Life at the Edge of the World

It’s about 83 outside the showroom of the stoner joint where I’m working this summer — or maybe for the rest of my misbegotten life. Inside, it’s a breezy 81, thanks in part to the five ceiling fans in motion; surprisingly comfortable. From this computer, looking into the room, I resemble a “Kilroy was here” illustration: if a giant scythe swept into me at counter-top level, I’d loose the top of my head from just below the bridge of my nose. Worse, there’d be no one here to close the joint at 5. The walls are lined with 12 x 12 inch x 1/2 inch thick samples of granite, marble and onyx. Jewelry has vastly less allure to me than the colors and patterns polished into these natural “stones.”

To my left is a ceiling-to-shin picture window facing west. A few single-story metal-clad buildings across the road that used to be part of Route 66 afford me a generous view of the sky, a kinetic canvas of cloud, blues and greys. When the rains come in, I have a view that unfolds before my eyes like a movie produced and directed by Mother Nature. I’d have to pay a lot for an office with this view. But I don’t need the view when I’m writing for dollars, and that’s good because my home office faces my driveway and neighbors’ kitchen. Here the employer pays me. It’s a good deal, tolerable even when the temperatures are in the 90s.

I’m sitting at the edge of the world most legal citizens know as Springfield, Illinois, and most of the rest know as “No lo comprendo. Los Estados Unidos; nada mas.” The four-lane street just 20 feet from the front door on the city’s far north east side carries a major share of trucks and vans entering and eminating from the new retail area which has blossomed big time less than a mile south. Those going south will eventually connect to some of the largest hotels, a stone’s throw from the power plant, and a quick turn to Lake Springfield. Those going north will quickly encounter Sherman, Illinois, maybe two miles away and a swift merge into Interstate 55 just north of there. It is a moody thoroughfare, bursting with traffic irregularly all day and sometimes so berefeft of steel on wheels you could read a chapter from War and Peace sitting in a lawn chair in the southbound lanes. It’s so close to I-55 that ambulances are frequent. This morning about 10, one blew by sirens screaming and lights flashing at probably 60 instead of the usual 45. Three minutes later another ambulance followed. Conclusion: serious carnage between Sherman and the highway. Just a guess. I hope they were crews in training, but i know better. This is not a noisy place. Only the noise from tires on concrete — little more than hissing — intrudes. Two feet from my left hand, my radio is tuned to WUIS public radio and All Things Considered. Life is unhurried behind the counter here on the edge of the world.

Just thought you’d like to know.

Live long . . . . . . . . and proper.