In the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, you may confront your darkest hours.
There are no more presents to open. The leftovers won’t keep much longer.
Uncle George keeps forgetting he left his government-issued walking cane at your house, and now you’re responsible for the existential fate of his aluminum hook.
There’s merely time to wait. And think. And worry – about everything.
The shadows grow darker. The winter grips colder than ever.
“2023?,” you ask yourself every few hours while pacing your bedroom. “How much more of this do I have? I didn’t really sign up for all that with the Big Man, did I?”
Your drawers become cluttered. The laundry pile has a sentient personality.
But what about us avid travelers who simply cannot stand to leave the dread of modern life at home?
Thankfully, our experts at TripAdvisor have compiled a (growing!) shortlist of places and spaces where the fugue state is all the rage.
We’re tackling this ennui trend with Indianapolis, the bleary community that made Kurt Vonnegut so singularly fucked up as to draw buttholes in his finest books.
Our resident south-central Hoosier and Indy-area native Moose recently spent some time in the “Circle City” to attend to personal matters.
While there, he crafted us some thoughtful reviews on the small businesses and liminal moments around Indianapolis that made all the difference while his brain screamed non-stop for a few days.
Sullivan Hardware & Garden
The time for commitment is here. No looking back. Take the key inside and get a duplicate.
When you step inside, you may notice the front-desk attendants talking about mixed martial arts. They seem friendly. They may be the sort of people to text each other off the clock to grab drinks and get to know each other personally. Perhaps they’ve even watched MMA together. You get the sense they might even like each other.
Their conversation about fighting in the age of loneliness comes to an abrupt halt, because now you are their problem, and they get paid to solve problems. They ask how they can help you today.
At this point, be sure to take an extra beat to clear the lump in your throat before delicately asking if someone could please help you copy a key.
Keymaking? That’s Marvin’s job.
Marvin puts his vest on and asks you to follow him down the grand hallway of knick-knacks to his metalworking booth at the back of the store.
On the way, you’ll notice all of the Christmas merchandise is 50% off. You didn’t really celebrate Christmas this year, but a fleeting part of your spirit wonders if 2023 could bring better times. USB light strands? I haven’t worked in an office for years. Hot chocolate bombs? I’m kind of a black coffee guy. But it does make me wonder – maybe next year, I can be proud enough to reconsider these options.
Right now, I’m not that proud. I’ve been wearing the same shirt for two days, and my hands are firmly in the pockets of my torn jeans. I’m dreading a phone call that I have to make today.
Marvin, eyewear and all, is lining up the key mold and setting phasers to grind. I stare at the novelty brass molds and contemplate what sort of unironic dink would sport “Beer Inspector” on their housekey(s).
The shrill cries of a newborn key begin. Its long, and perhaps permanent life, is nigh.
…
Marvin politely places the key into a tiny envelope and scribbles a cashier code on the label.
Three dollars for a new key is a bargain, especially compared to the instant-cutting machines popping up around Lowe’s and Kroger – which charge $10 a key through the mail and also have the gall to digitally save the shape of what it exactly takes to break into your house.
It is the latest and greatest reason to shop local, lest the beloved neighborhood stores lock their own doors – permanently.
Alicia promptly fires up her cashier station and asks for payment. No, I am not a rewards member.
I take one last glance at the Christmas sale and contemplate the bag of peanut-butter chocolates.
No, not today – perhaps in 2023. I am not that person yet. I’m not ready for that right now.
You might be, but I’m not.
Report Card: Sullivan’s Hardware
- Service: Heartbreakingly friendly
- Emotional weight of unfinished projects: High
- Parking lot: Compact, yet overwhelmingly empty
Hubbard & Cravens Coffee and Tea
It’s 4 p.m. and you haven’t eaten a real meal yet today.
It’s time for black coffee.
Park your vehicle in a light snowbank and waddle through the slushy, partially melted parking lot – and be sure to let those hastily packed mesh tennis shoes absorb some road salt from a few puddles. You’ll know the job is done when you can’t feel your toes, and you feel like a total asshole for dragging the briny winter mess into the coffee shop like a drunken goose.
The line is short, but it will be some time yet before you order. The bearded man in front of you needs a full description of each coffee variant before he can order, and his two large adult sons aren’t listening. They repeat some of his questions to a tired barista. The final button of her pursed smile is about to snap.
Take this opportunity to check your phone and briefly scan the dozens of messages, texts, tweets, comments, posts, pictures, emails, and notifications of good folks wanting to check in on you.
It’s all too much, isn’t it?
I ordered my standard-issue medium black coffee. Thankfully, the barista didn’t have any more questions to interrogate me with. No room for cream. No choice of blends. No decision between a “for here” or “to go” cup.
A medium cup filled with hot coffee. Served immediately. The most certain thing I’ve had in days.
When it comes to finding a place to sit, you have a few options depending on the relative dearth of your patience for other people at that moment. You’ll probably encounter most of the following customers and/or seating scenarios:
The Businessman: Sitting by the best window. Whispering into the phone. A second chair just for his feet. You get the sense he’s been here since sunrise. He’s a professional in every sense of the term, and there’s a chance your sadness won’t get an opportunity to properly wallow next to someone operating on all cylinders right now. Stay away unless you can manage to steal the funny pages from his stained newspaper.
The Best Friends: Three people in the cozy booth. They just had the *best* Christmas. Could you believe it? Donna actually nailed the desserts this year. The trio is beaming with pride. One of them is picking at a light salad in a fancy translucent bowl-dome. This is a critical mass of good vibes. Beware at all costs.
The Back Room (Cold, Lonely): Wouldn’t it be fun to claim a 12-seat table all to yourself? Oh my god. No. What the fuck am I even saying? That’s sociopath behavior. You’re better than that, no matter how low you feel. Save that for an important group, like a family or a 4-H club or a suicide cult.
By the Baristas: Everyone working right now has a septum piercing – the modern American symbol for bisexuality and heartbreak. One barista is talking about car repairs. It’s best to give them space to operate in the final hours of their shift before god-knows-what comes next.
Kind of Nowhere in Particular: The perfect spot. One chair for you and another for your backpack. Hang your coat on the seat and now you’ve got a stew going, baby.
—
By the time I finally sat down, I realized visitation and phone call hours were over. I missed it. Oh my God I missed it. The frog in my throat inevitably began to bloat and ribbit.
Certainly, nobody wants to hear your sad phone call right now. Hell, you don’t even want to have the sad phone call. But you have to.
The ideal place for dialing this call is outside, even if the wind is still brisk, hovering around 20 degrees before wind chill. Tuck yourself between the dumpster and some trees for optimal social invisibility. Nobody to ask you for a cigarette. Nobody to hear your voice break. And you will, at the end of it all, have done the entire coffee shop a favor – and you could use a W today.
You dig through your recent call history and locate the 11 digits that sound right. You can’t bear to put this number in your contacts. The real name of it is too much to bear.
The front-desk receptionist answers the phone and says you’re a few minutes late, but you’ve been polite so they don’t mind helping you out.
They put you on hold.
…
He answers. The volume on the call is undeniably low, so you have to focus extra hard on his voice while a city bus blasts its pneumatic brakes at the intersection. You lunge at every word you hear.
…
doing well making friends lots of sleeping not too much going on no idea when i’ll be out we’ll get through this together okay man thanks for calling buddy love you
…
It’s over before you can even process it. You hang on to the words like you’re drowning.
You walk back to the coffee shop and go back to the laptop and backpack you trusted nobody to steal. They didn’t, of course. But it’s been that kind of week.
You sit down with the coffee you haven’t even tasted yet and the tears start to flow. The faucet has been forced open. Your head dives into your hands and your entire jaw wrenches. You’re hoping, if your eyes are covered, that none of the other customers can see what’s happening. But you know they’re watching.
You begin to ugly-cry.
…
When the moment has passed – was that 10 seconds or 10 minutes? – clean yourself up in the Hubbard and Cravens restroom. There’s no lock on the door, no key necessary. Just go in and wash your face in the narrow sink.
You’re mildly soothed by the cleanliness of the whole shebang. The toilet is clean, the floor is pristine. You get the sense the whole operation here is centered around the bathroom. For a moment, you daydream about living nearby just because the private commode has been so therapeutic.
But no. That’s not your life. At least it’s not right now. Maybe in 2023.
Gather your thoughts and step back into the cafe. Try not to mind everyone sneaking glances at you as you return to your seat. You did the same to each one of them when you came in. You’re just crying and they’re not. That’s the only difference right now.
You take your first sip of coffee – 5:03 p.m. – and let out the smallest sigh of relief.
Now the day can start.
But by this point, everyone else in this coffee shop is wrapping up their day, and the store closes at 6. Good people know not to stay right up to 6 unless you have to.
That’s also an important travel tip to remember because the vibe drastically changes in that final hour. The tired employees are already wanting to scream “get out” at each lingerer. Don’t make them say that to a crying person.
Report Card: Hubbard and Cravens
- Vibe: Unsettlingly stable
- Customers: Run-of-the-mill strangers
- Wi-Fi: Yes
Monro Auto Service & Tire Center
You’ve pushed your luck too far with the vehicle once again.
The slightly underinflated rear-right tire has become a depressed curtain of rubber. You can’t chance it anymore. This needs to be done ASAP or you may end up crying in a tow truck.
I have cried in a tow truck before. It’s not too fun.
The BP gas station near the Indiana State Fairgrounds boasts a “free air” pump, according to a quick-and-dirty internet map page, so you roll over in the dark of winter solstice to try your odds just after 6 p.m.
An SUV has already beaten you to the spot, a far corner on the northeast side of the fueling lot. You hastily park next to the blessed vehicle as they attempt to get their fill.
A few minutes go by and nothing of substance seems to be happening.
A discussion is had through the passenger’s side window. You can’t make out the words but things are clearly not easy. A minute later, the driver leaves and the air-fill space is open.
You might diligently pull your vehicle in as to put the depressed wheel closest to the pump. Your ice-soaked mesh sneakers pilot you to the frostbitten air pump and you uncap the woebegone tire valve.
Psst. Nothing. Psst. Nothing. Psst. Nothing.
You might try a few times as a black sedan pulls up near your car. Surely, their meeting under the promised guise of free air will begin soon.
But no air comes.
You might sigh deeply, shake your hands through fingerless gloves, and drive off in search of what’s next.
Google leads the way. Who’s open? Who’s reliable? How much will it even cost? No matter –
There’s a place nearby called Monro. It’s a chain you may have heard of, but yet never visited before. No matter.
Do your best to place another call without letting your voice drop.
Hello, this is Steve.
Hi, I’m driving around Indy right now and one of my tires is really needing some air. Do you have time to check it out this evening?
Absolutely my man. Come by. I’ll fill you right up.
Drive across a few more snowbound narrow roads to the blue and yellow Monro station, and slide your vehicle into a reasonable mid-range spot from the office.
Travel Tip! The office is bright, yellow, and warm on cold, dark winter evenings. If you need an opportunity to stare into the void, the Monro lobby is a must-void experience for any travelers ready to dissociate in a pricy waiting room after the sun has called it quits herself.
Hi, I’m the guy who called just a few minutes ago about air in the tires.
Yes, I’m Steve.
Steve offers to shake hands. I shook his hand. He told me to park my truck by the first window bay, a pit currently serving a white Honda Civic.
As I wheel my tilted Ford Ranger over to the designated bay, Steve opened the pod door and gestures me closer with a “c’mere” hand.
I get up to the heated dock and his wind-burned hands tell me to stop.
Steve goes to the tire in question and tells me we’re just above 21 PSI.
The standard is 35 to 40. He fills me up.
As he goes to the other rear wheel, he notices my left shoe has a guest – a matte-black, dimestore cable that had fallen to the floor of my truck well some days or weeks ago. It had wrapped itself around my soggy mesh sneakers and apparently enjoyed a quick joyride through ice and snow.
I gathered the aux cable, cheap as it may be, and placed it back in the mid-truck console like a true Midwesterner.
Steve checked my other wheels and found that the tire pressure for the front set, too, was lacking. He set me straight with a reminder that all vehicles have air pressure fluctuation during the winter, and that I was right for bringing my truck in when I did.
“You’re all set!” he said.
“Sure, I’ll meet you in the office,” I replied.
“No no, no office. You’re good.”
“What abou-”
“No, you’re good, brother.”
Steve was glad to fill my tires and even my truck out for free, even though my existence had only been made known to him 10 minutes before. The owner-operator businessman he is, he said to just get home safe.
I smiled and teared up a little. I’m not a good person right now. I don’t deserve treatment like this.
“I’ll send folks your way,” I told Steve.
“I’ll be here,” he said.
We shared a fist bump in Garage Bay A, and then I stepped out of the heated paddock to command my truck back to home base.
Mom always said there were good people out there waiting to help. I meet a few occasionally.
Steve is one of them.
I’d like to be one. I try hard to be one. I’ll never be sure if I am one, if only because of the fallacy that truly good people don’t have to question it. Bad people are left to think on it.
Troubled people like myself are stuck somewhere in between.
Am I a good person? That’s a terrific question. A proving question. A damning question.
I don’t think I am.
…But maybe I could be one in 2023.
And if you find yourself being a good person in 2023, I highly recommend becoming emotionally vulnerable at the Monro Auto Service & Tire Center on North Keystone Avenue — GO COLTS!
Report Card: Monro Auto Service & Tire Center
- Parking Lot: Delightfully soggy
- Lobby: Smells like elbow grease
- Price: Pay it forward
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-moose
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Moose On the Loose 