No matter where you go, chances are you’ll wind up living in a small town

When I moved two years ago from the tiny burg of Lakeview to the bustling metropolis of Detroit, I was worried. I had been living in Lakeview for nearly 15 years and had grown accustomed to life in a community where the sidewalks roll up promptly every night at seven. I knew not only my neighbors, but most of the folks who lived on the next block over, and the block after that. After the third block it was mostly cornfields as far as the eye can see.

How would I fare in the big city? I wondered. I was a country mouse, coming from a world in which the biggest traffic hazards were Amish buggies, combines and the occasional deer. In my new neighborhood, traffic hazards are…well…traffic. Hundreds, thousands, maybe millions of cars blast past my front door on a daily basis, all driven by people in a big hurry to get where they’re going, which—judging by the number who text while they drive—is the afterlife. I wouldn’t mind so much were it not for the fact they seem determined to take me with ‘em.

The thing I liked least about life in “The D” was the anonymity. I knew no one and no one knew me. Every face belonged to a stranger. Detroit seemed a place of monumental disconnection; I could have been living on the moon.

But we human beings (I consider myself to be one despite the disparaging comments of various ex-wives) are a resilient species. We adapt to our surroundings and over the past two years or so, I’ve adapted to mine. And I’ve done so in much the same was as the rest of the folks living there: I built a small town right in the heart of the big city.

It began with my basement apartment. That by itself was a little too small, even for me. So I annexed the upstairs apartment and granted my daughter and grandkids citizenship. The guy living next door joined up next, mostly because he likes to drink beer and I usually have some in the fridge.

I needed groceries, so I invaded Aven’s convenience store a couple blocks away and claimed aisles two (Ramen noodles) and three (pistachio nuts) in the name of Taylorville. Aven, who hails from Baghdad and is used to regime changes, didn’t mind, so long as I paid for the stuff I plundered.

Man cannot live by Ramen alone, however, so I was forced to conquer a couple nearby restaurants, Moose Winooski’s and Zorba’s. I tried to annex the Albanian coffee shop, but the Albanians hate me for some reason; mostly, I’m guessing, because I am not Albanian. (One of the first things you learn in the big city is that not all bigots are white.) Anyway, it was obvious they were going to put up a fight, so I adopted the Caribou Coffee place down the street instead. The coffee’s not as good, and I hate the fact they always try and up-sell me a bagel every morning, but they do have fast wifi and don’t hate me because I can’t speak Albanian.

I’m now on a first-name basis with maybe 100 Taylorville residents and the list grows every day. Not all my subjects recognize, or even acknowledge the fact they’re living in Taylorville. They think I’m living in Smithtown, Johnsonville or even Avenburg.

It doesn’t really matter what you call it. The point is, working together, we’ve managed to carve out our own small town, one in which we can all feel comfortable and at home. If I could only annex a couple Amish, I’d be all set.

Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I miss Dave, but maybe I can find him in Winnipeg

I miss Dave. Dave was my neighbor for two days, but he’s gone now. In his place is Larry, and Larry is—not to put to fine a point on it—a pig. Seriously, he makes Wilbur, Porky and Babe seem positively fastidious.

I should probably mention I’m on the second leg of this summer’s Geezer-thon, my futile attempt to visit every county in Michigan via bicycle. I’m not going to make it; I’m old and summer’s not going to last long enough for me to peddle that far. But it’s fun to try.

Geezer-thon Part One took me from Grand Rapids to Traverse City. Geezer-thon Part Two has me just north of Port Huron, on the east side of the state. There’s a Part Three coming in September, but it’ll be getting cold and rainy by then and chances are I’ll spend most of my time in a tent playing Angry Birds on my iPad. Though not as healthy to my cardiovascular system as peddling a bike through country back roads, Angry Birds is still fun and only slightly more addictive than crack cocaine.

Anyway…my neighbors: At a state park, where I’ve been staying for the past few days, neighbors come and go. But when I moved in last Monday, Dave was my neighbor. Dave is from Canada, so he’s been specially trained to be friendly and social, even to guys who look the way I do after coming in from 50 dusty miles on a bicycle.

Dave shook my hand anyway and said, “Howdy neighbor” ten seconds after I rolled in.

“Howdy,” I replied, sweating profusely and smelling like something found dead by the side of the road. Something that has been there a while.

Dave introduced himself, his wife and his four kids, all of whom had blond hair, blue eyes and perfect teeth. Canadian dental care. It’s a wonder.

Dave told me where he was from, I told him where I was from. He told me what he did for a living, I shared the same info. He asked where my wife was and I told him I hadn’t seen her for a couple years and couldn’t say for sure. Dave was embarrassed, leading me to believe Canadians are a little like the British; they embarrass easily.

As I set about unpacking and making camp, Dave offered me a beer. I knew we were destined to be best friends. That night he invited me to his family’s campfire, even though I already had mine going strong. (At $5 per bundle of state-approved wood, a merrily-blazing campfire attests to one’s fiscal potency. A Lexus parked in front of the tent couldn’t boast more loudly.)

Dave’s kids were cute and polite, his wife offered me S’mores. By camper standards, we were practically engaged.

Then yesterday I came home (to my tent) from a ride into nearby Lexington. Dave was gone. His wife was gone. The kids were gone. Their tidy little pop-up camper with Canadian plates was gone.

In their place arrived (shudder) Larry. Larry rumbled in behind the wheel of an RV the size of Wisconsin. He rolled over my tent stakes. Backing in, his RV knocked branches from the trees. One landed on my tent, punching a hole through the rain-fly. Eventually, Larry’s diesel-belching freeway whale managed to insinuate itself into the space previously occupied by Dave and company.

The door to the RV opened and three—not one, not two, but three—pit bulls piled out, sans leashes. I was grilling steak on the campfire and the three dogs immediately descended on my makeshift kitchen.

Larry, all 400 pounds and no I am not exaggerating of him, squeezed through the RV door, screaming in a wet voice to “get the #$@% back over here.” Reluctantly, the dogs complied. Larry tossed a carton of raw eggs—and no, I am again not exaggerating—onto the ground. The dogs broke the shells and dug in.

Within a half-hour of getting the freeway whale situated, Larry had transformed the previously pristine Canadian campsite into the equivalent of the city dump, circa 1957. Trash was everywhere. When I say trash, I mean paper litter, half-eaten hamburgers, scraps of toilet paper, paper plates…if I had seen a spent nuclear fuel cell lying in the vicinity I would not have been surprised.

My only regret is that none of my ex-wives, most of whom have at one time or another accused me of being a pig, were in attendance. If nothing else, Larry makes me look like Felix Unger by comparison.

After being repeatedly scolded by the park rangers, Larry did tie up his three pit bulls, which immediately set about barking their damn fool heads off. Larry seemed not to notice.

I slept badly last night, for the first time since arriving here. But in the morning I’m back on the road, so I guess I can live with it for a while longer.

You know, instead of trying to hit the remaining Michigan counties for Phase Three of Geezer-thon 2011, I may cross the bridge and see what Canada is like.