The Rust Belt

Mishpoha

I am worse inside than the poison itself,

So what is this external pain to me?

When on the outside I am calm,

Yet self-destructing deep within.

Forbidden impulse.

Prologue

1. Does sincere friendship exist?

2. What does it mean to be yourself?

3. Are you a victim of circumstances or the cause of them?

4. What is the price of your actions?

5. Who is your worst enemy?

6. What is your greatest disappointment?

7. What would you say to your younger self?

Mishpoha

The town of Steubenville greeted me with dampness and a gloomy sky, even though it’s usually quite hot in Ohio this time of year. The atmosphere here is generally depressing. It’s like Konrad Zuse’s old iron: once useful, but now just history. Similarly, the once-massive steel mill, Steubenville Steel Works, used to welcome sweaty, working-class men into its ranks, but now it welcomes teenagers who have watched too many ghost stories about dead laborers in the blast furnaces.

I’m getting off to the wrong start here.

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Guriy Bashmet. I am eighteen years old. I wasn't blessed with good looks, but I don't consider that an important part of my software anyway. To me, the most crucial thing is the presence of intellect in the gray matter called a brain. Yeah, for those who don't know, that's the little thing inside the skull. Like a PC processor, where you prefer to play Call of Duty, or whatever it is people play when they don't belong to the caste of freaky or code-obsessed IT guys like me?

In reality, I'm not that familiar with the town yet: my folks and I just moved here, and the only thing I've managed to do is look at the road and at the suitcase that threatened to break loose from its straps on the roof of our family minivan throughout our whole little trip.

“Zun,” Ima called out to me, stretching her back after the long drive, “stop staring at your tablet and help Aba bring down the suitcases.”

That commanding tone. Oh, how Ima loves stating the obvious. No, of course I won’t help Aba, I'll just abandon him! Why not, let him unload the luggage himself. I am a melech, after all! Why should I be the one lugging suitcases and boxes around. Oh, Ima. She always thinks I’m some kind of nar.

“Ima, of course I’ll help Aba. Come on. Has there ever been a time when I slacked off from work?” I asked, crossing my arms and shaking my head from side to side. Of course there had been. But after a question like that, Ima usually breaks into a smile, patting my head and back, praising me for being so responsible.

Our house is modest. But then again, do people who will only eat dinner and sleep there really need much? I don’t think so. Honestly, I’d be happy sleeping in a doghouse with a flea-ridden chunt, as long as there’s an outlet for my laptop and free Wi-Fi.

But not everyone in our mishpoha shares my view. Ima dreams of striking it rich and buying a high-end house, maybe with a jacuzzi or two bathrooms, and ideally—both at the same time.

“Zun, stop connecting to the network. The faster we unload these boxes, the faster Ima will stop complaining about the pathetic state of the kitchen,” Aba was already mercilessly slicing through the tape on boxes filled with favorite mugs and collectible elephants. Ima loves buying them in places with sketchy reviews.

“I am not complaining!”

And so it begins. Is it worth voicing my opinion again and getting threatened with a trip to babэ in return? Probably not. Let Aba deal with Mordekaiser himself. I don’t have enough HP for that.

The old wooden staircase creaked under my feet. Oh, lucky it didn’t collapse under such a heavyweight. Can’t wait to meet the spiders and rats in my new room. Marvelous! Opening the door, I caught the smell of dampness and a basement. I shrugged. This is nothing new. The places I’ve been to in my life. My friend Ezra’s shack smelled way worse than this. And he, by the way, is a total nar. He cleans his room once a year at most, and only when his Ima threatens to drop by for an inspection. A nar is a nar, no matter where you go.

As for the room, there’s really nothing to describe. For now, it’s absolutely empty. The old walls seem to have been occupied by mold for a long time. Oh, wait!

I took a closer look. A faded business card was lying on the windowsill.

“Zack Duffy. Mold Mentor Company. Call at…”

Well, Zack Duffy definitely earns his keep. He clearly knows a thing or two about advertising. I'll pass the card to my folks. Though it’s unlikely we’ll be able to afford mold removal anytime soon. Too bad, looks like I’ll have to stock up on masks.

Closer to evening, I was losing myself on a programming forum. In the era of AI, I need to know all the pitfalls. After all, competing with it is pretty tough.

“Honey, I warmed up some beans. Want to eat?” Ima cracked open the creaky door. By the look on her face, I could tell she didn’t approve of my sleeping bag thrown in the middle of the room.

That’s right, I haven't even swept the floors. Only the corner for working on my laptop is clean and innocent. Well, what can you do? That’s just the chazer I am.

“Yeah, I will,” I replied shortly, stretching and closing a Google tab. “By the way, I’ve got more mold here than actual wood in the walls. Maybe we should contact Zack’s company? I happen to have his business card right here by total coincidence.”

I knew it was a stupid question, but still.

“Zack? The same one who guest stars on real estate podcasts?” Ima paused, trying to remember.

“Exactly. He used to work in Franklin County,” I reminded her. “A real giant in the mold-hunting business.”

“Oh, yes. Right. I’ll talk to Abi; we had some savings to last until the first paycheck,” she tapped on the walls. “Yeah, things look rough. Oh well, we can survive for two years. Let’s go eat before that greedy katzl eats the whole dinner.”

After dinner, I spent a few more hours on the internet. I wanted to find a forum for students at Eastern Gateway Community College (EGCC). Aside from closed invite-only chats, I didn’t find a thing. Do they really not surf open forums? Though it’s no surprise. In Steubenville, a town of rusty nails and rivets, people have probably barely even heard of the World Wide Web.

I’m being straight-up pessimistic. Looks like the exhaustion from the road and unloading stuff is getting to me. In reality, I have high hopes for college.

Yeah, of course, Eastern Gateway isn’t exactly what I dreamed of. And I dreamed of a lot. For example, Carnegie Mellon University. A place for the real monsters of my field, like Otacon or Noodles.

Abi says it doesn’t matter where you get in. What matters is what you are willing to learn and how hard you are willing to work for it.

Sometimes I feel like he could pass for Deckard Cain or Uncle Iroh. I can already hear him saying in his tired voice, “Stay awhile and listen.”

My eyes are tired. My neck is stiff. Sitting in a shrimp posture is a pretty bad idea.

It’s already getting light outside. What time is it even?

The clock says six in the morning. Sucks. In a few hours, I have to go to college. Oh well! I sprawled out on the floor, stretching like a starfish. I won't have time to sleep anymore, but taking a walk and breathing the air that hasn’t been ruined by exhaust fumes yet… Tempting. Sigh. Alright, let’s go. Earbuds in. Linkin Park on repeat and total peace.

Pulling on a hoodie—it's still chilly in the morning—I headed out to unlock new locations before the textures could render, hiding the abandoned factories behind the river fog.