Hell Is Tuscaloosa
By: Brian Oliu
Tags: Short Story, Fiction

Midway in the journey of life I came to myself in a dark wood, for the straight way was lost. Ah, how hard it is to tell the nature of that wood. Savage, dense and harsh, the very thought of it renews my fear. It is so bitter death is hardly more so. But to set forth the good I found, I will recount the other things I saw.

I left a day before a Friday, though the idea that that this particular Friday was good, or even better than prior Fridays, is highly suspect: to exclaim that the Friday when I arrived in Tuscaloosa was “good” is saying too much about anything. My tooth was throbbing. I wanted soup but there was no soup to be had. I ate eggs. I drank a Coca-Cola. I wanted to reach into my mouth and wrench the tooth from my gums. I ached for something cleansing — a sacrifice to the fair Druid City, of which is now referred to as ‘The City of Champions’, as druids are lawless priests, judges, scholars, and teachers who think that spirits exist in things that are not human. Certainly, there is no room for love in the rocks and the trees of this town. This, here, is the straight way. The straight way is Tuscaloosa. It is foolish to think this. One only needs to look at the county map — the lines jagged like a scar from broken glass — to recognize that there is no easy way to get here from where elsewhere exists.

The Gates

I am not Aeneas. I am not Paul. For one year I lived across the river in Northport: the plus one, the vestibule. A gate reads ‘Dim Lights. Heavy Smoke. Loud Music,’ and hope is lost inside here, although sometimes it is a good place to dance. I have gotten moderately good at darts inside those gates. I do not know how to pump gas; I have never learned. The ferry that will take me across the river does not want me to get anywhere — it is envious of the fact that I am alive and it is not — it is a machine. The windows do not move — I must force them into reverse. There is a trick to everything and I start to believe that there is a trick to this place, even though I do not exist here yet. The man who will tell another man to repair my car questions what I am doing here. He knows that I know nothing about the vehicle I command, that I think there is a lizard in a jar that flicks its tail and causes a fire when I turn the key in the ignition. He says he’s surprised that I haven’t died yet, and I tell him that I too am surprised to be alive. The woman at the bank is nice. A wasp’s nest is snuggled above her head. She does not notice these things and I am not in a position to tell her in fear that she does notice these things — that nothing is possible except for the insects. The cockroaches are constant, she says. The mosquitoes are constant, she says. There is nothing we can do but stay inside. She invites me to her church.

First Circle — Limbo

I have found a favorite barbecue place but someone complained and shut it down. I have found a new favorite barbecue place, but someone complained and shut it down. I have found a favorite restaurant, but someone complained and shut it down. I have found a favorite coffee shop, but someone complained and shut it down. There are people here who have taught me things, and I am thankful. I now know how to pump gas. I now know that the Wal-Mart parking lot will give me a panic attack. I now know that if I have a panic attack I need to sing the song that I hate the most. Today, that song is ‘Alabama’ by the band Alabama off the album Alabama. Other days, it is the sound of an acoustic guitar bouncing tones over a campfire. There are no camps here so they set fire to the ground and sing around the flames, like druids. First comes the family, then several families unite to form a village, originating in the bare needs of life, and continuing in existence for the sake of a good life. If I loved these songs I would be home, but I do not. If I loved these songs I would not be able to breathe.

Second Circle — Lust

The annual average precipitation in Tuscaloosa is 54.99 inches. Rainfall is fairly evenly distributed throughout the year. The wettest month of the year is March. All of the famous lovers are here and it is raining. The first girl I ever kissed was in front of the door where we placed our shoes. The boys would later give me a cookie. The girls would ask her questions about what it is like to kiss that boy in front of the door where we placed our shoes. The night of my first kiss in Tuscaloosa, it rained. The apartment smelled like cooked steak. I sat in a chair while she sat on a couch and we watched television. I kept my shoes on.

Third Circle — Gluttony

Heat oil to 350 degrees Fahrenheit in a deep pot. Do not fill the pot more than half full with oil though if you go over, this is okay. In a medium size bowl, beat the eggs. Add enough hot sauce so the egg mixture is bright orange, brighter than you’ve ever seen in nature. Add salt. Season the chicken with the House Seasoning. Add salt. Dip the seasoned chicken in the egg, and then coat well in the flour. Add salt. Place the chicken in the preheated oil and fry the chicken in the oil until brown and crisp. Add salt. Approximate cooking time is 13 to 14 minutes. Add salt to taste.

Fourth Circle — Avarice

When I am sad, I go to the mall. I have bought a lot of things while living here. This goes without saying.

Fifth Circle — Wrath

If I were to make you a list of the people that I have punched in this city, the list would not be very long. I punch the occasional pillow when I am unable to sleep at night, but I do not picture anyone when I do it. I live on a road named after a city where the trains used to run, before the swampland caused the railroad ties to rust. The soil here prevents proper irrigation; any pipes dug for rainwater are crushed by the weight of the red clay. When things get wet, they stay wet. On Sundays we play football in the park on the road named after a city where the trains used to run. Across from the stadium is a graveyard, which will need to be moved soon. Like is buried here with like, though their graves burn with unlike heat. Here, we make adjustments in our routes — we run away from the dips in the earth and the places where the water has pooled.

Sixth Circle — Heresy

I receive a message from a friend back home: hello, how are you doing? How is life in Tuscaloosa? I tell her that things are good, better than they ever have been before. I am doing what I love, I say, and I can tell that she is envious but pities me and my place on the map, my place in the world. How is the town, she asks, and I tell her the weather is warm. She asks if I can picture myself staying down here, and I reply that I can see the future, but only the future. I cannot see her; I cannot see myself. I cannot tell her how I am feeling at this moment, what I am doing. Tonight, I will drink a beer. I will tell her that I see great things ahead for her — I am a prophet and only a prophet. The place where I exist does not exist yet. I ask her to come visit me here; the weather is hot. When I return home, she will be married to a man I have never met. All of my knowledge will perish — I will know nothing.

Seventh Circle — Violence

A man to whom I have taught is now a tree in the forest. A man whom I have shared a drink with is now a tree in the forest. The girls wear houndstooth hats in honor of a man they never met. In photographs the man they have never met wears a hat that is plaid — the pattern is all wrong. He leads the men in groups across the hot sand. There is a man who is now a tree in the forest. The hands he used to sew fabric together are turning into leaves, into branches. Because of him, this pattern is popular again; the one and only time Tuscaloosa will be ahead of a fashion curve. It is a classic, he said, and everyone agreed.

Eighth Circle — Fraud

You are thinking about living here. It’s not all bad, I say. You can do things here that you cannot do elsewhere. You have nothing but time. I will help you through this. You arrive, and you are miserable. There is a space beneath your door where the roaches can get in and they crawl into your bed at night. There is mold in your shower, in your sink. I forgot to tell you about these things. I forgot to tell you that the bars are not open on Sundays and you need a drink. I forgot to tell you about the heat, that you won’t be able to breathe for months. I forgot to tell you that nothing grows here. See how I rend myself.

Ninth Circle –

Oh, Tuscaloosa, you fallen angel, you inferior planet, you morning star destined to fall from the sky. You are here and you are upside down. Around you a natural dungeon with barely any light. Within you floors ill made due to the shifts in the clay. The entire town is slowly sinking into the river — anyone who has dropped a pen can attest to this. They claim that the inhabitants of this infernal region are those who have lost the good of intellect; the substance of evil, the loss of humanity, intelligence, good will, and the capacity to love. This is not true. We may think that we live in a cavern that houses some great beast, that we are traitors beating our wings ferociously to escape, yet it only creates a dry wind that keeps us from moving, but this is not true. Tuscaloosa is the center of the earth; the center of all things. Teenagers in Greensboro are excited to meet someone from the big city.

There are roughly three Tuscaloosas. There is, first, the Tuscaloosa of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the Tuscaloosa of the commuter–the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night: my hairstylist, Amber, who commutes 40 minutes to work here. The nurses at Druid City Hospital. The high school teachers at Tuscaloosa Central. Third, there is Tuscaloosa of the person who was born somewhere else and came to Tuscaloosa in quest of something. Of these trembling cities the greatest is the last–the city of not a final destination, the city that is not a goal, but a means to reach a goal; a respite, if only for a moment from the world that everyone knows and accepts. It is this third city that accounts for Tuscaloosa’s laidback disposition, its poetical deportment, its occasional dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion. And whether it is a breadmaker and a violinist arriving from a small town in the Midwest to escape the indignity of being observed by their neighbors, or a boy arriving from the Delaware Water Gap with a manuscript in his suitcase and a pain in his heart, it makes no difference. Each embraces Tuscaloosa with the intense excitement of first love, each absorbs Tuscaloosa with the fresh yes of an adventurer, each generates heat and light to dwarf the consolidated efforts of Alabama Power and Alagasco. . . .

The city, for the first time in its long history, is destructible because we have created something here that is worth constructing. All dwellers must live with the stubborn fact of annihilation; in Tuscaloosa the fact is more concentrated because of the concentration of the city inhabitants itself: this is our greatest strength. We send messages to see what everyone is doing that particular evening, and by everyone, we mean everyone. If someone is missing, they are missed. We are here tonight because of Tuscaloosa; Tuscaloosa has a certain clear priority not found elsewhere. In the mind of whatever perverted dreamer might loose the lightning, Tuscaloosa must hold a steady, irresistible charm. Tuscaloosa, c’est les autres. We recognize that Tuscaloosa is not the hell we make it out to be, but the sound of a narrow stream that trickles through a channel it has cut into the rock in its meanderings — a gentle slope. And when we emerge from our hidden passage, we will find again the world of light, and without thinking of a moment’s rest, we climb through an opening, and we will come forth, to see again the stars.