Driving through the old coal town, trash finding itself seemingly on every patch of street not covered with a house. Staring from the passenger seat at rows of worn “coal boom” homes that have over-welcomed there stay, broken by a strip of used car lots, trucking companies, junk yards and body shops. The sporadic patch of woods raises questions of why that lot was spared the fate of its destruction to facilitate what would be an overpriced modular home or perhaps a regional bank. The new Carti album plays in one of my ear pods. The roadwork indicators remain in the same positions they have since my childhood, but now covered by years of seasonal crud. 65 degrees and raining, MR and I head to do a job so many that travel these roads have performed, the fixing of the beater car stranded in an obscure parking space. It was a comfortable overcast, the birds did not seem to care about the dribbles of rain either. We roll into MR’s place of work that fits ironically with the locale itself, junk removal. MR’s coworkers come and go, giving tips as to there mechanical methodology engrained since childhood to mend this beater. They share tales of there own cars, how they mended a similar problem and saved 100’s of much needed dollars. After many hours and the occasional trip through the town to the local AutoZone, we had to call it, the car must sit another night.

I recall on the way back seeing an over-weight women in her mid 30’s, fading colored hair, baby stroller in hand, stepping off her green carpeted porch which was attached to a sooty duplex about 10 feet from the busy avenue. She walked towards a beater of her own, or maybe a boyfriends. She is such a common sight it has become meaningless to question the string of events or nature of person that leads one into such situations because such questions, after living some life, lead one to conclusions that life is mighty complex and many are not built for modernity and its complexities. And many are only a few steps away from a form of life similar to hers, it might look different, the house might be nicer, and the car not a beater but the same principles apply. You will be lulled into this life and its sotckhom-esque comforts from the perpetual lashings places like this and modern life deliver. This is compounded with the high likelihood most of your family is also in a similar state of lashings. I believe a better question would be to ask if her life could be better. I would imagine her response would start with basic platitudes about things that could be improved but would eventually curtail into complaining about a specific squabble she is having with a family member who persists in a similar situation and the word “bitch” would be used in regards to this person. People like her seem to enjoy their misery. Their misery is capitalized and sold as comfort commodities in the form of mind numbing TV shows, incentivized breeding, and Stewie dolls. However, I enjoy looking at the dying process of these places and its people, its a beautiful death. I love the people I go to these places and see these things with. I would live here forever if I was surrounded by the people I love too, so I am no better than her from that perspective.

*To rip and tear at the realities of certain humans is what sets human writers apart from chat-gpt.