Rusty the Rust Belt Rat Answers the Question “Why Cleveland?”

Rusty isn't afraid to show Cleveland his support.

The question that seems to be on many people’s lips these days is “Why do you choose to live in Cleveland?,” or any other Rust Belt city, for that matter. This is not exactly an exotic or welcoming region of the country, particularly for those of the rat persuasion, but also for you human readers. We have harsh winters, we’re down on our luck, and it seems almost all signs point to “get the hell out of here as fast as you can.”

While I was born and raised here in the Rust Belt, I have experienced the bright lights and noise of the big city on more than one occasion (ask me about my last trip to Vegas if we ever run into each other at the cocktail bar!). Last winter, for example, I toured the East Coast with CR Poetry Editor Wells Addington.

I liked what I saw in D.C. and New York, and I feel they are both cities you should visit at least once in your life. But the sad truth is nothing on the coast felt like home to me. Sure, New York City is the unofficial city of rats, but at the end of the day, it’s hard to make it in a city where you’re living tail-to-tail with 100 million other brown rats who look, act, and think the same as you do. I’m a devoted Rust Belt rat through and through, because it’s easier to stand out in the mischief* here in Cleveland.  And it all comes down to easy living, my friends.

Nine out of ten rats will tell you that their top priority is “easy living.” I am no different. Which is why I don’t understand my species’ tendency to flock to cities like New York, where the living seems anything but easy. The real estate is plentiful and cheap here in the Rust Belt. While humans are consumed with worry about the foreclosure crisis, we rats are living in a squatter’s paradise. Literally any abandoned foreclosure can be yours for free! Just bunk down in the laundry room for a few months (hopefully the sad sacks who got evicted will have left some old towels or XXL sweatshirts behind). The place is your castle until:

• you get bored with the scenery;
• some sucker finally buys the place for pennies on the dollar and hires an exterminator;
• a feral cat squeezes in through the same broken window you used;
• the copper thieves show up to strip the place!

If the copper thieves do show up, which they will, that’s your perfect opportunity to travel in style, by truck rather than by paw. Just hitch a ride along to their next break-in, or get dropped off at the scrap metal dealership. Instant change of scenery!

While we’re on the topic of transportation, that’s another thing I like about the Rust Belt. The commute is so easy! There just isn’t much of a rush hour here, what with people no longer working. On foot, and stop me if you can think of any other city for which this is true, it only takes me 3 hours to scuttle up MLK to the Shoreway! That is, if I don’t have a run-in with a pack of feral dogs. If the dogs show up, it’s anybody’s guess whether I’ll break into a mad dash or scurry into a hole to hide from them. Really depends on the mood I’m in and how dumb the dogs are.

“Rusty, you’re a rat, and you live for free. What are you doing scuttling downtown during rush hour?” you might ask. My answer would be that I love to get out and about sometimes, and pretending to be a working stiff helps me feel more alive. Plus, there’s a lot to do and see downtown! Think of all the flashy half-vacant office towers, exciting restaurants and overpriced museums there are to visit! The restaurants especially. My human counterparts (and Guy Fieri) talk ad nauseum about the “food scene” here in Cleveland. I’m not a white tablecloth kind of guy, except when I’m traveling with Wells on the CR expense account, but I will say that the standard Rust Belt diet is rich in fat, carbs, grease, and bacon, and those all happen to be a rat’s favorite food groups! The dumpster dining scene is out of this world,and don’t forget those grease traps out behind many of your finer establishments. Those are responsible for at least 90 percent of the extra blubber around my haunches. Thank you, Iron Chef Michael Symon!

You might think that with all my scuttling about and eating macaroni-and-cheese-coated pig’s ears from dumpsters, I’d be a prime target not only for feral cats and dogs, but also for humans. That’s just not the case, at least in my experience. I have found that Rust Belters are too lethargic (probably from the excess of fried food, ease of automobile transportation, and lack of sunshine during the winter months) and too depressed (due to the foreclosures, loss of jobs, and uncertain future of the region) to set traps with any great frequency. At least ones that I find challenging. Come on, I’m a rat who writes a column for a literary magazine. I’m too smart for your traps.

There’s still a lot of Cleveland I have yet to experience. We also have an orchestra, an often-cited example of the fine culture available here in Cleveland, on which I will decline to comment. Surely it is a Rust Belt jewel, but rats are not allowed in Severance Hall.

And we have the Emerald Necklace, which I thought meant something very different until I Googled it just now. Oh, if we could only turn all of the Rust Belt into an Emerald Necklace somehow! I would give up a lifetime of squatting in foreclosures and eating grease if I could start a family and set up a hidey-hole under a golf course.

On one of my recent downtown excursions, I ran into a pigeon who had just flown in from New York. It was chilly and late at night, but she was wandering around Public Square without a coat on. I was rummaging through an overflowing garbage can for pizza crusts. She bobbed her empty head back and forth as she pointed a wing at different buildings. “This town is nothing like New York,” she cooed. “This is a 10 pm town! It barely qualifies as a city!”

“Hey, toots, this is a happening town,” I said, my mouth full of rancid pepperonis, as she walked past me. “You just have to know where to go to find the fun. For instance, there’s this abandoned sports bar over on Prospect…”

She bobbed her head again and rolled her beady pigeon eyes. “First of all, I don’t make a habit of talking to strange rats, and second of all, if this was a real city, I wouldn’t be wandering the streets at 10 pm trying to find something to do! And I don’t hang out in abandoned sports bars! I stick to alleyways strategically located between David Chang restaurants and Jamba Juices! And you don’t seem to have those here! This truly is the Rust Belt, where dreams go to die!”

“Lady,” I said. “This is my city, and the Rust Belt is my home! I will defend it until the day I die!”

And then I lunged at her throat. The spray of blood on the pavement was sparse but neat. And just for good effect, I bit her head off. In the Rust Belt, you’ve got to be able to dish it out and take it. You have to be tough.

And if anyone asks, that’s my answer to the question “Why Cleveland?”

*that is the name for a group of rats.

Camilla Grigsby is the Associate Editor of The Cleveland Review.