In itself, Loonis maintained a reputation as an embarrassingly unknowable city. Of a size somewhat smaller than Cleveland and larger than Grovers Corners, it sprawled just enough that folks didn’t know folks on the other side of town, even though they frequented the same supermarkets, movie theaters, and bars. Even in that period of the early 1980’s, before the golden age of video arcades and food courts, sections of town were most conveniently divided by malls. “Oh. You go to West Towne? I go to Hillsdale,” housewives would confer down at the Junior League. Compared with Dubuque or Lexington, it struck the outsider as flatter than the first and far less charming and gentile than the second. It was a hard-working midwestern town, predominately Methodist, with a few fifteen-story buildings in its decaying downtown area, and a Liberal Arts college on its outskirts.
As for historical background, tradition has that in the 1830’s a group of families who considered themselves risk-takers packed up their covered wagons to escape the formality and structure of the East Coast States. In true pioneer spirit, they packed up their covered wagons and decided to make the big move west. At a point southeast of a Great Lake, near a clear and fast-running stream, they paused to rest. When the big wooden-spoked wheels were stopped with limestone breaks, the men stretched their legs and poked around a bit. The women scraped up the last bits of beef jerky and cornmeal, fed the children, made minor repairs, washed clothes, and gathered wood. When the men returned without any evidence of wild or threatening animals, and seeing that the land was flat, and there were not many rocks or trees to be cleared, they made an announcement.
“Lucy,” said Mr. Loonis, “This will be our new home.”
Mrs. Loonis simply accepted that her husband had run out of adventuresome motivation. This may explain the overall precedent of temperament set by the original townspeople of Loonis, Illinois.
Its one remarkable feature proved to be its lovely river, around which the town blossomed like pussy-willows. Paper and later plastic was processed on its fertile banks, and yearly festivals were held to celebrate its beauty. However, the waterway soon proved randomly temperamental. One spring, it flooded the science labs in the basements of Loonis State University, ruining professor’s life-works. And one summer, its reluctance to pour freely forth with its usual cubic force disappointed and frightened canoers, fishermen, and upstream industrial businesses which dumped their wastes from pipes hidden in the banks. Eventually they built a dam upstream to regulate it, but there were still strange ordinances passed regarding seasonal water usage. Lawn watering became as uncivil as outdoor Christmas tree lights during the Energy Crisis.
Which was a shame. Because if there was one thing Looners were proud of, it was their brilliant emerald carpet-like lawns. Because of the university, Loonis had its share of upper-middle class professionals, who built a handful of ritzy neighborhoods on the east side of town. These people liked to maintain the status quo in everything including lawn-care. This had been the case since the early seventies, when they finally paved the sub-division roads and attention went towards elaborate landscaping. Instead of lights at Christmas, residents would drive around on the Fourth of July and look at the fresh woodchips and quartz-lined gardens. There were more imported bonsai trees in East Loonis than in any other part in Illinois.
It should be noted here that history for this community stopped at 1830. They did not think one moment of the indigenous native tribes that their forefathers displaced. They did not think of the diaspora of Europeans who came to North America, after fighting for centuries with each other on their tiny countries the size of American states. They though little of mideval Arthurian Britain, except in novels by Mary Stuart and T.H. White, or the musical and movie version Camelot with Robert Goulet. It was fictional entertainment.
East Loonis was the area that Tristan grew up in, with his friend Eddie and his neighbor Jack. In the mid-summer while Tristan was on break from elementary school, he always woke up early to watch Japanese-made cartoons. Sitting inches away from the screen on the plush lime carpet, his face twitched in reaction to the sharp movements and bright colors. Their big round eyes and slick gadgets entranced him. He “oo-ed” as the hero raced a car around a curve, almost plummeting into a gully. The living room television excited him more than the small black and white in his bedroom, so he always snuck downstairs before his father could stop him. Having raided the cupboards and refrigerator, he shoved down some loopy cereal with big whooping gulps.
His father lumbered through the kitchen, putting away Tristan’s mess.
Eddie knocked on the screen.
“He can’t go out now, Ed. He has to wait for the babysitter to arrive.”
“Aw, Dad!”
“Aw, Mr. Rivers!”
Outside, Eddie kicked at the daisies on the Astroturf doormat.
“That’s just the way it is, boys.”
As soon as his father left for work, Tristan scooted out of the house and on the sidewalk, Eddie in tow. The babysitter would just have to wonder where he went to this time. He tripped on some unevenly laid cement blocks and laughed at himself. They wandered over towards someone’s shrubbery, picking up sticks and throwing them every which way. Tristan hoped today to create another scar for his collection. Recently he received a deep gash by an old fence post, and a good many stitches in his leg. The nurses all said it was healing nicely. He was very proud of his injury.
“Let’s go over to the Fisk’s and play criminal in the bushes.”
“No,” whispered Eddie. “Let’s go to my house. We can go back in the woods.”
“You kids get off my lawn! Or I’ll get my gun!” screamed a gruff old man in a bathrobe. “Do you hear me? Hell-raisers!”
They made a hasty retreat, backed up against the maple trees. They panted softly and stifled their laughter until the geezer went back inside.
Tristan knew what he could get away with, because the neighborhood adults were also the ones who secretly wished that he would become a great athlete and really put Loonis on the map. His father was almost six-five, covered with muscle, and Tristan himself showed promise in softball and swimming. Though they outwardly stifled his restless nature, men like the geezer imagined their resistance could add to his strength.
“What about your brothers?” said Tristan.
“They’re canoeing. We’re safe. They’ll be gone.”
Without speaking, they ran down the twin dirt tracks that made up an old road to Eddie’s farmhouse, just adjacent to the newer neighborhood which Tristan lived in. A grassy median separated them, for the game was clearly afoot. Once at the edge of the tall pines, they split, each leaping and careening like a deer into the thick glade.
Eddie ran through the trees with thoughts of death. For Tristan, games meant glory, for Eddie, games meant fear. It took all his premature self-discipline not to run back to his mother’s warm kitchen smelling of bread. Outwardly, Tristan had an advantage: his sandy, tight limbs were made for running and climbing. Eddie at this stage was dark, soft, and choppy, and creped rather clumsily through the brush. Though he knew he wasn’t far from his own backyard, the territory looked unfamiliar. He heard agonized animal screams, and imagined them in explicit pain. He stopped and smelled. The sound of his own breathing overwhelmed him. He could almost see that red, sweating heart in his chest, swelling and shaking. He was sure he was having a heart attack.
He saw a flash of flesh through the brush.
“PETCHEW PETCHEW PETCHEW!” He blasted through the summer air.
Silence. Nothing. Loneliness.
Little Eddie slowly straightened. His green eyes darted across the forest floor. “You’re dead!” his voice cracked. “Tris-tan!”
No movement but the breeze through the pines.
“I got you,” warned Eddie, poking at a bush. He remembered the picture of soldiers he’d seen on the T.V. news, laying mangled with their eye open. He hoped Tristan’s eyes were closed.
“GOTCHA!” said Tristan, flying at Eddie. He knocked out every molecule of Eddie’s breath, and pinned his limbs to the leafy ground. “You forgot to load your gun,” laughed Tristan.
“I did not. Get off me!” Eddie squirmed on top of the bed of twigs and acorn tops. Tristan helped Eddie up and brushed him off.
“I’m bored,” sighed Tristan.
“Well, I don’t want to play war anymore,” said Eddie.
They climbed a big willow tree and sprawled out. Tristan hung by his knees and Eddie straddled a high limb.
“Ohm. Look at your leg,” said Eddie.
Sure enough, Tristan found a fresh new wound, shining in the sun like a red foil Valentine.
His mouth broke out in a beaming grin, about as happy as a young boy could be.