"What kind of music are you into?"
"Everything, but country. Just can't stand all those songs about trucks and beer. It's not my style."
I'm sure almost everyone has had an exchange like this, especially if you're a Midwesterner like me. Whenever I told anyone I was from Iowa, they always looked at me cock-eyed like I'd grown a third head. By no means do I look like the stereotypical midwestern American, after all, I'm a six foot two inches tall, 180 pound half-Korean, half-white man, but I'm Midwest bred and corn fed to the bone.
Okay, perhaps that might be overstating it a bit, but all the same, I was born a Midwestern American, and I'm damn proud of it. I didn't fight through rural school and being the only Asian kid in the community for 18 years for no reason.
I was born and raised in Iowa, surrounded by corn and livestock. I swore every drive, you'd watch as cornfields rolled on for miles and miles with no end in sight. Despite that, my parents hadn't raised me on a farm. My mother had it worse than I did as a kid. She was a Korean born adoptee, growing up in a rural town full of people who looked nothing like her, not to mention her whiter than white parents. Yet, she was strong and likable, so she got along just fine, even becoming her high school class president. She hadn't opted for college, instead moving to the bigger city.
That's where she met my father. My dad fit a little closer to that whiter than white quality I mentioned previously. He grew up in the city, unlike my mother. While she had little connection to the farm life typical of Iowa, my dad had even less. He was a city boy through and through. They'd met by chance at some party. They couldn't have been older than 21. It wasn't long until they had me at 23. They moved back to a rural town, deciding to raise me somewhere they felt was more conducive.
I suppose I'm diverging from the point I was trying to make. Whenever anyone asked about my taste in music, I always promised that I'd listen to anything but country music. Rap, R&B, electronic, even that shitty droning radio pop music that you can't drive out of your brain. As long as it wasn't filled with that classical country twang, I'd endure it.
At least, that had been for my early life.
After I graduated high school, I shipped straight off to the state university. I majored in English. I'd never found a draw to farm life unlike many of my friends, instead wishing that I could write for a living. Something about living somewhere that I considered so boring only encouraged the creative genes to write and tell stories of things far beyond myself.
By the time I turned 22, I'd graduated college and now sought after a job. I'd made a decent amount of money during college and my parents were more than happy to help fund their only child's education, so it wasn't hard to find an apartment. I'd often dreamed of moving away from Iowa at the first convenience, but when the time came, I just couldn't do it.
Even with all the boringness in the state, I had grown up in it and I loved it with all my heart. So, I opted for a rental near Iowa City. Not too far from town for groceries and the like, but just enough quiet to nurse a creative itch that didn't seem to have a cure. Plus, my best friend Tommy lived not far from there.
When I moved in, I hadn't found a job quite yet. It wasn't long before that changed. The local newspaper, the Iowa City Gazette had offered me a position. I was quick to accept it, after all most of the open positions in the area were teaching jobs and I'd sworn to myself that I would never take up teaching. The job consisted of writing articles, specifically about anything no other reporter had any interest in. That meant mostly taking up writing about city council meetings and random police reports. The plus came with most of the position being a work from home situation, with the occasional all hands on deck meeting. With that, I'd been given a lot of time at home, so in between articles, I'd returned to writing my novel.
I'd come up with many ideas for a novel, but none of them seemed to ever have enough behind them. I grew up as a dorky kid, loving superheroes and Star Wars like many little boys my age did. In my mind, I hoped that I could dream up something that good, but that felt like a childish dream. In other ideas, I'd dreamed of crime dramas and fantasy novels that might catch some attention.
I dreamed of being a published author someday and I would work myself to it no matter what it took. Unfortunately, an author needs a proper idea and I seemed to be struggling on that subject.
One Saturday, I spent most of my day sitting in front of my laptop. The bright screen taunted me with an empty field of white space. It called to me to be filled with words, yet nothing came from me. I looked out my window, searching for any inspiration, yet nothing came. After nearly ten hours with nothing but a headache to show for it, I sent a text to Tommy.
"You wanna get a drink tonight?" I asked.
"Sure. Meet me at The Rodeo Clown," Tommy replied, adding the address in the following text.
I scoffed a bit. Iowa's bars always had the stupidest names, but I'd found that the dumber the name, the better the drinks typically were. When I arrived, I spotted the classic calling card of Tommy: his '73 Ford Mustang.
Now I'd never been much of a car guy (another trait of the average midwesterner that I'd neglected), but Tommy loved that blue Mustang like his life depended on it. He often tossed out facts about the engine and all the work he'd done on it, and I'd never understood a word. I was just happy he had something that brought him so much joy.
Tommy was a good guy through and through. The best friend that I'd ever had. We'd stayed close from childhood all the way into our twenties. I had to imagine it would always be that way in all truth. He'd forgone the college route, instead opting to go straight into working at his dad's auto shop. When he wasn't working on his car, he was working on others, almost like he never left work. Or perhaps, he never worked a day in his life. I could never tell exactly, but I knew he was happy where he was.
I walked my way to the barstool next to Tommy and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned, he already had a Coors grasped in his hand and a smile on his face.
I raised a hand, greeted the bartender, and ordered a Stella. "I'll never understand how you like Coors so much," I teased with a soft elbow to his side.
"Cheap enough and gets you buzzed eventually," Tommy smirked before taking another drink.
"Don't get too buzzed. I'm not driving you home again," I quipped.
"One time and a guy never lives it down," he rolled his eyes.
I always goaded him on the time he'd gotten so drunk at a bar that he'd nearly thrown up on the bartender and then proceeded to actually throw up on a girl he'd been flirting with all night. Of course, I'd driven him home that night, at the cost of never living it down.
"I wonder if that girl still remembers you puking all over her," I grinned.
He simply shrugged and took another drink. We talked about everything we could as we drank. The bar seemed to fill up slowly, attracting people as time went by, but we didn't vacate our spots by the bar. I noticed Tommy's eyes drift to a group of girls who had entered in a recent wave of patrons.
"The blonde?" I mused with a smirk.
His face fell a bit and I knew I'd picked him out perfectly. I nudged him gently. "Come on man, just go talk to her."
"Maybe later on."
