Bay City hadn’t changed much since Florian, Tory, and I arrived. It’s the same old sub-urban air in the same old way it always had been. The sidewalks are basically 55% tourists, 45% broken dreamers like myself, and 5% actually happy people. As I stepped into the supermarket, I recognized the reason why I was trying to avoid the job in the first place: people. Children begging their weary-eyed mothers to buy them candy. Old coots struggling to read price tags. Babies crying. Spouses arguing. Smelly sots who probably haven’t showered in a week. Ugh.
As I came across the frozen foods section, the only section I could afford,
Bay City’s nothing like all those colorful pamphlets say it is. Sure, there are parts that are as colorful as the pictures say they are, but the awe lasts only for a minute. Then it’s just like everything else you’ve ever seen. Bay City’s a city of broken dreamers living in shambles like this place. They wasted all their earnings to try and make it big in the job industry here, but to no avail. And they can’t go back any time soon, either.