I'm not a fan of The Wallflowers, but I just caught their hit "One Headlight" on Pandora this evening. I have one friend fighting writer's block and another friend despairing of ever getting her bachelor's degree, and in between talking to them both, lyrics from the song caught at me:
Well, this place is old, it feels just like a beat-up truck
I turn the engine, but the engine doesn't turn
It smells of cheap wine and cigarettes
This place is always such a mess
Sometimes I think I'd like to watch it burn
I spent the weekend packing up the crystal glassware I bought Mom over the years, and selling a little more of the furniture. My brother's working on two houses in an older Phoenix neighborhood, doing what he can to make some money. It's agony here for a contractor, and he's busted his hump trying to keep it together.
We're leaving Phoenix at the same time. I'm holding out another month to be sure of my pension benefits; he's holding out because he may finally have enough cash in hand to buy an RV.
It's strange to drive through Phoenix now. When I came back in 2006, the city was in the full flush of its real estate and construction boom. My childhood home looked like it'd had a new coat of paint on everything, massive landscaping done, and the wattage turned way, way up. Now I pass streets on my way to and from work where the yards are overgrown and the house windows are smeared in grime. "For Sale" signs are as prolific as "For Rent" signs around here. In my complex, people are doubling and tripling up in units to beat the costs, and other apartment complexes are offering low deposits, rent "concessions" (typically, $200 off each month's rent), and all the amenities they can lay their hands on. And it's not enough to save the management companies--my complex has changed hands four times in the last 2 years.
It's all part of Phoenix's boom-and-bust cycle. The only industry that drives this town, aside from retirement communities and golf courses, is real estate. Land is even better than anything found in the Lost Dutchman Gold Mine, and the fantastic thing is . . . it keeps getting recycled. (Unlike that forementioned gold mine, where the only thing that gets recycled are the stories of people who died in it, not to mention the vultures' latest meal.) Land gets purchased, developed, improved; the owner gets hit with disaster and has to sell the land or is foreclosed upon; land is then sold to someone else with a bright development idea. And so it goes, world without end.
When I left here the last time, you couldn't walk down any street north or south of Camelback Road without passing abandoned strip malls. They were "employment parks," then, strips of office buildings just waiting for businesses to step in and fill them with happy workers. The thing is, Phoenix doesn't have that kind of industry base. I don't think it ever has. Aside from realtors, dental clinics, urgent care clinics, the odd dog groomer or massage parlor--or, even just a few years back, payday loan outlets--there just isn't anything you can point to aside from convenience stores and say, "Yeah, this strip mall brought in this business and that to the Valley."
One of the reasons I'm writing this tonight is because my brother and I went out to pick up soup for the week. As we drove back home, we started counting the restaurants and fast-food places we passed. Sonic, here. Chuy's Mesquite Broiler, next to Sonic. Down the street, a smorgasbord of eateries: Papa John's Pizza and Subway in one strip mall; Wendy's, Streets of New York Pizza, Chili's, U.S. Egg, The Greek Patio, and the Half-Moon Bar and Grill. A little further down, TaraThai Restaurant, Starbuck's, Pei Wei, Jamba Juice, and Peter Piper Pizza.
"Jesus," my brother exclaimed. "You can't go anywhere in this town without passing a place to eat."
Not that it does much good when most restaurant jobs pay as little as $2/hour, expecting the workers to make up for that low wage in tip money--which is then taxed by the IRS. Chains may pay minimum wage, but you can't survive on $7/hour even in this place. Phoenix is cheap, but not dirt cheap.
It's not strange to find myself at the bottom of another bust cycle in Phoenix--just a little sad. Phoenix never fails to catch the rising star of building booms, and when those booms go bust, it tumbles to the ground faster than a rock tossed to the pavement. So many people hope that the easy money will attract companies who'll bring decent jobs--lasting jobs--with them. I can't say I've seen that happen since I've been here. And that's the sad thing, because Phoenix has a lot of talented, hard-working people who could stand to make a decent living.
I wonder, sometimes, if what I really want is to see Phoenix burn itself away this time, the bust dragging it down so far that the lunatics and the religious zealots can't use their business contacts to bring it back to life. I'd like to see this city sleep for a bit. Then I'd like to see it come awake--maybe at the start of a new spring, when the temperatures start to rise and the orange trees start to blossom. I'd like to see people look around at what's left, and tell themselves, "Well . . . that didn't work. Let's try something that will."
And then they try something.
They bring industries to Phoenix. They encourage the use of what's already built and developed. They work on developing solar and wind power, two things we get a great deal of. They turn their backs on the politics of paranoia and racism, because they've seen what happens when those two go walking hand in hand. It wouldn't have to be a paradise. It would just have to bring more opportunity to a place that dies like a lightning-blasted tree every decade because its leaders try to suck it dry.
I know, I'm leaving here. I should keep my mouth shut, some will say. I'm turning my back on Phoenix and abandoning it. Yes, I am. Yes, yes, and yes. I'm going. I'm leaving. Why am I leaving?
Because it's not possible to live on broken dreams. I tried it twice. Twice is enough.
I'm not old--I'm only 40. I have a long life ahead of me. I'm strong, intelligent, and passionate about so much in life. And I'm leaving. And I'm not the only one.
Phoenix leaders, do you even see us? Of course not. You're too busy staring at the southern border, determined to catch some illegals crossing over; too busy trying to flip houses at 2006 prices to a 2011 crowd with little money and no credit. Too busy making sure the top 10% hold on to most of the money and power in this place, while the rest of us scratch around your feet for crumbs.
When I leave, I'm going to drive through my old neighborhoods and take pictures of the broken-down houses. I'm going to keep them to remind me of the dangers of trying to go home again. There's a reason why we all leave home. For many of us, it should be the warning we heed when we try to return. Things rarely change, no matter how hard we wish they would.
I'm so alone, and I feel just like somebody else
Man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
But somewhere here in between the city walls of dying dreams
I think her death it must be killing me.
--The Wallflowers, "One Headlight"