So...Where Do You Live?

"So...Where Do You Live?"

My apartment is the penthouse suite of a fortress in a post-apocalyptic wonderland. All around me, buildings crumble and vines seek to claim what little territory was once theirs – it's true, the earth takes back her own. Brick and mortar and steel and tin all combine in a cacophonous amalgam that reminds me of a cancer on the land – a boil left to fester years ago, now infected and diseased.

Walking out of my neighborhood is easy – two blocks to the front, keep your head down and your gaze averted. Retrieving supplies is simple if you have a vehicle – few of us do. We would make it, if we could work together. Though we share close quarters in our block, we regard each other as strangers. And strangers are a threat, treated with wariness and suspicion.

Necessary functions are made infinitely harder by the security measures we've managed to amass. Walking out – that's the easy part. It's getting back in that's the problem. Walking the dog – the preferred personal security system of the masses – is a tedious chore. You can get out – but can you get back in? It's always a concern that one of our own will be hurt trying to perform a simple, everyday task, struck down by those who take it upon themselves to guard our world.

Upon reentry, you're faced with darkness. The darkness isn't so overwhelming when you're leaving the block. It isn't so apparent as you put the decay behind you. As you walk into the foreboding mile, it overwhelms you – consumes you. Years ago there were streetlights. They're still there – at least, a few of them are. Of the few that remain, only a handful still give light. I think the electric system feeds on despair – the lights always shine brighter in a moment of fear.

Out of the darkness comes the plaintive cry of a kitten or a newborn child – all too many of both litter the streets, barely finding shelter. Out of the darkness comes a band of vigilantes – wielding sharp words and even sharper glass bottles. Are you one of us? Their stares ask the question. One wrong gesture, one wrong movement, one wrong look and, even if you ARE a resident of the block, you might be mistaken for Other. And that means trouble.

The screams don't bother me so much any more – they did when I first moved onto the Block. All night, I could hear the screams. A woman, a child. And dogs, a symphony of howls and cries. Human or animal, the cries are still the same dull groaning of needs unmet: shelter, food, water, safety, love.

Tip-tap your shoes on the bricks, once pulled and molded from the river that still runs through town. Listen to the noises echo, and for a second, you feel the wonder of a child. The world becomes hazy around the edges, and sometimes I think it might not be so bad. Then I open my eyes a little wider.

The bricks are crumbling. The ground itself is sinking. The forest moves in, striking when and where it can. The gaping maws of broken windows turn toward the world. The beckoning sigh of an abandoned shed wafts through the night, settling a little deeper into the resignation that it, too, will soon be gone. Above it all speaks the groaning of the foundations of buildings that should have been condemned long ago – if only there were someone to decree such.

One false step and you will break your neck. I say this out of concern – it's happened to me all too many times. My neck is intact, but I'm worse for wear. There is a constant, drenching dampness in the air, accompanied by the smell of mildew. It might have been the river – but the river is too far off to smell. It's the ground, trying to swallow our Block whole. And I can't blame it. If I were Mother Nature, I'd want to erase my world, too.

The current of fear in the air is palpable. You can reach out and grasp it. The stench of rot hooks you by the nostrils and refuses to let go. Roaches skitter and screech, searching for anything living they can grasp. They, too, have needs. I suspect the needs of the cockroaches are better met than the needs of the residents here in our peaceful little Block. Still, the roaches scatter when you approach them. They're better at this survival game than we are.

It's worse at night. During the day, the sunlight shines on our little slice of the world. It provides illumination, but doesn't diminish the darkness. Even at noon, the despair blocks out the light, giving every house, every person, a forlorn, worn look. Rough edges become rougher. Deep furrows become deeper. And still, the fear and hatred toil on, effortlessly throughout the day and night.

I don't live in a developing country. I don't live on another planet. I don't come from the future and there was no apocalypse. During the day, I live right down the road from a quaint little midwestern Public Square – not so changed from the past that you might expect a square dance or cattle auction to take place at any moment. Or a hanging. Tourists come, but not as much as they once did. We were a disposable city – once the coal dried up, the people stayed. Stayed to suffer.

I don't live in Israel. I don't live in Afghanistan. The armed militants aren't carrying bombs. I don't have to dodge bullets (usually) in fear of my life. This isn't an inner city – it's not the harsh world painted for the streets of New York, London or Tokyo. I live in Ohio. And this is poverty.