Story and Photos by Bridget Callahan
Okay… so let’s just say one was to have gone to that Greek restaurant last night. That one in the middle of the CSU sprawl that looks like it’s either a restaurant or a dog fighting club. And you might have walked through the back door of the kitchen, like you’re someone, and it gave you a little bit of a power trip. So you drank a little more than you should of, especially that weird imported liquor that was made in someone’s backyard in the old country and probably peed in by goats.
Then somehow, who knows – you’re over at Lava Lounge spending your monthly gas budget on martinis. There was that guy you were talking to who fights for fun in badly lit back rooms, and you remember telling his friends you totally knew the scariest place on the railroad tracks (cause you’re so hardcore right? Drunk girl?). There’s a blur then, of car seats and running out of cigarettes and that Darude track that drives you crazy when you hear it, for various nostalgic and socio-economical reasons. And then, here you are.
Here being somewhere, in the weeds with bugs – ticks probably. You’re lying a few feet away from the railroad ties, under the shadow of some thick leafy greens. The gravel and dirt is hot, the air is hot, but the shade you’re in is cold.
Scrambling to your feet, it becomes absolutely apparent at first glance that you are in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere being a relative term. There are buildings, and a street, and Downtown is visible in the distance. The real thing that starts a little panic in your throat as you look around is the lack of houses. In fact, none visible, not up the hill. Not down the hill. The open concrete makes you want to scurry into the nearest open door, like a sad little city cockroach. Why are you here? Where are you? Which direction is the lake? You do remember that it’s Sunday, right?
The first decision is up or down. Down the hill are warehouses as far as one can see, and they are all probably empty except for security cameras. So up it is. Assuming you’re still in Cleveland, there should be houses nearby. As you start to trudge up the street, a pattern of McDonalds bags and beer cans lights your way, like a bread trail back to fast food, and thusly civilization.
Up the hill you start to wonder if this is Cleveland. It’s looking a lot like Atlanta, or anywhere in the industrial South.
There’s a forest of weeds, vines, and trees overhanging everything. The streets are broken up, disused. Asphalt lying in dangerous chunks haphazardly. Every block or so is one house, maybe two. One with a sign saying “For Sale, $100” and another actually quarantined off the main road with giant concrete barriers – like a #$%^ zombie pit!
There’s evidence of homeless people, but where have they all gone? There’s no one around, and nothing to walk to. Even the trash looks ancient. It’s so abandoned, even the abandoned people don’t live here anymore.
So okay, let’s turn around and go down the hill towards daylight and open streets and buildings. Maybe there’s no one there on a weekend, but there’s the possibility you can flag a car down. You haven’t seen a car this direction in twenty minutes. It’s hot down in the valley, but at least you can see where you’re going. Briefly there’s a thought that following the railroad tracks would be a good idea, but think about where those tracks go. You’d have to follow them all the way to Steelyard just to find something besides the backs of factories. And it’s probably not the safest thing to walk miles down tracks through nothing but bridges and empty land.
Forty-five minutes later, having walked and walked and walked, you’re getting nowhere. Two cars have past, but neither would stop for you. You don’t recognize any street signs (I mean, really, isn’t Harvard everywhere?). You start to think maybe it might not be such a bad thing to just find some empty shack and stay there for while. No rent. No one would even know you were there, for months probably, if ever. You passed some rolls of aluminum earlier, you could use that to tarp up a wall or roof. You could probably also figure out a way to steal electricity from these power lines, and sell scrap for money once a month. Adopt a stray but loyal mutt who protects you, like that girl from Island of the Blue Dolphins – an urban hermit, basking in the lonely spirituality of desolation and industrial decay.
Luckily, as you stand there in front of this shiny blue heatstroke fantasy, dreaming of your future utopia, the security guard starts to come to the gate. And you get to make a phone call.
