Springfield has got to be the most depressing city in the United States. The trip from the airport to the hotel was hideous, and things didn’t improve much between here and Hammons Hall. The land is flat and covered with failed strip malls and chain stores surrounded by empty parking lots. From my window I can see a Big Kmart (aren’t they all big?), a Walmart, an ALDI, an AutoZone, a Donut Connection, a Master Wang’s Chinese restaurant, a Western Sizzlin’, and a Git ’n’ Go. Most towns have such a strip, but here even the McDonald’s is failing to thrive. You get the idea people would leave if they could only sell their houses and summon up the energy to pack.
Branson, Missouri, is forty-five miles to the south, and the fact is heavily advertised. It’s aspiring to be the new country-music capital, and the Springfield roads are hugged by billboards for the Osmond Family Theater, the Grand Mansion, the Grand Palace, Bonniebrook Park, Shepherd of the Hills Outdoor Christian Theater, the Dixie Stampede, and the Dewey Short Visitors Center. I’ve chosen to take my few days off in Chicago but actually wouldn’t have minded going to Branson to see one of the two musicals based on the life of Jesus. I could then see Andy Williams and Jeff Foxworthy at the Grand Palace and eat dinner at Buckingham’s Restaurant and Oasis. Then again…
On Wednesday my watch broke, so yesterday I went across the street to the saddest mall in America. Half the stores were shuttered up and the fountain had been drained. The food court was gone except for a place called Granny’s Fudgery, a wooden cart surrounded by card tables. I imagine the mall started going downhill when it accepted Walmart as a tenant. Anything you could find at Bill’s Card Shop and the Record Bin could also be found there, where a customer could pay less and buy everything in one shot. I’d been to only one Walmart in my life before this and I was shocked at how ugly it was, even by American standards. It was a mammoth jumble of absolute shit made more chaotic by brightly colored signs and promotional displays. Yesterday’s Walmart was even worse than the first, but the employees were incredibly friendly. Maybe that’s normal, but I think my two years in Europe made it seem even stranger. You’d never get that kind of treatment at Leclerc or any of the other French superstores.
The woman at the jewelry counter replaced my battery and seemed genuinely concerned when the watch still failed to work. “What can we do?” she said. “Did you buy this here or at another Walmart? Maybe we can get you a refund.”
It seemed strange of her to suppose I’d bought my watch at a Walmart, but I imagine her assumptions are most often correct. It’s a hideous place, but the people are really nice, even the customers. I also bought a folder, some eucalyptus throat drops, and a cold medication called Zicam that had been recommended by Megan’s father. I sprayed it into my nose and it unclogged within seconds.
For one reason or another I was flown first class from Cleveland to St. Louis and then on to Springfield. I’d never really cared about first class, but yesterday, because I was sick, I really enjoyed it. It was nice to be in a big comfortable seat and have the row all to myself. The stewardess started serving me as soon as I boarded and I received tea in a real cup. Passengers on the way to coach looked me up and down and made little comments such as “I guess I ought to continue on to the poor people’s section.”
On the first leg, there were five of us in first class. On the second flight, there were four, including a tall man wearing a brown suit and cowboy boots. The plane took off and shortly afterward I turned to find him clipping his toenails. It wasn’t a quick effort but a virtual pedicure, followed by fifteen minutes with an emery board and a vigorous buffing session. He spent the entire flight this way, and by the time we landed, the carpet at his feet was littered with fine dust and nail trimmings.
Because of my cold, my ears stopped up upon landing. It was an odd sensation and I spent my hour and a half layover straining to hear the boarding announcements. It was as if I had a pillow over my head. The St. Louis airport has those glass smoking tanks and the ashtrays are regularly emptied.
October 30, 2000
San Francisco
I couldn’t smoke in Bob and Lisa’s house, so we set up a sewing table on the deck where I could sit and work. Yesterday morning I got up early and had just finished my first cup of coffee when I realized the door had locked behind me. It was seven thirty and I felt certain that if I waited a few minutes, Bob would come down to let the dog out. Chessie, their border collie, made an appearance at around eight and we regarded one another through the glass door. I hoped that envy might drive her to start barking, but aside from one quick yip, she kept her mouth shut. It was cold but not freezing, and I’d dressed in a sweatshirt and a black jacket Lisa’s mother-in-law had sent her the day before.
Operating on the insane hope that maybe the door was set on some kind of timer, I got up from the sewing table and tried to reopen it every few minutes. To the neighbors it must have looked as though I were trying to break in and write about it at the same time, and I worried that one of them might call the police. I waited until around eight thirty and then I jumped off the side of the deck, walked around the house, and rang the front bell. Bob answered in his bathrobe and I was grateful I’d come to stay with him and Lisa. Were it anyone else in my family, they would have ignored the bell, hoping that whoever it was would eventually give up and go away.
November 9, 2000
Greencastle, Indiana
I called Dad last night after dinner. He asked about my visit with Tiffany and I tried to be positive. She was pretty wound up yesterday, but other than that she seemed to be on a fairly even keel. It just troubles me that she can live in such filth. On several occasions during my visit, she referred to herself as poor, and that depressed me. Most people would say they’re broke. That word suggests a temporary setback. Poor, on the other hand, conveys a permanence. She sees poverty as romantic and claims to be perfectly happy. Last week she found a frozen turkey in somebody’s garbage can. I can see taking it home and using it for target practice, but she took it home and ate it. I hate thinking that someone in my family would eat a turkey found in the garbage.
Tiffany uses overhead lights, not caring how harsh they are. She wakes up and the first thing she does is turn on the TV. Joints are smoked early in the day, and then she gets on the phone and hustles little jobs. On Tuesday she stripped some boards for an odious antiques dealer.
There was talk about getting something full-time, maybe with benefits, but I’m guessing she’ll find an excuse to reject it. She’s not lazy, Tiffany, but she has a hard time dealing with expectations. Robert came by in the evenings and the two of them sat on the sofa switching from one station to another and talking through everything. I liked Robert. He seems to genuinely care about her and is a good listener.
On Tuesday afternoon she cried while telling me a story she’d recounted a year before. She cries a lot and the episodes generally end with a list of things she’s doing for herself. “I get out of bed in the mornings. Do you understand? I get up.” The accomplishments are tiny, but I guess they’re all she’s got.
November 10, 2000