Back to Nowhere

Chase awoke with a start, the harsh wail of the alarm piercing the dark, chilly silence. The previous evening had been about what they expected. Entertaining in a detached sort of way, the surrealism of daily life having numbed any vestiges of emotion. The band had precisely captured the mood of the era. The perfect amount of anger and stunned disbelief, the combination of which had produced nihilism in the most ardent of idealists. All hope had been vanquished this time. Resistance, it had come to seem, was futile.

Going through the motions, they dressed with little thought beyond what the outside temperature required. Caring about fashion was so very last decade. An indulgence one could only enjoy when existential threats didn’t loom around each and every corner. It’s cold outside, though, they realized, as they dug through the chaos of the small bag they had mindlessly stuffed with the weekend essentials. So many unnecessary things. Things that would have felt important a few years ago, but wouldn’t even be pulled out of the bag this time.

They glanced at the time on their phone. It was 6:25. The designated time to leave in order to avoid the panicked feeling that accompanies cutting it just a bit too close. Scanning the room for anything visible that might have been forgotten, they exited the apartment. The hallway was cold, the heater having broken yet again. Don’t worry, the building management had told their friend, it would be repaired soon. The building is old. Climate change wasn’t a thing back when it was built. No one could have anticipated the stress it would be under in today’s world.

Chase opened the door that separated the world of those feeling marginally secure from those who no longer had any such illusion. Walking outside into the sharp, cold air, they glanced at the route mapped out on their phone. The first option was the faster, more direct route. The second one was safer though, avoiding as it did the worst corner of the neighborhood. The streets dotted with abandoned storefronts, the windows of which had ceased to be repaired after the last string of shootings. Cable news had run the story on loop. Another poorly managed liberal city, they had reported, as ominous images of social decay flashed on screens across the country. This fate awaits your town, too, they warned, if you choose leniency over law and order.

They walked purposefully down the deserted sidewalk. Having left early enough to take the safer route, they crossed the street leading to the small square that used to house the bar where they had met a friend of a friend nearly a decade before. They had both stayed up too late and consumed too many cocktails that night. The energetic vibe that had buoyed them on that warm evening was unthinkable these days, fixie bikes and bearded hipsters replaced with a boarded up storefront and, on this morning, a dangerously thin body folded over in a hunchback-like position.

Going out for dinner or cocktails was still technically possible if you mapped it out precisely. But establishments open past 9pm were increasingly rare these days. More often than not, the twenty minute walk to the still “open” restaurant or bar would be met with the usual, “sorry, we’re closing early tonight,” muttered by the cranky server or bartender. Who could really blame them, though, for preferring to return home to smoke a joint and play video games over waiting around for three or four lingering patrons to leave a five dollar tip for their bottom-shelf vodka sodas?

Arriving at the bus stop, Chase scanned the area where they would await their ride to the airport. Battered tents lined the sidewalk across the street. Regular sweeps often led to clashes that turned violent, and the newly elected mayor had promised to restore order. Sure, maybe the issues were more complicated and trickled down from other levels of government, but try telling this to the fed-up local residents. They weren’t in the mood for academic analysis of scientific studies. Reasons be damned, they wanted political blood.

A loud cry echoed down the street, catching the attention of both Chase and an older man, suitcase in tow, sitting on the metal bench under the plexiglass awning. The noise, which didn’t sound quite human, seemed to come from a building just across the intersection, the exterior of which seemed somehow suspended between the memory of its past and the depths of human hell. Chase scanned the mound of discarded items strewn about what used to be the front entrance of a now-vacant luxury retail store. It’s funny how expensive items lost their value when removed from their upscale surroundings, Chase mused. The same Kate Spade bag that once sold for $300 would fail to attract even nominal interest from the neighborhood’s affluent residents now that it shared space in a cluttered shopping cart with multiple restaurant take-out cartons, empty Gatorade bottles, and other assorted odds and ends.

Another sound jarred Chase from their brief reverie. This time it seemed to be a voice pleading for something, though what that might be was anyone’s guess. The bus was nowhere in sight, and this heightened their anxiety. They had heard too many accounts of violence regularly acted upon the innocent bystander. “Pleeeease,” the voice cried out from the same general vicinity, the volume of which was muffled by the soggy cardboard boxes stacked up as a defense against the wind and rain. Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, Chase dug around for their earbuds to replace the disturbing sounds with the music of their favorite band. Their latest release had hit all the right chords, cursing as it did the current state of affairs. It was dark. Really fucking dark. It was also perfectly appropriate.

Chase thought of themselves as a compassionate person. Informed and engaged, and yet definitely not a virtue signaler. They protested the politics of the day, trading boozy brunches for clever sign-making socials and shouting in the streets. They passed out food to the unhoused on Thanksgiving morning, complaining, as any thinking person did, about the erasure of genocide glossed over by turkey, sweet potatoes, and apple pie. They regularly bought the guy selling Street Sheets a turkey sandwich and Mountain Dew at the corner store. Perhaps most crucially, however, they had traded their higher paying job for one that had the potential to do actual good in the world. Yet maintaining their mental health depended upon regularly moving through the world — through the streets — without interacting with each and every person who pleaded for their attention — and money. Thinking about all the individual miseries was too much. The only option was to look the other way.

Before their fingers could locate the small plastic box housing the earbuds that would provide the escape from the present misery vying for their attention, another sound reverberated across the mostly empty street. The pitch was indescribably anguished. So much so that ignoring it was all but impossible. Anxiously, Chase looked over to the older man sitting on the bench, to gauge his reaction. It was pointless though. The man seemed oblivious to anything happening outside of the 4X4 area where he sat with his oversized suitcase, tag hanging off that identified him to be John Smith from St. Louis, Missouri. “John, did you not hear that?” Chase wanted to scream at the old man. But, what difference did it make? The man wasn’t going to help in any case.

Glancing at the time on their phone, Chase anxiously moved in the direction of the sounds. The bus was still nowhere in sight. Fuck, they thought to themselves, the airport was at least forty-five minutes away, and the flight would be boarding in about an hour. Public transit, never the priority in this country, had only deteriorated more rapidly in the last six months. A predictable outcome, of course, in the current political climate. They were gonna make everything better again, they had promised. And enough people desperate — or dumb — enough to believe this had fallen into line. Political leaders on all sides had failed. Or, rather, they had succeeded in doing exactly what their patrons had instructed them to do. Namely, redistribute the remaining crumbs into the pockets of those whose wealth, in relative terms, exceeded that of the monarchs from which the early immigrants colonizing the new world had sought to escape.

Chase came to terms with their fate. The flight would be missed. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. Approaching the area cluttered with cardboard boxes, they called out in an anxious, but subdued voice, “Um, are you OK?” They couldn’t visibly make out the presence of an actual human in all the debris scattered about and, thus, remained guarded, glancing around to take in their escape route should it become imminently necessary. Just as Chase was about to turn around and head back in the direction of the bus stop, satisfied that they had at least attempted to respond, they heard the words, “please help me. I’m desperate.” “Let me see what I have,” they replied, interpreting the plea to be for money. Before they had time to scour the contents of their disorganized bag, the voice spilling out from underneath the makeshift canopy of boxes called out, “I don’t want your fucking money. I just need you to do something for me.” Confused — and increasingly anxious, Chase awaited the words that would come next. “I need to mail this, but I don’t have any stamps. Do you have one for me?” Snail mail wasn’t very common these days, in an era of instant digital communication. “No, sorry, I don’t,” Chase returned, as the outline of a human face became clear in the shadow underneath one of the boxes. Pitying the sad creature whose sunken eyes were now hemorrhaging tears, Chase offered, “I can mail it for you when I get home if that would help.” They registered the expression that had overtaken the tear-soaked face, an expression that seemed to communicate: I can’t trust you, but what choice do I have? As if on cue, the sad voice shouted back, “I doubt you’ll really do it, but this is my last chance,” and the dirty envelope was thrust in Chase’s direction. Just as the transaction was complete, the bus, by now twenty minutes late, turned the corner. “I promise I’ll do it,” Chase called out, shoving the envelope into their bag, while sprinting in the direction of the prospect of making their original flight after all.

The airport gate was nearly as dilapidated as the interior of the bus that had delivered Chase to their destination. Two old television monitors hung from the ceiling, broadcasting the latest “news” — or at least the latest distraction to keep everyone squabbling. New edicts were passed down from above. They were bad. But of course everyone had expected them to be. Seeking to distract themselves, Chase began to organize the contents of their bag so as to avoid the gaze of the poorly compensated employee whose sole “real” job it was to identify anyone who might be required to pay as much as the cost of their ticket to check their bag. This is when they saw the envelope, now folded, occupying the unzipped side pocket. They hadn’t even thought to look at it, their focus having been entirely on their efforts not to miss the bus. Public transit schedules weren’t reliable these days. One of the first visible consequences of the slashed budget. Pulling the envelope from the pocket, Chase’s heart dropped at the realization that the street address was missing, the person’s name and “Chicago” being the only clues to the recipient’s whereabouts. Considering this for a minute, they registered that, given how common the name, it would be impossible to locate the person without additional information. Very hesitantly, Chase decided to open the letter to see if it might provide further clues. They felt an immense amount of guilt over violating the privacy of this terribly sad, desperate person, but what if it was a matter of life and death.

Unfolding the wrinkled paper, Chase read the words scrawled out in nearly indecipherable handwriting:

Daddy,

I hope you and Aunt Lily are fine. I’m sorry I haven’t called. I know you didn’t agree when I enlisted, and I’m sure you still don’t. That last argument we had was real bad. Watching mama like that, something changed in me. I swore I’d never again let someone I love suffer because they couldn’t get treatment. That I had to find a job that paid enough and had real insurance, whatever it took.

In the beginning, it all seemed like things would be ok. I made a lot of friends and we got close. None of it seemed real at first. Things got real bad when we got over there though. I never imagined things would be like this when I signed up. The things I saw, no one should ever have to see. Those memories haunt all my days and nights. I don’t have any peace. I hoped it would get better. When I got back, I started trying to get a job, but the memories would flash in front of my eyes with no warning at all. I’d be in the middle of an interview and, next thing you thing you know, I’m seeing bodies as if they’re right in front of me. I tried to ignore it, and then I tried to get help. Nothing really worked though. They gave me some pills, and I got a job at the Walmart, but it was really hard to go to work. I lost that job. And then the next one and the next one.

That’s when I lost the apartment. I didn’t want to call you or Aunt Lily because it was my problem to fix, and I had gone over there because I wanted to help, not be helped. I hoped it’d only be for a while, but time kept moving on. I couldn’t get another job. I didn’t have an address, or shower, or reliable place to lay down at night. The only way to sleep was by taking this stuff I was able to get from my friend, who got it from his connections back home. I can’t say it made things worse because things were pretty bad already. But it made the time go by, and I know you probably wondered if I was dead or alive.

Well, I’m alive, but the reason I decided to write you now is because this won’t be true much longer. I passed out last week, and someone must have called 9–11 because I woke up in the hospital. They told me I was ok right now, but they had run some tests. I guess I’ve had it for a while now, but didn’t know because I haven’t been to the doctor in years. If the doctor at that hospital was right, and if I’m subtracting correctly (math was never my strength, as you know), I probably have about a month. I’m not in pain though, don’t worry. I held onto some of those pills, and they help me feel better.

But I did want to tell you and Lily how much I love you and that I’m sorry for not calling. Please don’t be sad. I don’t even want to think about that. You were a good daddy and took good care of me after mama died. I hope you and Lily can take care of each other.

Love forever,

Roxanne

Chase wiped the heavily streaming tears from their face with the sleeve of their jacket. Adjusting their eyes, the moistness of which was blurring their vision, Chase made out the words on the “news” ticker displayed on the monitor above: Liberal Cities, Site of Squalor. The voices emanating from the monitor argued over whether the overly lenient policies in liberal cities were to blame or the lack of resources to treat the problems. Blah blah blah. Chase felt like screaming, but to whom they weren’t sure. And anyway, it’s not like anything would change. No, this had become abundantly clear. There would be no solutions, other than to dispose of the humanity whose presence disturbed the internal peace of the more affluent members of society. When the airline called for zone 3 to board, Chase gathered up the contents of their bag, returning the letter to the envelope and the envelope to the side pocket. As they waited in the line that would take them to the jetway, another passenger, dressed in jeans and a pink sweatshirt with the words “I answer to Him” under an embellished cross, seemed intent on making eye contact. Not in the mood, Chase looked away. Undeterred, the passenger pointed up at the monitor above their heads and offered, “If you ask me, the problem in this country isn’t gonna be solved by throwing more money at these degenerates. This isn’t a fiscal crisis. This is a crisis of personal responsibility.” Resisting the urge to respond, Chase inserted their earbuds and hit play. There’s no going back, the band wailed, there IS nowhere TO go back to. “Thank you, enjoy your flight, Chase,” the airline employee offered with forced enthusiasm, as they scanned the boarding pass.