“Yeah, we can’t sterilize Fred,” said Chet. Greg had to concede the point. “Besides,” added Chet, pointing to the penitentiary, “most of the people in there are in for life. They can’t replicate their DNA anyway. You can’t knock up a butt.” Chet was proud of his use of the word “replicate.”
Greg sat silently, unable to find a response. He took another slow slurp at his Iron City before smashing the can and throwing it down the side of the mound.
“Well, I’m just saying that it makes sense in theory,” said Greg. “I’ll admit that there are problems in practice … like Fred. That has to be sorted out.”
Greg had been reading Herodotus. He had found a dusty copy of the Greek historian’s writings in a local library. Greg told us the story of a leader who had been toppled by an enemy force. The leader was forced to watch a procession of his family being marched off to death, but he only cried when he saw one of his servants in the procession. We sat for a while and debated why that could be, concluding that stories are more powerful when they lack clear explanations.
I stood thinking about the earthen protuberance on which we sat, thinking about all that had transpired since this dirt was piled upon bones upon dirt. Rome went on a conquering binge. Christ was crucified. The Jews were driven from Jerusalem. The Sassanid Empire rose in Iran, and Constantinople became the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire. The Vandals sacked Rome, and China was reunified under the Sui Dynasty. Muhammad died, Arabs seized Constantinople, Charlemagne was crowned Holy Roman Emperor. The Tale of Genji was written, the Crusades were crusaded, and Saladin reconquered Jerusalem. Genghis Khan croaked. The Hundred Years’ War began and ended in about a hundred years. The Bible was translated into God’s language of English, and America was “discovered.” Jews were ejected from Spain, Copernicus wrote, and Bruno burned. The Ming Dynasty was formed, and the Gregorian calendar was adopted. Cromwell croaked, America revolted, the French revolted, Karl Marx, the Bolsheviks, 20 million dead in World War II, gas chambers, the atom split, Jews return to Palestine, Beatlemania and the Ayatollah.
And now the civilization on this little speck of earth was falling apart. But the mound would remain. And so would the penitentiary, a testament to Moundsville’s true work: locking people up and desecrating the dead. Everything around us was changing except the stars in the sky. Under that postcard-picture sunset stood the fragile, naked life of our drunken bodies.
LAYLA MEILLIER
Love and Survival
A FLINT ROMANCE
I COULD NOT APPRECIATE WHAT Flint had taught me until I let myself fall in love. For years I dodged it; I could not even commit to a favorite color or TV show, let alone a person. When you’re not in love you can never be hurt in such a vulnerable way. As a young woman, I don’t blame this city for my lack of puppy love; I blame this city for my fear of feeling vulnerable.
My first love was a bike. A sleek hunk of purple pipe with sparkly wheels and handlebars. I collaged my bike in goofy stickers I had begged my mom to buy me at Rite-Aid one day. I was not permitted to leave my neighborhood, but I did not mind because my world seemed vast.
At the time, we lived on Mountain Avenue in the College Cultural neighborhood, a place in the city considered more suburban without a too-safe uniformity. Homes range in size and era of origin, and the people tend to the unique and artsy. They look out for one another. In other words, it’s a go-to spot for young couples moving to Flint with extra money. The house we had was a brick duplex that looked like a German cottage. My stepdad owned a glass company in the north end that has long since been closed down. In its day, the company did well. There is never a scarcity of broken glass in Flint.
Although I was told time and time again to put my bike in our door-less garage behind the house each night before bed, one night, like ya do, I forgot. I left the nose of my bike barely peeking out from behind the house. To my naive surprise, someone took it in the night.
The news of this evoked a sadness I was not familiar with at the age of ten. At ten, one cries easily, pouts easily, sobs easily, but I could not make a sound. I felt as though my eyes had turned to stone and I wished I could not see out of them. My parents told me about the theft in an awkward family meeting, standing in our cramped kitchen. They filled me in on the normalcy of this sort of situation in my hometown: “There is nothing we can do. The police are too busy with other things. This happens all the time.”
I went to my bedroom in a haze. A week went by and I didn’t even go outside to play; instead, I took to throwing weird shit down our dumbwaiters and retrieving it in the basement laundry hamper.
Then, one day, my bike was back!
“They found it,” was all I was told by my numbly shocked mother.
Years later, I was hanging out with my now ex-stepdad, catching up around the holidays, and he was feeling a little toasty. “I lied to you that time when we were living on Mountain,” he said.
“What?”
“I lied about your bike.”
“What do you mean? What happened to my bike?”
“The police never found it.”
“Yes, they did; it was my bike…”
“Yeah, but I found it. Not the police.” I stared at him in shock as he unfolded the tale of how he happened to be driving in his big company truck through the east side one day, looking for a house
