My friends and I have spent an inordinate amount of time debating the qualifications for someone saying they have visited a place1—I come down firmly in the “airports don’t count” camp. As such, I have never previously visited Michigan.
Having never before set foot in the state (because the Detroit airport doesn’t count), I don’t know what to expect when the edge of Michigan appears on my GPS, but as I get closer, I temper my expectations. In most cases, borders are arbitrary dividing lines, or perhaps natural demarcations such as rivers. In this case, the dividing line appears to be a combination of the two—no natural boundary separates the two states, but as my car flies past a sign signaling my entry into the Great Lakes State, I suddenly notice that everything on this side of the border appears to be dead.
The previous statement sounds hyperbolic, but rest assured, I’m not exaggerating whatsoever. The grass is literally greener on the Ohio side of the border, the trees are more vibrant, and the first few miles of Michigan highway feature roughly four times more roadkill than I saw during my entire drive through Ohio.
This phenomenon explains a lot, but that’s a different story entirely.
I stop for the night in Ann Arbor for two reasons. First, Ann Arbor (somewhat inexplicably2) has an 826, hidden behind Liberty Street Robot Supply and Repair, where I would like to procure a t-shirt if nothing else. Second, and more significant: As of this moment, I still don’t have confirmation from the woman whom I’m supposed interview tomorrow in Kalamazoo. The likelihood of this thousand-mile detour being for nothing increases with every passing moment, and by stopping in Ann Arbor, I can at least save myself a couple hundred miles if things go wrong.
When I turn off the highway in Ann Arbor, the town seems as bleak as the rest of the state. At the end of the off-ramp, a man stands with a three-foot long cardboard sign reading, “UNION CARPENTER, NINE MONTHS UNEMPLOYED. DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO ANYMORE.” It breaks my heart to see this man—while his sign doesn’t explicitly describe him as homeless, it appears he might not be far from it. Honestly, like most people, I try to ignore men in his situation when I see them, but I have a psychological reason for doing so.
Every time I see a homeless person, I wonder how close my family came to the same fate. I wonder if any Pan Am 103 families actually did lose their homes in the fallout. Worst of all, I find myself confronted with a world where I, a never-truly-employed twenty-something drives a $32,000 car—paid in full upfront—while this man, after a lifetime of dedication to his trade, winds up holding a sign made of discarded cardboard on the side of the road, begging for the sake of his ongoing existence.
This man deserves better than what he has, I think most people would agree. I don’t know anybody who would claim I don’t deserve what I have3—knowing my story, few would begrudge me a nice car and a centrally-located condo—but I often think they should. What did I do to earn these things? I lived on through hardship, like millions, if not billions, of people do every day. What makes my suffering more substantial than theirs? Who decided that losing a loved one through traumatic circumstances is a multi-million dollar proposition, but prostrating oneself on the side of the road for scraps is worth pocket change at best? Surely, his visible disgrace at having to stoop to this level must be worth more than whatever suffering I endured.
I drive on, continuing past the man without offering him any money. I agree he needs change, but I can’t provide the kind which he truly deserves.
Despite the fact that it’s a Friday afternoon in mid-April, I only see smatterings of students as I drive through Ann Arbor, skirting the edge of the University of Michigan towards Liberty Street. I park in a garage half a block away and emerge into the middle of what appears to be the kind of semi-downtown area that springs up near every university.
Liberty Street Robot Supply and Repair stands out less within the shopping district than I expect, but as soon as I walk in, I know it’s the right place. A twenty-year-old girl with short, swept back brown hair, a pierced nose, and a lab-coat sits at the counter, reading something on the store’s iMac, and greets me as I walk in. I ask if Amanda and/or Amy are in, and the girl points towards the gap in the wall, through which I can see the tutoring area. Amanda hears my inquiry, and invites me back.
I am in the midst of a thousand-mile detour to conduct an interview that may not happen, standing inside of a supposed robot supply shop, and yet, it’s the next moment that makes me feel weird.
“Hi, I’m from Seattle, and I volunteer at the 826 there,” I say as I walk into the back, where the staff of 826 Michigan appears hard at work. “I’m on a big road trip, and I sent out an email to a bunch of people, asking if they wanted anything from any of the 826s I’m visiting, and well, Teri4 replied. She asked me for two things: pictures, and for me to give you and Amy a hug.”
“Well, we’re always up for hugs around here,” Amanda replies, and I hug them both, as though it’s not completely bizarre to hug two people whom I have never met before at the request of a third person a couple thousand miles to the west.
With tutoring not in session today, and the staff using that opportunity to rearrange the space, Amanda seems happy for the distraction that I present. We talk for a while, comparing and contrasting our 826s. She asks what’s new and exciting in Seattle, and I mention an email I received hours ago, saying that Dave Eggers and his wife, Vendela Vida5, are coming to Seattle for a preview screening of the upcoming movie which they co-wrote. Amanda tells me all of the 826s are doing this.
I am relieved to hear there is nothing new or exciting in Seattle, if only by proxy.
After a while, I leave Amanda to get back to her work and return to the store, browsing the many goofy products. As I peruse, another customer, a forty-something man, asks a question about a collection of stories written by students from a Detroit high school. The girl behind the counter knows nothing about this—she didn’t even know they did anything in Detroit—and I make a cheesy but thematically appropriate joke about how 826 Michigan’s Detroit operations are fully automated, and they hope to have all of their programs run by robots by 2012. Instead of rolling her eyes as I expected, the girl laughs.
Her laugh is impossible.
Her laugh, comprised of three ascending notes, is the kind of laugh that I have never heard before outside of Disney cartoons. It’s the kind of laugh that should require 12 takes to get right, but she nails it on the first one.
The outburst is so adorable that I keep trying to evoke it again, and fortunately for me, this proves quite easy. Within minutes, she’s laughing at everything I say, even things that aren’t jokes at all, like when I can’t decide between two t-shirts and rationalize aloud that, since it benefits charity, I might as well buy both.
She’s cute, and she seems into me, and I briefly consider asking her what she’s doing after this, but I remember that I’ll be gone tomorrow.
Then, I’m gone.
After depositing my newly bought robot supplies in my car’s trunk, I drive back the way I came, retracing my route until I get to the strip of hotels that I passed on my way into town. Ann Arbor seems more alive, or at least less dead, on the return trip, during which I spot a few packs of students sitting on porches, drinking what must be alcohol—after all, it’s past 6:00.
A combination of nostalgia and regret strikes me as I drive. I didn’t drink or sit on porches nearly enough in college.
Realistically, I didn’t do enough of anything in college—I didn’t even do enough of college itself. Before I left Memphis, I decided that I would stay for summers and graduate in three years instead of the usual four, a plan motivated more by my overwhelming desire to stay away from Memphis than the academic or professional benefits of my plan.
What I didn’t consider what the personal downside: I didn’t turn 21 until a month after I finished my last class, two weeks after I’d moved to New York. My senior year, a friend who was also a senior—albeit in her fifth year, while I was in my third—called every couple of weeks to invite me out to the bar, only to realize that she had forgotten my age, or lack thereof, yet again.
Every time I return to the U-District, the part of Seattle that contains the University of Washington, I get depressed at the sight of all the college-aged kids, only a few years younger than me. Watching them walk down the street, I feel pained at all the possibility I wasted.
A few miles’ drive past the porch drinkers, I find a hotel and get the last room, which houses a twin-sized bed. Since I need to do laundry, I empty my car’s trunk of everything but the loot I purchased at 826.
Tonight, the hotel’s dryer will malfunction, and I’ll improvise as best I can, dangling wet clothing from every available surface in my undersized room. I’ll curse and mumble, all the while wondering if I squandered yet another golden opportunity today.
Tonight, the disco ball globe will remain in my trunk, while that girl’s laugh will remain in my mind.
- I fully acknowledge I have stupid arguments.
- The other six cities with 826s are San Francisco, New York, Los Angeles, Seattle, Chicago and Boston. In other words, 826 can be found in six of the largest, wealthiest, most liberal cities in the country, and Ann Arbor.
- Or, at least, nobody I know would say it to my face, which I suppose is something entirely different.
- Teri’s business cards announce her as 826 Seattle’s executive director, but I like to call her our benevolent dictator.
- I met Mrs. Vida when she was visiting Seattle a couple of years ago for a book reading. When she came to 826 Seattle, I had no idea who she was, but I certified her as competent for space travel nonetheless.