I drove from Columbus, Ohio back to Michigan last week. I hadn’t made that particular trip in a long time. My first job out of college weirdly moved me to Columbus while my boss worked in Detroit. (Technically, he lived and worked in Taylor, which is downriver, the term for communities south of Detroit but still in Wayne county.)
After a week of reporting to the office in Columbus, my boss decided I needed to spend my days with him. On Sundays I drove north, and Friday evenings I returned south. I hated it.
One Friday evening in December, I started my trip south to check my mail and do laundry. It was dark out and, being the Midwest in winter, clouds hung low in the sky like a blanket, turning the area between Detroit and Toledo into a Dutch oven (not the kind you cook with).
The normal route is to take Interstate 75 south, and, eventually, you connect with Route 23 which goes to Columbus. For some reason, I took Route 23 out of Toledo. It sounded familiar, but I quickly realized I’d made a mistake. I was immediately in farm country: no towns, no rest stops, no lights. But it wasn’t like a terrible mistake, such as wandering into a war territory. I figured 23 is 23; eventually, I’ll get to Columbus.
This was 1986, so no cell phone in my pocket or GPS map on the dashboard. Hell, I couldn’t find a radio station playing my kind of music (early 70s music made familiar by K-Tel compilation records). It was just me and my Ford Fiesta on a two-lane road, zipping along in the dark.
Northwest Ohio is the beginning of the Midwest’s flatlands. Farms are spaced out by miles. Cross roads might have a flashing yellow light, but mostly they’re unmarked. Along this stretch of Route 23, there weren’t even towns to speak of.
Around ten in the evening, the Ford Fiesta’s motor stopped and wouldn’t restart.
I walked to the nearest farm and knocked on the door. I wore a suit, dress shoes, and pulled my flimsy overcoat tight around me in a futile attempt to block the wind. It seemed someone was home because the front window glowed with the light of a television, but they didn’t answer right away.
Eventually, a man in his fifties opened the door and glared at me. He was shorter than me and apple-shaped. Behind him, a woman sat on the sofa beside a young man who, at a glance, appeared to be special needs. They were illuminated by the shifting light of a console television.
The man allowed me entry only long enough to call my half-assed road-side assistance (I thought AAA was too expensive, and subscribed to a plan from Mobile Oil). He only agreed to this when I assured him it was a toll-free call. When I hung up, he showed me to the door.
As I waited in my ice-cold car, I realized I was living that old joke about the traveling salesman and the farmer with the daughter. But this farmer, clearly, had never heard that joke. Or had he fallen for it before, and now I was getting the punchline before the joke’s setup was even started?
There’s probably a reason why this particular apple-shaped man lived in the bleak landscape of northwestern Ohio, a mile from the nearest neighbor. To him, the flatland dotted with barns and silos on the horizon was not bleak, but a glorious vista. To him, this might have been heaven, and the smug asshole, wearing a cheap suit purchased at a Sears and Roebuck, looking for help in the night, was the devil’s messenger sent to test his resolve at protecting his family.
Or maybe that hayseed was just an asshole.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…
I’m going through a dark storm of self-doubt. I’m struggling with the new novel I started. I applied for a workshop with a writer I admire, but I haven’t been selected. And I got feedback on the other novel, and it was pretty rough to take.
I’m sure I’ll pull through it because I love the process. The process is all that I can control. But it can be a long, lonely road to write a novel. When the novel breaks down in the middle of nowhere, you may need help.
I’ll be walking my smug face from door to door, looking for help, as I try to restart these novels.
Upcoming Books and Stuff
I’m happy to share the first review for Ruthless, my crime thriller, which was posted back in December (I love how every sentence included an exclamation point!!!) on Amazon:
This book had my heart pounding! I was on the edge of my seat throughout most of the book! This book had suspense, intrigue, action, and a great who done it! And these characters?! Woah! some of them were really messed up! But it led to a great heart pounding thriller!
Maybe You’d Like
I’m sharing two books as part of my authors mutual appreciation society. I noticed that the man featured on these two covers looks to be the same guy. Whereas my past three books haven’t even shown a human face, which probably says more about me than anything else.
Recommended Reading
Poison for Breakfast, by Lemony Snicket, was recommended to me. It’s a book of philosophy as much as anything, and was fun and entertaining. This was the first I’ve read of Lemony Snicket, and it shows confident skill in storytelling to pull this off.
Next Picayune
I’m going to continue this story I started here about my car failure in Ohio. There’s a bit more to discuss about how, eventually, I found my way home.
Thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune.
All the best,
–mickey