunate pleasure of dealing with drunken assholes day in and day out.

The least we can do is thank them for their tolerance of our alcohol intolerance.

Carefully making my way back towards the dance floor, I took a seat at the nearest booth. I was here to have fun and watch the animals play.

Young and old; employed and unemployed; drugged up and fucked up, they were all there cutting loose.

Forgetting that their actions that night would have consequences at sunrise.

I felt much like a fish out of water.

“You wanna go smoke?” Nabby asked.

I nodded yes while slowly getting up from the table. Realizing then that all eyes were on me as I walked by.

My redneck credentials have never been verified; I don’t have any kids or a wife I’m trying to avoid, and I was wearing a cardigan sweater.

Cleary, I did not belong.

But that’s never a reason to not make small talk with all the other weirdos.

Smoking is no longer permitted in bars-health reasons-but there is always a way around the law. In this case it was a billiard room connected to the main building labeled “smoking room only.”

Everyone here smokes. This is blue collar Illinois, and packing themselves into this medium-sized space was only a minor inconvenience; sardines would be proud of our ability to congregate closely when need be.

I was about six drinks deep trying to keep my mind focused, when things got interesting.

“Hey new guy!”

The voice rang out clearly amongst other useless chatter. It was James, at least that’s what I think his name was.

I called him ‘guy’ to be safe.

“Yeah, what’s up?” I asked, while turning to face him.

“You want some of these?” He asked, thrusting his hand at me, revealing a dozen or so M&M sized pills.

“Well what the Hell do we have here?” I thought.

I quickly scanned my memory banks, trying to find a file labeled “ Drugs and other things.”

“That’s ecstasy!” I blurted, upon finding the right drug card. Now all that was left was to carefully weigh out the present options.

If I took the pills my night would change drastically, but was I comfortable with taking a hallucinogen with a group of people I didn’t know? In a bar where my potential enemies out numbered friends?

“No thanks,” I said. “But let me buy you a drink.”

I was afraid if I didn’t I’d get my ass kicked for declining the offer of free drugs.

After that I moved close to the bar and listened as people talked politics. Blaming the black guy in office for all the problems they had; complaining about paying union dues; drug usage.

Here’s what struck me. I was surrounded by some the hardest working, down on their luck people who were trying to figure out where to place the blame for their economic woes.

It was easier to watch Fox news, learn to hate, and blame everyone else.

When that wasn’t enough, the easiest ways to cure the sadness of underemployment were uppers, downers, pain-killers, heroin, and meth.

This was the curse.

It’s a fucked up realization and no one, in political office, seems to remember that people in rural parts of this country are hurting.

My watch read 2:00 a.m.

Closing time.

Nabby found me talking about the election and then bought a round of shots for her crew.

“Did you have a good time?”

“Absolutely!” I said, with a half-cocked grin. “I like your friends, they’re fun, and we should do this again.”

And as I drove back over the river, the only thing on my mind was those blue collar workers.

Forgotten by everyone… except their dealers, who have no issues with exploiting their misery for personal gains.