Middle American Literature

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New café opened last week. Stripped down design, black and white color scheme. An old mechanic's garage next to a busy bike trail in the middle of a hip…
Caleb Caudell
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Drank too much at work last night. Shots of tequila with the bartenders and servers. Beers in the back. Ducking away from the floor to chug pisswater in…
Caleb Caudell
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Worked last night at the restaurant. Today I’m waiting on a text from Larry the carpenter. I’m going into his studio to tear down the ceiling, rip down…
Caleb Caudell
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I lost my job. The café job, both spots, the one in the trendy neighborhood and the one downtown by the convention center. Last week I worked during the…
Caleb Caudell
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Driving down washington st. Four grimy lanes bordered by strip malls and government assisted housing. Crackwhores withering in the sun. Men with shifty…
Caleb Caudell
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In keeping with my history of prudent economic decisions, I spent the greater part of my first paycheck in a month on a plane ticket to New York City…
Caleb Caudell
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The morning was cool and gray and then it rained. After writing and smoking cigarettes and starting a substack I took a nap. When I woke up the rain had…
Caleb Caudell
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Flying to New York City today. I’m forgetting something. Underwear, driver’s license, charging cord, power tools. Toothbrush and soap. Debit card…
Caleb Caudell
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I wrote the main body of this piece four years ago, on my 32nd birthday. The present comments are italicized. -- Thanks for reading Middle American…
Caleb Caudell
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The beauty of some days precludes all effort, all action. On sunday I needed to clean, do laundry before a trip to Detroit. Nothing happened in the…
Caleb Caudell
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Now that I’m not opening a café, my mornings start slowly. Not stumbling out the door at 5 with crust in my eyes. A fantasy life, impossible to…
Caleb Caudell
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