Illinois Gothic
You, weary traveler, pull over at a local pizza joint; you’re not sure where, one of the many small towns that comes from cornfields and into cornfields it returns, just like every other small town in this long, unrelentingly long state. You order and eagerly bring it to your car, figuring you can eat a couple slices while you drive. You pull out the first piece. It is a square.
You at long last make it to Chicago. You decide to try to order the local specialty, figuring that now that you have at long last you have made it back to civilization, your pizza will be sliced into slices. It is, but the pizza is instead a sort of inside-out pie, with tomatoes on the top and cheese buried inside.
A friendly local invites you to dinner. “Wanna go with?” He asks, his too-bright teeth gleaming against the snow (for no matter when you have decided to travel, there is at least a 50% chance of snow, and 100% chance of construction). You wait politely for the end of his sentence. There is not one. There will never be. You are stuck, dangling on a participle.
You need to go to Des Plains. You do not know how to ask for directions because the name remains unpronounceable.
You visit Illinois in November. It is snowing. You vow next year you will wait until at least spring, in order to avoid this. You come in April. It is still snowing, but now the highway is under construction.
You turn on the radio for traffic directions. It only spews out nonsense phrases like “fifteen to the Dan Ryan, the Kennedy is A-OK.” You wait, patiently, for traffic to come on the station, but all it does it keep repeating the same nonsense syllables over and over again.
You ask where, exactly, northern Illinois ends, and downstate begins. You are caught in a whirlwind vortex of sure yet vociferously different opinions as each town in Illinois descends upon you, offering answers. “South of I-80,” Joliet whispers. “South of the start of I-80.” Crystal Lake adds, nodding. “Dude, it’s totally around like, Bloomington or something?” Streator says. “Who cares?” Chicago shrugs. “I’m not sure,” Springfield says, “But I know you all are spending too much money out of my god damned tax money trying to figure it out.” You attempt to get out of this conversation, but you are not allowed to until they reach consensus. There is no consensus. There will never be a consensus.












