Rubber City

 August 14, 2025

Uneventful but deeply tedious drive from Asheville. Eastern Ohio is part of the same sea of stone as North Carolina, but its waves sweet and rounded rather than the oceanic upwellings of the south. Crossing the Ohio I always think “home–”

Fifth floor of the Hilton Garden on Market Street, where the vast Goodyear parking lot used to be. Indeed, this is the hovering-place for the ghost of Goodyear, which, once an empire, is now a tacky (and, today anyway) empty tourist spot. Whole blocks and neighborhoods are gone. Mrs. Hughes’ house by the river is gone. The shattered shell of Goodyear Jr High looms from the neighboring hill, ruined and yet standing, like something from Kyiv. In Goodyear Hall my name in bronze, and beautiful murals of WWI soldiers being welcomed into heaven, are covered in bland wood, perhaps gone forever. The place was probably a little past its prime even when I first knew it. Fell from the chair onto the floor first thing. Second thing was discovering my lap top had died, roaring off to Chapel Hill (the remnants thereof) to buy a new one immediately, in a frenzy of impatience, glad that navigating the streets of Akron is still second nature. The Tourette’s of the salesman was so bad I kept pulling away, thinking he was going to hit me. I hope he’s used to that.