Breaking down Dayton (Train pt. 8)

Winter is my favorite time of the year.  

I guess growing up in the basement of a household that never turned its thermostat above 55* acclimated me to cold.  Truthfully though, it isn’t the weather that gets me, rather it’s the vast snow covered, silently beautiful landscapes that captivate me.  I love snow because it turns everything into a blank canvas.  The blankets of white mute the harsh edges, leaving instead open expanses devoid of color but not lacking in depth.

Part of the allure of this trip is that I am traveling in winter to places of the country I have never seen.  As I witness the ever-changing landscape spreading out before me I am filled with a certain sense of peace and wonder.  What I think amazes me most are the different experiences I see being played out before me as I travel.  From the big city dwellers living wall to wall with a seemingly endless number of neighbors to the lonely doublewide buried in endless snow with no neighbor in sight, every person is living a life that has the potential to be worlds away from my own.

Rolling into Ohio, Ben had forewarned me about the state of the economy and its affect on the town he called home.  Though it once thrived on manufacturing, Dayton now has the feel of a town left behind.  With the loss of jobs the neighborhoods dried up.  It’s simple economics, fewer jobs means less money, less money means less stability. 

Driving up to Ben’s rental I was struck with how tired his neighborhood looked and, as always, surprised at how lower income housing always seemed to mean an abundance of spare cars and equipment lining the lawns.  Though not in shambles, the neighborhood looked as though it chose apathy as their muse, either that or it lacked the money or patience to keep up appearances. 

The exterior of Ben’s house stood out in contrast to his neighbors, but the story changed once we stepped through the door.  It seems a life of constant movement, or a penchant for freedom, meant that Ben liked to keep things simple.  From the folding soccer chairs in the living room to the air mattress and sleeping bag that made up his bed, nothing there looked as thought I was meant to be permanent.  I guess Ben likes life like he likes his women, orderly on the outside but just a little dirty inside.

Though I know it sounds like Dayton is a hole in the ground, I sense that it is rather that most people don’t seem driven to break out of whatever funk they were in.  One notable exception to this seemingly dead set rule was Chris who owned the drive-thru liquor store just a block from Ben’s house. 

Having at one time owned 3 stores, Chris was a forward thinker, albeit one who probably had deeper pockets than most.  Deciding to sell two of his stores across town due to the economic downturn, he decided it was time to chase after a dream of his, so he opened a restaurant in the vacant building next door to the drive thru.  With a stroke of good timing, Ben and I were the first customers.

Dubbed the Wright Wing long ago by an ill-fated restaurateur, the name was a throwback found buried beneath the faded plastic signage of the previous establishment.  With Wright State University close by and wings a staple of their menu, it seemed a match made in heaven.  

Always wanting to be a critic I channeled my inner Triple D, ordered some varied fare and went to town.  Scarfing down a delicious thin crust pizza, my only complaint was that their spicy garlic wings tasted solely of buffalo sauce.  Open to suggestions, Chris made a slight adjustment and I quickly devoured the now garlicky hot wings.  Hoping I wasn’t overstepping any bounds, I talked to them about making some slight adjustments to their menu while complimenting them on the food sure to make a killing in this neighborhood. 

After lunch we decided to roll over to Lexington and catch a Wildcat basketball game, Rupp stadium being a mecca for college hoops fans like Ben and the trip into Kentucky quelling my curiosity about the state I was slated to live in according to an on-line survey.  Sadly, though I really liked most of Lexington, I didn’t fall in love with the city or any Southern women like I expected to.  The game was certainly worth it though as the Kentucky home crowd seemingly willed the Cats to a one point win over rival LSU in the last seconds of overtime.  The sheer decibel level after the final buzzer had my head ringing for 10 minutes after we left the building.

Heading back to Dayton our destination was one of Ben’s old haunts, the Deja Brew, to meet up with his girlfriend and her friends who were out celebrating a birthday.  Though tucked away in the corner of a dying strip mall, this bar held a special nostalgia for Ben and Elizabeth as it was where they met.  What should have been a happy occasion was muted though, as I found out that my being there made Elizabeth more nervous than when she met Ben’s parents.  Thankfully she soon found out that I am just as easy to please as they are.

Dayton people are definitely down to earth.  Be it the middle to upper 20 age group or the poor state of the economy, but they definitely know how to throw a party.  Getting drunk on whiskey, vodka, bubblegum bombs and pretty much whatever else was thrown in front of me, I soon settled in and started to get to know anyone who wanted to chat.  Within an hour I was able to discern one major trend, if you don’t get out of Dayton shortly after high school, there is a good chance you will never leave.

Sidling up to the bar waiting on a bartender walking the fine line between last night’s hangover and tonight’s buzz, I spent the next few minutes asking questions of anyone in the group waiting with me.  Looking to me right I noticed this cute little brunette next to me in black leggings and a long white lace shirt.  Sensing her frustration I asked what was on her mind.  

A healthcare admin who was bright enough to make any change she wanted, I could sense Ashleigh struggled with the execution and confidence true change required.   Within minutes we had moved past the trivialities of poor service and moved on to the real reason behind her sour face, her desire to find the right guy.  10 minutes into the conversation about her past and the guy she was here with I seemed to give her the legitimate reinforcement she was looking for. 

I guess reinforcement from a random stranger can only go so far or she found my opinion untrustworthy as, within minutes of getting her drinks she was back in the lap of the guy she professed to not trust.  Funnier still a half hour later this same guy introduced himself to me by asking if I thought he could sleep with the very girl he was already hooking up with.  I guess seeing his girl chat up the new guy at the bar elicited his competitive side, even with the new guy rocking an almost white beard.

Theirs seemed to be a typical Dayton relationship, though maybe it was just a family thing as her brother seemed to have a similar situation brewing with a girl whose main dance move was to grind her ass against anything and anyone.  Always curious about a girl with such moves, I chatted them up a bit and came away with the feeling that this relationship had a shelf life about as long as his abilities in bed.  Finding out that in addition to ass grinding she enjoyed crack on occasion, I wished him well and headed back home making a quick stop at McDonalds to procure my hangover cure of fat and grease before bed.

The next night we were invited to stop over at Elizabeth’s for a delicious fajita dinner before we headed to watch WWE with some of Ben’s friends.  Entering Elizabeth’s duplex I was introduced to her son Ethan, a 5 year old who surely has seen and partaken in his fair share of wrestling matches.  I spent the first 30 minutes fending off his “attacks” until he was convinced he wanted to build a Lego tractor.  Thankfully Ethan’s chance of connecting with a punch is about as probable as any thrown during Wrestlemania. 

I fear I must be missing something when it comes to fake wrestling.  I can’t seem to grasp how steroid riddled men faking anger is a 100-million dollar plus enterprise.  I was obviously in the vast minority amongst Ben’s friends as all the plush seating was gone by the time we arrived.  What’s more, it turns out one of the guys had organized a series of amateur matches to be held just across the river from Cincinnati.  I tried to convince them that Ben could don his old unitard and wrestle as Little Big Head, but Ben’s lack of enthusiasm made it a difficult sell.  

The next day promised to be entertaining as lunch brought drop in soccer at the indoor center.  As Ben and I hadn’t played together in years, and knowing my ankle was still far too sore to be 100%, I told Ben to not expect much.  Within 15 minutes I was reminded that tactical awareness can make up for being broken and unfit, and having played collegiately meant that I was more technical than most.  I do have to say though, trying to cram 30 players onto a field meant for 14 made for some humorous and frustrating moments. 

Thankfully Ben and I still clicked on the field and we stayed as long as people wanted to play, finally getting down to the intended 14 towards the end.  The rest of the day Ben worked as I rested a seriously sore ankle while fumbling through some writing.  After work I helped Ben pick up a portable dishwasher from a house in the dying metropolis that used to be Dayton's downtown area.  

Meeting Elizabeth's grandfather at the street corner of a neighborhood full of cheaply built two story Victorians, it was an interesting exposure to the housing market in and around downtown Dayton.  Being that her grandfather owns about 15 properties in the area, I picked his brain about the instability of the Dayton market.  Judging by his silver late model Camry he was doing alright financially, but it wasn’t difficult to tell that his desire to be a housing magnate had run its course.  Sensing an opportunity, and knowing 3 bedroom 2 bathroom houses went for around $30k, I asked Ben why he didn’t think about becoming a Dayton slumlord.  His point about unreliable tenants making for large headaches proved a little too valid to counter. 

My last day was spent in a dirty and run down Laundromat marveling at the 50/50 shot of finding a working machine.  Praying that the last three quarters I put in would dry my clothes enough for the long walk home, it hit home that Ohio was not the place for me.  Not only was the landscape all wrong, but I realized I liked being a part of a place that had more hope.  I don’t think I would thrive in a town where everything was dirty, nor one in which very few seemed truly happy. 

We left that night and headed towards a hotel in Indy so I could get some sleep before an early morning commute.  Stopping at the midwest staple Cracker Barrel, I ate a meal that I thought perfectly illustrated my overall Ohio experience, thrown together and overly salty.  At least the people serving it were nice.