I used to live with a biker named Rusty. Actually, my boyfriend lived in his basement and I stayed over there (for a year).
Rusty was admired among friends for his “words of wisdom”. Some would deem them sentence fragments but, among a group of alcoholics around the dining room card table, he was a soothsayer. In one heated political discussion he suggested we cripple our government by not paying taxes. This was followed by applause. For all his engraved faults he was just a good guy with a bad job in a small town. For most people the choice was easy; leave Janesville or… punch in.
Some weren’t aware they had a choice and ended up staying, getting tattoos, and investing in a pool cue. Rusty had fallen victim to Janesville long ago and has since embraced the beer-mirror reality we called home.