Across the railroad tracks

“I told you it was hideous. I love that look of horror on your face. It was worth the two hour trip just to see it. You want to jump in the car and race back to Chicago, right? Get back to civilization, great dining, and culture.

There aren’t even stoplights in Le Roy. None are needed. Only 682 unfortunate souls call this place home. It’s not quaint. There are no bed and breakfasts tucked inside gingerbread houses or cozy wine tasting rooms soothing with jazz. However, the 7 Eleven is open 24 hours and is well stocked with Pabst Blue Ribbon, petrified corn dogs and Frito Lay chips. One dark, dank bar is at the corner of Highway 150 and Route 47, the main drags in town. There you’ll find shag carpet on the walls, a sticky floor and worn out booths. Russ, the owner is usually behind the counter, plying the town’s pathetic with booze, starting at 11:00 every morning.

I heard this town used to be booming. The grain elevator buzzed with activity. Farmers were well to do and full of community spirit. The grange hall was the place to be for dancing on a Saturday night. Downtown had three clothing stores, a bank, and a family run market where you could put groceries on your tab. Charming, yes?

Yea, I know. You are asking yourself how I escaped this hellhole. Most of my classmates got pregnant. Some became waitresses at the Denny’s on I-74. You’ll still find “boys” from my class working in the fields, barely scraping by, their bodies physically broken, screaming for rest.

See where I am pointing? Across the railroad tracks? That dilapidated house with the peeling gray paint was my childhood home. It looks about the same; maybe a little worse now, but not much. It was never a looker. The whole place used to shake and the lights would blink when a freight train roared by, making its way out West. I would sit at my bedroom window watching it with envy as it chugged by. I would wonder where it was going, what it was carrying, who would be meeting it to unload its hidden cargo. I wanted out because even in little Le Roy, we were considered trash. Our yard was barren and cracked. We had 3 rusted nonworking cars on the side of the place and slew of uninvited cats. People talked about us. They crossed the street when my mother and I walked by, our heads down to avoid eye contact and questions. We were never a part of them.

But that house is my salvation. It is why I escaped. What went on in that house crept up on me at first, like an odorless gas. I wasn’t looking. My mind was off on the topic of boys who would never date me and how to curl my hair like Cindy Crawford. But, that one night, I had no choice. I had to look the monster square in the face. And I knew the time was now. I wasn’t ready to go, but I had to. Otherwise, I might never get out. I’d be resigned to living my mother’s life, God rest her poor soul. And that fate wasn’t good enough for me.”