On June 22, 1969, the Cuyahoga River, which runs through the heart of downtown Cleveland, burst into flames. The fire was out in under an hour, its chief casualties a few boats, a couple of railroad bridges and, of course, the city’s already shaky self esteem. The official cause was severe pollution; the Cuyahoga was little more than a free flowing cesspool in those days. In one report, the Federal Water Pollution Control Administration noted, “The lower Cuyahoga has no visible signs of life, not even low forms such as leeches and sludge worms that usually thrive on wastes”). But Clevelanders knew there was much more than a few toxic chemicals at work here. To us the fire was merely the latest in a long series of cosmic jokes God or fate or whatever you want to call the sick bastard running things had perpetrated upon us. It wasn’t the first prank he’d pulled either (see “Waterworks Tunnel Disaster, 1916,” “East Ohio Gas Company Explosion, 1944,” “Jim Brown leaves Cleveland for Hollywood, 1965”) and it certainly wouldn’t be his last (see “City Declares Bankruptcy, 1978,” “Disastrous NFL Draft Picks: Mike Phipps, 1970; Tim Couch, 1999,” etc.).
No sir, they don’t call my hometown the “Mistake by the Lake” for nothing.
Disasters come and go, but a burning river has a way of sticking with you. It raises the bar on just how low you can go. You think a dirty, stinking, toxic river is bad? How about a dirty, stinking, toxic river ON FIRE? If it can get worse it surely will get worse, that’s the mantra of the Clevelander. That burning river winds its way through the heart of all who lived to witness it, whether he’s a sports enthusiast (“Keep expectations low!” has always been the unofficial cheer of the Browns, Indians, and Cavaliers fan), a bride hoping against hope for a sunny wedding day (when you average 299 overcast days a year it goes without saying you keep an umbrella handy), or just a guy like me, who naively thought getting out of Cleveland meant getting out from under a cloud. Like so many members of that far flung Cleveland diaspora, I left the banks of the flaming Cuyahoga in hopes of finding a less ironic life elsewhere, not realizing that irony, like certain toxic chemicals, remains in the system more or less indefinitely, no matter how much time and space you put between yourself and the source of the contamination.
The same fatalism that at fourteen led me to conclude my only shot at touching Sharon Miller’s exquisite breasts was predicated on a complex formula that included, but was not limited to, the complete collapse of the Nixon White House, the US Armed Forces, AND the Roxboro Junior High School administration, would follow me to Madison Avenue, where, some twenty years later, I fell hopelessly in love (emphasis on hopeless) with a woman with whom I shared an office. The same voice that, as I contemplated the 30-foot rope I’d just been ordered to climb by my third grade gym teacher, whispered “You’re going to die up there” would, decades later, say more or less the same thing whenever I was about to make a presentation to a marketing director, an association of car dealers or soft drink bottlers, in short, any asshole who ever had the power to say yea or nay to something I’d created, whether it be a table topper for a mediocre restaurant chain (“Don’t be shy, ask for seconds!”) or an image campaign for the next President of the United States (“It’s called hope, and it’s coming your way”). Even in the serene cornfields of the Hudson Valley, thirty years and five hundred miles from that burning river, there was still no escaping it. You try enjoying the music of the honeybees and the barn swallows with that interloper from Ohio droning on in the background “You, my friend, are a fraud.”
Do I hear something else perhaps? An impatient chorus saying Doesn’t this sound an awful lot lot like a guy confusing his own pitiable lack of confidence with some dark, mysterious force that punishes those cursed with the bad luck of being born in the wrong place at the wrong time? Maybe. Then again, people who have been cursed tend to lack confidence. And for good reason. If on that sunny June day in 1969 you planned a pleasure cruise along the Cuyahoga (far fetched, I know, but stay with me here), a lack of confidence in the weather might have compelled you to pack a raincoat. A lack of confidence in the boat or in your ability to navigate it might have compelled you to pack a life preserver. But just how much confidence would you have to lack to even entertain the notion that your little boat might be engulfed by flames? In what parallel universe would the decision not to pack a flame-retardant suit be considered supremely arrogant?
In Cleveland, you idiot.
I began writing these stories not in Cleveland, where I began life, but in the Hudson Valley, where I spend a good deal of it these days. The first batch was for a monthly column called “The Wannabe Farmer,” basically a sad recounting of my pathetic attempts at hobby farming. I liked the format of those essays so I decided to apply it to my childhood. The result was “Cleveland Stories,” basically a recounting of my pathetic attempts at being a kid growing up there in the 60’s and 70’s. Of course, a lot happened between my pathetic kid days and my pathetic farmer days, including pathetic attempts at being an ad guy, a husband, and, as always, a writer. In addition, I’ve made several pathetic attempts at other things—not least of which being a father—and those too will in good time be recounted. In other words, if you stick with me and come back and check on me here from time to time, I promise those many blank spots you presently see in my table of contents will indeed be filled. Possibly even with stories you’ll find mildly amusing.
Hmm. Those don’t sound like the words of a man convinced his next nautical outing will result in third degree burns. There’s a jarring note of optimism in there that’s at odds with the cacophony of failure that surrounds it. That’s the thing about us Clevelanders: somehow, despite all evidence to the contrary, we remain convinced that while the worst case scenario is the one scenario we can count on, maybe something freaky will happen and the Browns will get to the Superbowl. Or maybe a large grocery chain, perhaps due to a clerical error, will open an actual supermarket in downtown Cleveland. In short, maybe we’ll–I don’t know–succeed? Wait a minute, succeed is a pretty strong word. How about not die? Of course we all have to die though, right? So how about die with dignity? Just a little bit? Okay, how about we just somehow avoid being humiliated in death?
Yes! That’s the spirit!
Paul Spencer
New York City, October 2011
Author’s Note: Much of what I write about in this collection took place a long time ago. Some of the details have been lost in the fog of time (or, depending on the era, the fog of drugs and alcohol). But I’ve never been one to let the facts, or a lack of them, get in the way of a good story. I don’t mean to say what follows is a pack of lies, I’ve tried to be as honest as possible because, well, because the truth is always more interesting than anything people can make up. Here and there I’ve done some streamlining, merged two or three people into one, pared a week down to a couple days, etc., just to keep things flowing along. I’ve also made it a rule of thumb to change the names of people whom I think, for whatever reason, might be uncomfortable or embarrassed by my portrayal of them. This is especially true of people whom I’m pretty sure could kick my ass. Those names were definitely changed. I swear. Please don’t hurt me. I’m just a foolish old man who means no harm to anyone.