Author: William Smythe

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Opinion The Last Word

An Ode to Ice Cream Sandwiches

Your personal ice cream sandwich can help you cope. (Photo: Anjelagr | Dreamstime.com)

With a fork and a knife, Hunny Blunt cuts into the summertime dish with glee. “There’s nothing better,” she declares, “than a rich and flavorful ice cream sandwich from the Lamplighter Lounge.” It’s the Monday night drag show, a new staple of the Midtown scene. Hunny, the grand duchess of the ball, carefully consumes her post-dance treat and seems positively glowing in her cocktail dress and oversized ’do. “I think I’m just about ready to face the world again,” she quips, strutting back to the stage for round two of a performance.

For many folks, these drag nights are their own “Neapolitan ice cream sandwich,” a way to unwind from the traumas of a rough workweek. There are many more nights like these at Lamplighter too: karaoke on Thursdays and comedy on Wednesdays, sometimes a burlesque show during a Thursday karaoke. On weekends, there’s always a band playing: Rosey if you feel swamp-witch rage; Data Drums for those into the introspective and atmospheric. You name it, they’ll drop it on your plate on any given day.

Personally, though, I’m having trouble trying to think up my own “ice cream sandwich.” There are so many things that I feel help me stave off those moments of depression, to pluck out those seeds of doubt. But nothing is really sticking. So I reached out to some locals and friends to ask what they would call their own “ice cream sandwich.”

A dear friend of mine who works for MIFA, Sumi Montgomery, said hers would be “either hiking in nature, or getting a new tattoo. I’m even planning my next tattoo for after the holidays.” Unlike her, I have only gotten one tattoo: a literary symbol on my ankle. It made me pass out (who knew the ankle was the worst spot to get a first tattoo?), but I did feel a rush of adrenaline and dopamine after. “That’s the thing though,” she clarifies. “After all that pain, you’re left with something beautiful. I see them as marks of transition.”

I can agree with her first option. She and I have hiked along the Wolf River Greenway and around her area of Harbor Town before, and afterwards I felt not only reinvigorated, but also relaxed. Nature can be a great way to reconnect and recenter ourselves. But, still, I felt like I needed something more. Maybe there is something I’m missing that could be my “ice cream sandwich.” So I reached out to local socialite and librarian Ralley Taura. 

She told me that when she feels like the world is crashing down on her, she cleans her house. “Organizing a spot in my house that has stressed me out relaxes me,” she elaborates. “And I listen to an audiobook while I clean. There’s nothing like compete inundation with something like that to make every worry melt away.” I sometimes find myself feeling much better after a good house cleaning. But still, it doesn’t quite fit me, I feel. So I continue searching.

A colleague of mine, Erica Qualy, runs a local vintage shop, Tako’s Treasures. She has been doing so for almost a decade, crafting an ecologically and environmentally friendly brand. Her “ice cream sandwich” is, in fact, “thrifting. It has always been a form of therapy for me. I’m a big believer in gratitude and turning that into an activity.” 

But sometimes that’s not enough. So she gave me another, more philosophical answer as well: “I remind myself to trust the universe. Looking back on the times where I felt my life was falling apart, it turns out things were actually falling into place.” What wise words to remember.

Finally, I reached out to local political figure Noah Nordstrom for his take on what he hopes folks can cling onto in this rising political tide. His response? “I lean into my family and community when it feels like everything is coming down. Hosting events or fundraisers brings me a sense of peace and stability.” 

And I couldn’t agree more. Community events are the lifeblood of a society. Noah himself proves to be a passionate community leader, especially after giving his all in the recent Representative election. He continues that good fight, as you can see in the infamous Memphis-Shelby County Schools board video. Passion like his is what I hope to channel these next few years.

Everyone needs a way to unwind, especially during the coming four years. It is now more important than ever to seek out our community and immerse ourselves in culture. Go to shows and support your local musicians and artists.

There is nothing better than these little moments, in spite of what may happen. I hope to find my own ice cream sandwich soon to combat the dread. My fork and knife stand at the ready. 

William Smythe is a local writer and poet. He writes for Focus Mid-South, an LGBT+ magazine.

Categories
Opinion The Last Word

An Elegy for Wiles-Smith

“We would drink malted milkshakes …” (Photo: Joao Virissimo | Dreamstime.com)

On Saturdays, my grandfather used to take me and the other grandkids to Wiles-Smith Drugstore for lunch. We would sit, hang out and be kids, drink malted milkshakes, and eat hot dogs or club sandwiches or tuna-fish salads. He would always get the same thing: a bowl of chili with three or so crackers, and he’d bring his own Mississippi-style tamales with him.

I remember there was a vintage copper-plated weighing scale when you first entered. My cousin Will and I would play with it, feeding it coins, taking turns getting weighed. It spat out a paper card with a fortune on it. What was mindless scrawl for an adult had seemed like wisdom to our little-kid-brains, with our wild imaginations. Gumball machines and tchotchkes littered the store. Above the register were mindless doodles and political cartoons. One of those cartoons I remember fondly: a duck looking calm above the water, but paddling maddeningly below the surface. The joke, I don’t remember. That’s not the important part to me. The cashier was an old man, the owner I believe, who wore tiny half-moon glasses and knew my grandfather by name. When I went to the bathroom, there was a dingy glow to the bulb and the towel was a recycled cloth roll. I spent half my bathroom breaks just tugging on it, making the Sisyphean object endlessly move, imagining that each rotation was actually a brand-new roll.

Wiles-Smith burned down in 2014, a year before I graduated from college.

Recently, another Memphis staple lost its home to rising rent: Black Lodge.

When I first encountered this wonderful establishment, it lived in Cooper-Young, every wall covered in DVDs, each section its own genre. Movies weren’t categorized as just Horror or Comedy. Instead, as Auteurs or Moods. One section, I recall, was Anime Classics. Neon Genesis and Akira rested on the shelves. David Lynch had his own dedicated section. Every single iteration of that man’s genius sat on its own shelf. That’s how I found DumbLand, the greatest “stupidity” I’ve ever enjoyed.

It wasn’t just a rental shop, though. Kids of all ages would be there, lounged and perched like cats in an adoption center, just hanging out and shooting the shit. Once, I went on a date there, and all we did was watch a movie on the TV. I think it was Ennio Morricone’s Django. Or maybe the director was Sergio Corbucci. Matt, the proprietor, would know. He knows every movie, and, in fact, a secret of his was to know the movie you wanted before you could even say so.

Black Lodge, a year or so after I went to college, had to move. When I came back to Memphis after my six-month stint in Portland, I got a room next door to the old location and watched as the landlord slowly transformed the place into a music venue. A piece of my heart broke with each hammer against board.

When Black Lodge found a new home in the Crosstown area, they put all their money and sweat and tears and, possibly literally, blood into it. At first, it was a success. They drew in old heads and new ones, too. Slowly, they added a bar and kitchen and started having movie nights. A local chef, Jimmy, had crafted five-course meals for $60 a seat, designed around a certain movie. The event for Everything Everywhere All at Once had hot-dogs, congee, and an everything bagel dessert. It was a perfect experience.

There were other events, too: drag performances, wrestling shows, and even a few raves. Local musicians got their start on the stage, comedy troupes hosted sketches twice a month, and still, yes, folks rented tons of movies. There were spots for gamers and board-game enthusiasts. Truly, Black Lodge was the third space to end all third spaces. 

But not even they could survive the Covid-19 pandemic and rising rent in Memphis. Alas, they shuttered their doors mid-August 2024.

As I write this, I think of these other third spaces in danger right now: local cafes especially. One place, Java Cabana, is renovating, and I hope they get business when they reopen. 

Oh, where are those diners? Where are our lodges? How much longer will we even have our green spaces? I can already hear a developer singing out: You can build apartments there, you know …

I may miss my milkshakes and my grandfather. But I hope I don’t add third spaces to that list as well. Cherish what you have while it’s here. 

William Smythe is a local writer and poet. He writes for Focus Mid-South, an LGBT+ magazine.

Categories
Opinion The Last Word

Walking? In Memphis?

Some walk for health, some out of necessity. (Photo: Vadim Zakharishchev | Dreamstime.com)

A walk can be many things. You can have a lovely stroll in the woods on a nice autumn day; you could be going to a friend’s house to play or gossip; or, you may even walk just for walking’s sake. But for many folks, me included, walking is their one and only form of transportation — especially without buses and trolleys available.

The trolleys of Memphis used to run from East Memphis, near the college, all the way down to the river. Along the river, it ran the span of North to South Memphis. Nowadays, if you want to get through any of those neighborhoods, you either have to walk the length of the city or become car-dependent. The last remaining trolley, the Main Street Line, has been shut down by the city, and with it, accessibility for anyone without a car Downtown.

Honestly, Memphis is beautiful when you walk its streets. I have seen families growing up and trees blooming over the years. Infrastructure rising and falling. Businesses coming and going, new youthful energy rushing into those spaces like birds to their nests. But I’ve also seen the sidewalks get torn up from mismanagement. I’ve seen streetlights go dim and then finally off for good. And I’ve seen the rusting rails of our once magnificent trolley lines.

I could rant and rave of course about how frustrating it feels to be so closed-off from my communities, land-locked to Midtown. But even when I want to walk in the other areas of Memphis, it’s much more difficult than I remember. Out east and beyond, every road is meant for cars and traffic. Over by White Station, the intersection might as well be nonexistent. Forget trying to see a movie at Paradiso. 

Downtown is almost no better. Constant construction means diverging pathways for any visitor to those streets, sometimes well out of the way of anywhere you want to go. And the only surprisingly easy pathway is along Tom Lee Park, by the bluffs. Credit where credit is due: The switchback installed by the city is one nice treat for any pedestrian. But god knows if you are disabled, that hill is still a nightmare.

Now, I feel like I should specify that when I say pedestrian I mean anyone who doesn’t drive or cannot drive. That includes my disabled neighbors. That includes my friends and family who shake behind the wheel of the car and realize that they’d be more a danger on the road than off it. That especially includes those who walk to combat climate change, to try our damndest to lower emission levels, even by a smidgen. For us, it feels like survival of the fittest on these streets.

My colleague Alyssa Wolf has a project she’s working on, researching the affordability of Memphis housing. One thing she’s included on her list is a “walk-score.” How close are you to the nearest stores; how rough is the terrain outside your home; how close are you to any other city infrastructure? Let’s just say, in her research, she has found more disappointment than relief.

What else can be said? I’m mad about how MATA got its funding cut. Mad about how the trolley lines sit there, unused. I used to live in Portland before moving back home. There was a lot I had trouble with in that city, but the trolleys and rails led everywhere. Trains connected the airport to Downtown to a suburb called Beaverton, their version of Germantown. I saw a future for Memphis’ public transportation.

Instead, the Memphis City Government has decided to, on November 3rd, eliminate five major routes. One of those routes is to and from the airport (Route 28). When I was a tutor, I took Route 50 to and from the sessions. Seeing that that route was not on the chopping block was a slight relief. But my heart goes out to the people who need the Southeast Circulator (16) and Winchester Route (69) to get from the Greyhound station to Downtown. Or those who live along the Perkins Route (37) who use it to get to and from their jobs like I once did. And then there’s the sister route to 50 along Central that I’m sure a lot of Cooper-Young residents and university students could rely on to get to and fro.

I am home, yet trapped in my town. So many of my fellow citizens are. It was agreeable with the bus routes (when buses would come) at the very least, but not ideal. I have only seen my city go backwards when it comes to how well it treats its citizens and especially its pedestrians, us unlucky few who simply want a good life. No matter what our reason to stroll, whether its to go to the store, get to work, or even to enjoy the day, we should be able to do it comfortably and safely. 

William Smythe is a local writer and poet. He writes for Focus Mid-South, an LGBT+ magazine.

Categories
Opinion The Last Word

Letter to ‘The Tenant’

Sharing a lighter to keep out the cold. (Photo: Wirestock | Dreamstime.com)

I was walking home from Walgreens on the night before my birthday. I had just gone out with some friends to celebrate since I had to work on my actual birthday — a sad affair. But who can afford to miss any time at work nowadays? Plus, with my rent coming up, I especially needed all the time I could get. This morning, my building sent me a payment reminder, so the amount of $815 rang around in my head. I can thankfully afford it, but it’s been with some sacrifices here and there. Tonight was a rare occurrence for me. Usually I just stay inside and eat ramen on my weekends.

That’s when I saw you, huddled underneath the abandoned lawyer’s office awning. You and your girlfriend are sitting there with a lighter between the two of you. A blanket sanctifies your union. Next door, at the building where Lucyja Hygge used to be (before they got priced out), you both have set up another sort of home-ish situation. The patio is strewn with bed sheets, bottles, and a hot plate. There used to be chairs, but they’re gone now. 

Before Lucyja Hygge was here, this building had been an artist’s studio. The artist himself lived in the back part. When I was younger, I had hooked up with him. But that’s another story for another time. It is unrelated to you. Here is our history as I remember it. 

During Covid’s first winter, you set up shelter at my workplace. The shelter was elaborate, crafted with pure intention to keep out the cold. Blankets draped across a table. A comforter hooked onto a chair. You created a den of warmth with these simple discarded items. This lighter you hold now is a mere specter of what you once had. To what myself and others had to deconstruct and disassemble each week.

We weren’t open weekdays, just weekends. So, for a bit, we all lived in a sort of silent communion. We left you alone and you usually left us alone. Everyone was always apprehensive to ruin what you had made in the night. But we called you The Tenant in jest. We still call you The Tenant when you come in. When you do, all of us take turns telling you to leave the building. I feel like a traitor every time it’s my turn. Especially since I know your name now. It’s Gray. And I say your name when I tell you you can’t stay here. Hopefully it’s a kind enough gesture.

There’s another history with us that extends deeper than Covid though. A time before we all had to stay confined and separate and survive as best as we could. It didn’t occur to me until I got home and began writing this letter. You used to be a customer. I remember you now. I even defended you once, I think. You had a schizophrenic attack after your movie. This was back when we took cash. And that’s all you had: cash. I don’t remember the movie. It was probably any popcorn flick that anyone would go to. A Marvel movie maybe. Could have been Fast & Furious.

But this is what I remember. A lady walked up to me and said you were mumbling. She seemed frightened, so I reassured her you were harmless. That you come here all the time and don’t ever cause trouble. It seems though, trouble loves to find you. Who were you talking to that night, I wonder? Who did you see? What strange dreams plagued you then and plague you still?

It’s four or five years later now. Here you are in a new home, this abandoned rats’ alley between my apartment and the Walgreens. We’re neighbors. We’ve been neighbors. You once nodded to me in camaraderie as we passed each other by, a morning salutation with whatever drink you managed to scrounge up and hold fast to.

This is to say, I hope you stay warm and I hope you stay safe. Even if it means just a lighter and another warm body beside you, two souls who know the anger of this new world and its rising, deafening tone. I’m glad you have a companion with you to hold your hand when those demons come for you again, even if it’s in the elements.

Besides, isn’t that all any of us want at the end of the day, anyway? Another body, another soul, someone to say, “You are okay and we are safe,” even if that may not be true.

As I finish this letter, I remind myself that rent is due on the 5th. And I’d better pay it. 

William Smythe is a local writer and poet. He writes for Focus Mid-South, an LGBT+ magazine.

Categories
Opinion The Last Word

Where Has My City Gone?

New buildings and new fears (Photo: Jokerproproduction | Dreamstime.com)

One morning, my girlfriend woke up to see our view was gone. It happened in stages. At first we noticed scraps of metal growing where Midtown Nursery used to host Christmas trees a couple of years back. Before the nursery came, it used to be Neil’s Bar. She told me stories of her wild nights there. I held her close and sighed as they put up the new sign: Madison@McLean. An unoriginal name for a bland building.

Now my view is the inside of strangers’ windows. I’m a reluctant voyeur. I keep my blinds shut now; I have nothing to see anyway.

When I found out that The P&H Cafe was closing, that was the final straw for me. I knew the city was remaking my home for some mediocre profit. And who will see those profits?

The P&H is a historic landmark for Memphis. Craig Brewer filmed his first movie there. He even named the movie after the place: The Poor & Hungry. Countless comedians made the bar their watering hole. Musicians played some of their first shows here. The ceiling glorified the best of Memphis. It was a home away from home for them all.

Home. That word is getting so much harder to say now as I recognize less and less about Midtown.

There is one area of town where these efforts of gentrification have worked for the better: Crosstown Concourse.

From the wreckage of a Sears distribution center has come an art gallery, school, and, even better, a medical clinic. It has given space to new businesses as well, such as Global Cafe and French Truck Coffee. Outside of it, Black Lodge Video and Hi Tone, two locally grown Memphis-based businesses and centers of culture, have been saved as well. They returned with vigor.

But, still, the increase in rent around that area, as well as inside the Concourse itself, prices out local people and caters to people outside of Memphis. I know we want to attract newcomers to the city, but not at the expense of the locals who made it what it is.

As much as I appreciate and advocate for this former blight turning into a new neighborhood and cultural touchstone, I fear that, with the rise of gentrification in Midtown and other neighborhoods, we are turning our former home into a new Frankenstein creation that resembles places such as Portland. Or worse — Nashville!

My connections to Midtown run deep, but it’s not the only neighborhood being eyed by developers. There’s Summer Avenue, rebranded as Memphis’ international district and home to old businesses, antiques stores, and taco shops and diners and dives that give the neighborhood its flavor. The Pinch District, where the Tower Project might bring jobs and attractions, Uptown, the Edge — I welcome investment in these neighborhoods, but it’s vital we find a balance between the old and the new.

But I’m a Midtowner, so that’s where the heart of this piece lies. We have had a lovely community of folks striving to make this part of town unique and quintessentially Memphian in flavor.

Midtown has a variety of neighborhoods that define our modern Memphis culture. From the streets surrounding Idlewild Presbyterian, where one of the first integrated congregations took place, to the shops in Cooper-Young, where OUTMemphis has hosted programs benefiting the Southern queer community and helped house so many disenfranchised.

Midtown is where I grew up. Where my dad grew up. Where his own father grew up.

And of all the stories we share, there is one common thread: a feeling of home and security, of community. That essence is disappearing fast with the introduction of these big-box apartment buildings, replacing the very character of Memphis that we have all come to love. Historic monuments stand now in fear of who’s next. If we can just hold onto that history though, we may save our neigborhoods’ distinct vitality — and keep the spirit of Memphis alive.

William Smythe is a Memphian and published poet.