Michael Martone
Indianapolis
1996
I was a student at Butler in the 70's and hated every minute. The carillon there played a clunky rendition of "Back Home Again in Indiana." Walking across the gloomy campus, clouds pressing down overhead, I'd whisper with the tolling: Back home again in Indiana where the sun refuses to shine. Indianapolis was Naptown then. Its downtown nothing but rust-stained war monuments and mausoleums, insurance companies and empty parking lots. Its beltway always always filled with trucks and cars going nowhere slowly. Years later, Susan Neville invited me to read at Butler. She met me at my flight's gate. You could do that then. Walking to the car, I saw a new skyline in the distance. She drove me downtown on the new expressway to a new hotel in the old but newly renovated Union Station. There was a new arena, a new stadium. The one high-rise bank building had been eclipsed by higher-rising bank buildings. The sun, the sun was out, and the sky was sky-blue. "Susan," I exclaimed, "what the hell happened?" She paused, rounding a southside curve. The Eli Lilly complex hove into view. "Prozac," was all she said.