Benny Jay: This Christmas

It’s the Monday before Christmas and I’m sitting at the bar in the bowling alley, having a drink.

I don’t usually drink, but this is Mark the cop’s famous, Christmas-time eggnog. It tastes so sweet — you don’t even know you’re drinking.

I have one. Then another. Next thing you know I’m having a third. I feel a gentle groove – all troubles gone. Now I know why these guys drink so much.

It’s after midnight. Late for me. Even J Dub and Norm have left. But I don’t feel like going home.

I’m just sitting with Cap — plastic cups of eggnog in front of us — listening to the music and staring at the soundless TV.

Over the jukebox comes “Try a Little Tenderness.”

“Great song,” says Cap.

“One of the greatest,” I say

“Makes me think of my mom,” he says. “She loved Otis.…”

He pauses, then adds: “I don’t want to get all melancholy. But I miss my mom….”

“When did she die?”

“A long time ago….”

“Tell you what, Cap – let’s drink a toast to your mom….”

We face the east.

“To your mom,” I say.

We clink cups and down our eggnog.

Then we sit back at the bar.

On comes  “Please Come Home for Christmas.”

“My baby’s gone, I have no friends….”

“Who sings this?” I ask.

“Charles Brown,” he says.

“It’s a great one….”

“There’ll be no sorrow, no grief and no pain, and I’ll be happy, happy once again….”

“But it’s not the greatest Christmas song,” I add.

“What’s that?” asks Cap.

“Donny Hathaway….”

“You talkin’ about `This Christmas’?”

“World’s greatest Christmas song….”

“Let’s play it,” he says.

He walks to the jukebox and comes back. We stare at the TV. A new song comes on the jukebox. It sounds familiar. But it sure isn’t Donny Hathaway.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Madonna,” he says.

“Madonna?”

“`Material Girl.’” He shrugs. “I accidentally put it on a while back.  I meant to play the Marvelettes. But I pushed the wrong buttons…”

“Well, there’s worse things than listening to Madonna….”

I’m looking out the big bar window. It’s starting to snow.

Madonna finishes. Donny Hathaway comes on.

“Fireside is burning bright….”

Cap and me start singing a long….

“And we’re caroling through the night….”

We sing louder….

“And this Christmas will be….”

As Donny hits the chorus, we’re bellowing….

“A very special Christmas for me….”

“Shut the fuck up,” someone yells from across the room.

We’re laughing pretty hard. “I thought we sounded good,” I say.

“Yeah, really good,” says Cap.

I toy with my eggnog cup. “You know, Cap, I just want to say — we got a lot to be thankful for….”

“I know….”

“I mean, I bitch and moan about this and that, but basically I can’t complain….”

“Me neither….”

“You think it’s the eggnog talking, man?”

“Nah, man, we both got a lot to be thankful for,” he says. “We’re two lucky mother fuckers….”

“Let’s drink a toast,” I say. “To two lucky mother fuckers….”

We lift our cups, turn to the east and down the last of our eggnog.

“Gonna have another?” asks Cap.

“Nah. I drink another one and you’ll have to peel me off the floor….”

I gather my coat and hat and walk out into the cold.

There’s not a car in sight. Snow’s falling everywhere.

Further down the block I see a few of the High Rollers doing their high-roller thing.

“Want some?” V-train calls out.

“Maybe thirty years ago,” I say.

“C’mon — for old times sake….”

“Nah, those days are long gone. But you enjoy….”

I cross the street. And just before I turn the corner for home I think of something unsaid.

“Hey, boys,” I yell.

They look up from their smoke.

“Merry Christmas….”

Letter From Milo: The Aristocrat House (part 3 of the first chapter)

As threatened, here is the third installment of the 1st chapter of a work in progress called “The Aristocrat House,” in which Uncle Rudy engages in a savage, no-holds-barred fight to the finish with a one-legged woman named Vivian.

The Aristocrat House

“No, baby,” Rudy answered, innocently, “I haven’t seen them.”
A few days later, she asked, “Rudy, sugar, I can’t seem to find my wristwatch. Will you look around for it?”

Uncle Rudy spent 10 minutes rummaging around the apartment, searching for Vivian’s wristwatch. Scratching his head in consternation, he said, “I can’t find it, Viv. But I’m sure it’ll turn up sooner or later.”

“That’s strange,” Vivian said, looking thoughtfully at Uncle Rudy. “I wonder what the hell happened to it.”

If she would have asked me, I could have told her exactly where to find her wristwatch and ear rings. The wristwatch was on display in the window of Woodside’s Pawn Shop on Washington Street. And the ear rings were adorning the earlobes of a wife or girlfriend of one of the bar flies at Kaiser’s Old Style Inn, where Uncle Rudy had sold them while I waited in the car.

The end came when Vivian caught Uncle Rudy going through her purse.

“What the hell are you doing?” She was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, leaning against the doorjamb. She wasn’t wearing her leg and needed the doorjamb’s support to keep from toppling over.

Uncle Rudy was caught in mid-theft, with Vivian’s open billfold in his hands. “Nothing honey,” he sputtered. “I was just, ah, just looking for some cigarettes.”

“I don’t keep my cigarettes in my billfold, you son of a bitch,” she snarled, then turned and hopped back into her bedroom. When she wasn’t wearing her prosthesis she hopped on her good leg to get around her apartment. Or, if she had been drinking heavily, she scuttled crab-like along the floor. In a moment she hopped out of her bedroom, holding something behind her back, and hopped up to Uncle Rudy. Before he could react, she sprayed him with mace.

Uncle Rudy screamed in pain, clutched his face and fell to the floor. “Oh, God! Aaahhheee! What the fuck did you do! Sweet Jesus I’m blind! You rotten fucking whore! Oowweee! I can’t see! I can’t see!”

While Uncle Rudy was screaming and rolling on the floor in agony, Vivian leaned over, as best she could, and sprayed him again. Then she turned to me. “You little bastard,” she hissed, her face contorted in rage, and aimed the can of mace at me.

Before she could spray me, I ducked to the floor and tried to scramble away. In my frantic effort to get away from her, I inadvertently bumped into her good leg. She teetered for a moment, arms flailing, and crashed to the floor, losing her grip on the can of mace in the process.

Uncle Rudy was still on the floor, writhing in pain. He had pulled his shirttail out of his trousers and was vigorously rubbing his face with it. His agonized screaming had subsided to low moans, raspy grunts and muttered curses and threats.

“You gimpy fucking slut! Oh, man! Are you crazy! Ooohhh, shit! What the fuck is wrong with you! God damn!”

When he realized that Vivian was squirming on the floor next to him, Uncle Rudy reached out and grabbed her remaining leg. Vivian tried to crawl away but he had a good grip and held tight. “I’ve got you now, you greasy spic cunt,” he hissed, murderously. “I’m going to rip off your good leg. You hear me! See how you like that.”

I was scared to death. I had never seen Uncle Rudy like that. He looked like some sort of monster, his tear-stained face was swollen, red and raw, and his eyes had narrowed to bloodshot piggish slits. I knew something terrible was going to happen but had no idea of how to prevent it.

When Vivian felt Uncle Rudy grab her leg she squealed in terror and tried to shake him off. When he tried to pull her closer Vivian wrapped her arms around the base of a heavy floor lamp.

“Leave me alone!” she shrieked. “Let me go!”

“I’ll fix you good, you ugly old Mexican whore,” Uncle Rudy growled.

“Please, Uncle Rudy,” I pleaded, frightened that he might seriously hurt her. “Let’s just go. This is crazy.”

“You, shut the fuck up!” he barked at me, then tugged roughly on Vivian’s leg. But she held her grip on the lamp and couldn’t be budged. Uncle Rudy yanked harder, but the only thing that gave way was the lamp, which rocked back and forth a couple of times, before falling and crashing down heavily on Uncle Rudy’s head. He howled in misery when the lamp slammed into his head, its glass shade shattering and showering him with shards of glass. He immediately began bleeding from several small cuts on his face. Releasing Vivian’s leg, he clutched his face again and moaned, “Oh, fuck me.”

As soon as her leg was freed Vivian scurried into the kitchen, out of Uncle Rudy’s reach. When she was out of harm’s way, she sat up with her back propped against the refrigerator, placed her head in her hands and began sobbing.

Big Mike: The True Spirit Of Xmas

Usually, I’ll happily admit that I’m a grinch. Gleefully, as a matter of fact. Heck, what with my white goatee and roundish tummy, I might even bellow Ho ho ho! to put an exclamation point on it.

I’ll let you in on a little secret, though. Sometimes I’m not all that comfortable thumbing my nose at Xmas. I mean, really, who wants to denigrate that season of sheer joy and loving, of reverence and piety, of selflessness and amity? Who’d deny any and all the fun of watching all those grinning little urchins…, um…, you know…, greedily tearing open packages of shit they’re going to toss in the bottom of the toy box or clutching all those gifts they’d demanded with all the subtlety of Hitler at Munich?

See? I can’t help myself. Normally, I don’t publicize my Xmas buzzkill feelings. Constance, the big potato over at The Book Case where I work a few days a week, asked me the other day what kind of decorations I put up for Xmas. Without thinking, I responded truthfully — “Aw, I don’t decorate for Xmas.”

Poor Constance. She recoiled and stared at me as if I’d said I decorate my tree with black leather masks, handcuffs, riding crops and double-dongs which, by the way, was how an old pal of mine named Gretchen used to decorate her tree. Remind me to tell you about her one day.

Anyway, I loathe Xmas because it’s one of the prime examples of how we lie to each other. You ask: What’s the big lie of Xmas? It’s this: every goddamned Xmas season people run around telling each other how much they long for the old Xmas spirit. They pine for the “true meaning” of Xmas. It’s all become so commercialized, so materialistic, they moan. This uttered as they whip out a hundred and three different credit cards to pay for some shit their kids are gonna toss in the bottom of the toy box within a week and a half.

By the way, this year’s shit is the Zhu zhu pet. Like Tickle Me Elmo and Cabbage Patch Kids of years past, kind loving and generous parents are gouging each others’ eyes out to snatch that last toy off the shelf of Toys R Us, the headquarters of hell on Earth.

Lemme give you a primer on the true meaning of Xmas. My parents sent me to Catholic schools, which was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I got a fairly damned good education. A curse because those doing the educating wore long robes, believed newborn infants had the stain of original sin on their souls, and had proudly forsworn sex. Ugh. I shudder to think of it.

Anyway, the nuns (who all wore wedding rings to signify their marriage to Jesus — yikes!) told us that we should chill our ardor for Xmas a little because it wasn’t even the top holiday of the Church. That would be Easter, the day their shared husband rose from the dead. Xmas, the day we celebrate Jesus’s birth, they said, should be marked quietly and in contemplation. Throwing a big bash and showering presents on each other was unseemly. Every mere mortal is born, they explained. What’s the big deal? Only Jesus, they concluded, rose from the dead. That’s the real deal.

And they were right! (If you believe in that kind of stuff, that is.) For centuries, devout Christians threw big bashes on Easter and pretty much glossed over Xmas. To celebrate Jesus’s birth was to emphasize his nature as a man; to celebrate his resurrection was to recognize his nature as god.

In fact, throughout Christian history, the actual birth of Jesus was even overshadowed by the Epiphany (the visit of the Magi to Bethlehem) and the Circumcision, (the celebration of which is so weird and unsettling that I can’t even think of a smart-assed joke to make about it.)

The celebration of Jesus’s birth came and went through the centuries. Each time it became somewhat institutionalized, some reform gang or another called for it to be outlawed, claiming it was disrespectful to the son of the guy who created the Universe. Their objections usually held sway — hell, who wants to piss off a guy with that much clout?

Even caroling, that ever-so wholesome family activity, had its origins in the packs of drunkards who caroused, singing, on the night of the Winter Solstice.

It wasn’t until 1890, when the department store had become the universal center for commerce, that Xmas-mania began to be established. That’s when Macy’s and Hudson’s and Sears began to go yule-crazy. Retailers wrapped up the traditional year-end, Solstice, pagan bacchanalia celebrations in a neat little package and sold it to customers as a homey, lovey-dovey, spiritual fete. The fact that empires created by the likes of Marshall Field and A. Montgomery Ward got more-than-healthy bumps to their bottom lines at year’s end was, well, y’know, just a coincidence.

So quit the bullshit about the true meaning of Xmas. It stands for nothing more than a vibrant consumer economy. Is that so wrong?

In fact, just writing this screed has made me rethink my position. I’m gonna put up a tree this year! Yup — and maybe, just maybe, The Loved One’ll put a new acoustic guitar under it for me. He he he!

Letter From Milo: The Aristocrat House, 1st Chapter, 2nd Installment

As promised, here are the next few pages of a work in progress called “The Aristocrat House,” in which Uncle Rudy begins taking advantage of an unfortunate one-legged woman named Vivian.

The Aristocrat House (next couple of pages)

“What the fuck do you care where I got the money,” he replied, still admiring his reflection in the mirror. “Swear to God, sometimes I think all that artsy-fartsy scribbling you do is turning you into a faggot.” Turning and pointing at my backpack, he added, “Why don’t you quit wasting your time with that shit and do something useful for a change, like learn how to shoot pool or play cards, something that’ll bring in some money.”

Ignoring him, I said, “Doesn’t matter to me where you got the money, but all those cop cars pulling up downstairs seem real interested.”

Uncle Rudy’s swarthy face turned as pale as a doily. He yelped “shit!” and rushed to the window. He had a terrible fear of incarceration. He had been in jail a few times and the experiences didn’t agree with him.

When Uncle Rudy peeked out of the window and saw nothing but the bleak landscape of factory refuse, his ashen face returned to its normal ruddy color. When he heard me laughing, he muttered an unintelligible curse and half-heartedly swung a backhand in my direction. But I knew it was coming and ducked away. He was generous with his backhands, though none too accurate.

Still staring out of the window, Uncle Rudy reached into his pocket and pulled out his bottle. “I still can’t believe that whore threw me out,” he muttered, morosely, then had a drink, smacked his lips and put the bottle away. “You’d think a bitch with only one fucking leg would have more sense.”

Sighing deeply, he walked to the edge of the bed, sat down and rested his head in his hands. “Stupid fucking cunts,” he muttered again, “don’t even know when they’ve got it good.”

For the past month or so we had been living with a Mexican woman named Vivian, in her small apartment near the lake. Vivian had lost her right leg, above the knee, in an industrial accident. She was a heavy drinker and I suppose that’s why she and Uncle Rudy got along so well at first. They stayed up late every night, drinking themselves senseless. When Vivian got good and drunk she would start crying about her missing leg.

“You don’t know what it’s like for a girl not to have two good legs,” she said, sobbing. “I can’t even wear a decent dress or high heels. Can’t go dancing. Can’t even go for a God damn walk in the park.”

Uncle Rudy did his best to soothe her. “Oh, baby, you’re my sweet little angel,” he told her, drunkenly, his eyes welling with sympathetic tears. “You mean everything to me. I’d love you if you didn’t have any legs at all, or arms, either.”

“You mean that, Rudy? You’re not just saying that?”

As I mentioned, Vivian had a small apartment. She fixed me up with a roll-away bed in the pantry, just off the tiny kitchen. But I was just a few feet away from the living room and could hear everything they were saying and doing.

“I would never lie to you, baby,” Uncle Rudy assured her. “You want another drink?”

“Please, honey, and drop another cube in it.”

There was silence for a while, then drunken giggling and laughter, followed by a lengthier silence. Then I heard Uncle Rudy’s voice again, thick and slurred.

“That’s it, Viv, don’t stop.”

“Do you like it, Rudy? Do I make you happy?”

“You’re the best, Viv. Swear to fucking Christ, nobody does it better.”

I couldn’t help myself. I had to look. I snuck out of the pantry and carefully peeked into the living room. The lights were low and all I could see was Vivian’s prosthetic leg, with its elaborate system of buckles and leather straps, leaning against the coffee table.

I poked my head farther into the darkened room and saw that both of them were still on the couch. Uncle Rudy’s eyes were closed and his trousers and underwear were bunched around his ankles. Vivian’s head was in his lap and she was greedily tending to his erection, her head bobbing up and down like a plump strutting pigeon. When Uncle Rudy opened his eyes and looked down at Vivian, an odd expression came over his face. It wasn’t a look that I recognized or had ever seen before. It wasn’t passion or excitement or even drunken lust. The only way I can describe the expression was to call it a look of perfect serenity, the same idiot’s smile that I’d seen in pictures of the Dalai Lama, the Pope and some of the more inbred members of the British royal family. It was as if he had come through a terrible storm and had finally reached quiet waters. The hard edges of his face seemed as if they had been buffed away. The crafty gleam in his eyes had softened to a dull glaze of contentment. He had eaten well that day, was drinking to his heart’s content, and was now having a woman cater to his sexual needs. All was right in Uncle Rudy’s world. He was at peace.

We stayed at Vivian’s for a little more than a month. Vivian didn’t pay much attention to me. She was indifferent to my presence, rarely speaking to me or acknowledging my existence. I figured she tolerated me, the way a dog lover tolerates fleas, as the price she had to pay for Uncle Rudy’s company.

Still, living there wasn’t too bad. I had plenty to eat, a warm place to sleep and clean clothes to wear. Vivian was grouchy in the mornings, which was understandable, considering the amount of alcohol she drank in the evenings. But I learned to avoid her until early afternoon, when she and Uncle Rudy started their drinking and carousing.

I would have been content to stay there a while longer, but, of course, Uncle Rudy ruined it for both of us. He began stealing from Vivian. I knew we were in trouble when, one morning, I heard her ask, “Rudy, honey, have you seen my pearl ear rings anywhere? I thought I left them on the coffee table last night.”

Benny Jay: Hey, Barn Boss….

I wake up to see that Big Mike took a shot at me — again. Basically, called me a wuss. Something about walking the dog. Don’t really know, cause I can’t read past his first paragraph – my shame’s just too strong.

It’s the second shot from Big Mike — aka, The Barn Boss — in the last few weeks. The first one came when he made fun of me for being scared of everything.

After that bit ran, my cousin – who knows everything about everything – called to say: “Dang, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, but Big Mike called you out….”

“Oh, yeah,” I replied. “Well, wait to you see what I have to write about him….”

But I didn’t write a word. Instead, I wrote something about the Bulls. It was the same old problem – I got scared.

I’ve never been much of a fighter. My problem is I don’t like pain. When I was ten, I picked a fight with an eight-year-old girl. Figured this was one fight I had to win.  How did I know she was the female Mike Tyson? She slugged me in the stomach. Knocked the wind out of me. I ran home crying. Haven’t had a real fight since….

I go to the computer and read what Big Mike has to say: “Benny is like a rhinoceros….”

A rhinoceros? The man called me a rhinoceros! Those are fighting words, but what should I do?

I know! I’ll walk the dog. I do my best thinking when I walk the dog.

Out we go — me and Nicky. I make sure to take the alleys – slippery with ice – so she won’t pee or crap on anyone’s lawn.

But the time I get home, I’ve made my decision. I’ll pretend I never saw Big Mike’s blog bit. Yeah, that’ll work. Instead, I’ll write about the Bulls. Can’t write too much about them.

Feel all good about my decision. Lie down to take a nap….

The phone rings. It’s Milo.

“I just read the Barn Boss’s slap in the face to you,” he says.

“Oh, I didn’t read his blog bit today….”

“Oh, no? Here let me read it to you….”

“No, no – that’s okay….”

“You can’t take this lying down,” he says.

“How `bout I take it standing up….”

He ignores my joke and says: “You can’t just bend over and flip up your skirt….”

“I don’t wear a skirt….”

“He basically told you in front of the whole world — `fuck you, bitch.’”

“Okay – no, he didn’t….”

“That’s how I see it, Benny boy. And if I see it that way, everyone else will see it the same way….”

“But, Milo….”

“No buts about it – you gotta tell him to fuck off….”

“Fuck off?”

“Fuck off….”

“But he’s the Barn Boss, Milo….”

“True, the Barn Boss is a ruthless player – he’s liable to pull a gun or a knife or a straight razor….”

“A straight razor?”

“If I’m correct, that his weapon of choice….”

“Milo, I hate straight razors….”

“Don’t worry, I got your back 150 percent. You gotta counter attack. The way I see it, this will be great for your career. All the great writers have their literary feuds. Gore Vidal versus William Buckley. Mary McCarthy versus Lillian Hellman. Eric Zorn versus Mary Schmich….”

“Eric Zorn versus Mary Schmich?”

“Don’t worry, Benny, I got you covered 100 percent….”

“I thought you said 150 percent?”

“One hundred, 150 – whatever. Here’s what you do. Go to the liquor store, get yourself a bottle of Wild Turkey. Drink half the bottle. Smoke a joint. Then tell the Barn Boss to fuck off. I’d do it for you, but I’m really busy….”

He hangs up. I put down the phone. I look out the window. He’s right, of course – Milo’s always right. The time has come to take a stand.

I go to the bedroom, stand in front of the mirror, curl my lip like Elvis Presley, and practice my line.

“Hey, Big Mike — you can just fuck off….”

No, too wordy.

“Hey, Barn Boss – Fuck off!”

Perfect.

I pick up the phone. I take a breath. I dial his number. The phone rings….

“Hello,” growls the Barn Boss.

I open my mouth to say my line, when….

“Hey, dad?’

It’s my younger daughter, just come home and yelling up the stairs.

“We got anything to eat? I’m starving….”

I hang up the phone – cause you know, I gotta help her find something to eat. The kid’s hungry, man.

Phew, saved by the bell.

But next time – ooh – Barn Boss, just you wait….

Big Mike: A Beautiful Friendship Pissed Away

My erstwhile dear old pal Benny Jay and I are having a tiff these days. It reminds me of the time the National Lampoon (remember that?) reported a fight between Truman Capote and Gore Vidal. Tru, according to the mag, suffered a bent hat brim and Vidal’s hankie was creased.

Benny Jay and I are standing with our backs to each other, our arms folded across our chests. Occasionally, Benny turns to me and sniffs. I respond by offering him the Sicilian salute.

It all began over his dog’s excretory habits.

Benny wrote here the other day that he was taking his hound out for an airing early one morning. As they passed a house a few blocks down, Benny’s pooch raised a leg and aimed a squirt on some guy’s lawn. While the dog was in midstream, the guy came out in his bathrobe and hollered at Benny.

Benny, normally eager as a Quaker to avoid conflict, took umbrage. He wrote that the man was weaselly-looking and that he (Benny) took a snippy tone with him. The man called Benny an asshole. Benny responded in kind and then the man threatened to call the cops.

The thought of Benny sitting on a bench and marking time in the 23rd District lockup stripped of his belt and shoelaces is like imagining a rhinoceros competing on “Dancing with the Stars.”

My formerly dear pal then recounted spending his day brooding about how mean people are to him. Imagine a man not wanting a dog to piss on his lawn! Benny became embittered as the day went on. By nightfall, the anger had welled up inside him. He took the pooch out on a late night walk and — Whaddya know? — the two ended up in front of the same guy’s house whereupon the dog deposited another liberal dosage of the good old yellow dew on the lawn!

Benny, turning mad by his visions of vengeance, patted the cur on the head and complimented it.

The kicker is he wrote that he should have blown the guy off during their early morning confrontation. “Should have said, ‘Blow me!’” he wrote. “That’s what Big Mike would have said.’”

Of all the nerve!

I immediately dashed off an email to the insensitive brute.

Ben:

I wouldn’t have said “blow me.” I would have been yelling at you, asking if you had any room up your ass for your dog who’s pissing on my lawn.

Love,

BMike

I clicked Send and sat back, smiling smugly. I showed him! Minutes later, the reply came back.

Mike:

Oh no! You’re one of those nutcases who don’t like dogs pissing on their lawns. Who knew?

Yours,

Ben

Well, I never! I clattered back.

Sir:

I mow my lawn and weed my garden and then some son of a bitch comes by and lets his dog pee and crap right where I kneel. Plus, there’s something unseemly about having to watch a stranger stand there while his creature-pal drops a load on my lawn right outside my front window. I’d like to come over to your house and take a huge steaming dump on your lawn and see how you like it!

Michael

PS: Harrumph.

That ought to put him in his place, I thought. Sadly, some uncivilized, uncooth people can’t be reasoned with. This was his response:

Jerk:

Oh, boo-hoo-hoo! Wittle Mikey, worked so hard to make his lawn pretty!

Black Hand Jay

Here’s the latest in this unfortunate series of missives:

My Dear Mr. Jay,

We shall suspend any further communications between us. The next contact you will receive will be from the law firm of Fleecem and Slip. Please refrain from darkening my email inbox again!

Mr. Glab

That’s it. I’ve had it with Benny Jay. If he doesn’t watch himself, I may have to give him a bent hat brim.

Randolph Street:Highway 61–Road Scans

Bikes–Hannibal, Missouri

Glass–Wentzville, Missouri

Railroad–Moose Lake, Minnesota

Crosswalk–Thunder Bay, Ontario

Tap–Hannibal, Missouri

Infield–Blue Grass, Iowa

This is a personal look at Mid-America that I shot between 1976 and 1985.  These were taken along the approximately 1700 miles of US Highway 61 that roughly follows the Mississippi River from New Orleans to Minneapolis, then juts northeast to Duluth and along the western edge of Lake Superior to Thunder Bay, Ontario.  All photographs © Jon Randolph.