The Rust Belt addict, mercifully, is not always found with a needle in his arm.
The addicted, I’ve learned, get fixes everywhere—Wikipedia, Reddit, ChatGPT, even an airline ticket.
Granted, the fix may not come with a dopamine surge—it may just be a solution, or solutions.
That’s the type of fix I sought, courtesy Southwest Airlines, the kind that reverses the maladies of which Rust Belters whine.
It involved 1,036 flying miles, approximately due south, some time after Independence Day in 2026.
And the solutions, they came fast and furious.
First and most obvious was the cloud cover. The low and gray had been exchanged for the blue and high. Somewhere up there was a brilliant star, worthy of sunglasses and a touch of air conditioning.
The narrow made way for the expansive, as in ten lanes instead of two. Lowly pedestrians were nowhere to be found.
Empty buildings were full, teeming with every chain restaurant the country had ever known. Even Hooters made an appearance.
There were no dirty factories, the type that pollute the air and clutter the world. In their place were theme parks—clean, happy, and full of chicken fingers and 1.5 times minimum wage.
The place was a magnet for visitors, unlike the Rust Belt, where people have to be coerced into making an appearance. The tourists filled the theme parks, chain restaurants, and all ten lanes.
New homes were popping up all over the place—because people actually wanted to live there.
And the buildings, the ones I mentioned, were new, too. They were boxy and bland with little attention to detail, but they were spotless and unaged.
It was everything the Rust Belt addict could ask for, leaving next to nothing worthy of a gripe.
But all the fixes came with one glaring problem:
It wasn’t the Rust Belt.
