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It was a dark and sordid night... no, wait! That's another story.
Servo, TheRev, and MothMan met in Dayton, Ohio at an undisclosed location on Perry Street, in a church parking lot, totally secret, just one door down from the Taj Ma Garaj, to document for posterity the Longworth Steam Plant, because nobody could guess we were meeting there.
A steam plant.
Affectionately dubbed "The Castle" by those who've seen it's majesty, this edifice stands tall. And stands alone. As fate would have it, by the end of March 2005 it would stand no more.
Entry was easier than stubbing your toe. Equally as important, nobody got hurt. TheRev was uber-careful against injuries, as he and Servo followed MothMan up flights of stairs that ended on landings of steel grate and empty air. Thirty feet up. TheRev watched as MothMan jumped lightly up and down on the see-thru mesh, his way of convincing the minister of UE the floor was safe, and yes, it would hold their weight.
Totally unconvinced, TheRev reached his foot across the fire hose, onto the next set of adjacent steps. The concrete steps.
* * *
We had a good time. Of course, TheRev and I didn't have quite the time Servo had, because we didn't have quite the $2000 camera outfit Servo had. But that's entirely beside the point.
I'd been inside twice before. Good thing too, because now it was dark. And a third of the building was missing. Cops park in the Peerless Storage lot, a stone's throw from "The Castle." They do this routinely. I arrived on-site after Servo & TheRev, at our predetermined secret spot nobody knows about. Servo told me an LEO was parked in the lot awhile ago. It drove off before I arrived.
Still, I was slightly nervous. Couldn't quite put my finger on it, either. Musta been that cup of Wendy's chili I had earlier. Really hit the nail on the head...
The front was clear, surprisingly so. A construction fence was all that stood in our way, the kind where the posts stick down into portable concrete blocks. It's the type that screams I'm-just-a-fence-for-show, don't take me seriously. We didn't. Besides his camera, Servo had an expensive tripod. It weighed a few pounds. Solid, heavy, long legs. I told him it looked like a registered weapon. I could imagine him clocking a junky trying to rob him. Yeah, the junky would lose. Tossing the "Louisville Slugger" over his shoulder, Servo joined TheRev and I, already pacing toward the fence.
A truck or two often idles around the corner, the same corner we had to cozy up to in order to skirt the temporary fence. I asked the two to slow down so I could scout the edge. Crossing the street, looking like I was trying to look casual, I saw it was clear. But I had to be sure. I dropped to the ground and pulled the old "I gottta tie my shoelace all of a sudden" routine. Works every time. Sneakers intact, I glanced around and felt safe. I crossed back over Eaker Street and together we headed in, just like professionals, just like Charles Bronson -- just like TheRev's sig says.
A gaping maw, created by huge double doors long since torn off hinges, was our Point of Entry (POE). It was in the center of the building on the ground floor. Right in the middle. We stood at the corner, so entering meant slipping past the fence and then crossing all the way back to the front of the plant, midpoint. On Perry Street. In broad daylight practically. Yeah, right. Plenty of opportunity to get spotted. But there was no other way. Whaddaya do in a moment like that? You check the street, look both ways, grab your gear and seriously head for the entrance. Nobody spotted us, thankfully. One brisk pace quick pulse later, we gained the entry way. All of us ducked behind the wall to avoid detection and to gather our thoughts. We were inside.
Inside "The Castle." Let the rush begin, baby...
I had to stand there, not moving, just to take it all in. I don't know what my partners in crime were thinking, but I was awash with mild inebriation. A euphoria. It dulls your senses, heightens your imagination, and makes you feel, well... all "out-of-bodyish." If you've experienced it then my adjectives ring clear. If you've not then it sounds dumb. But I don't care, that's how I felt. The ground floor here held little attraction. All the good stuff was above our heads. Unseen.
Servo started unslinging his gear, preparing to ascend. TheRev answered the call of the wild. Unseriously, Servo asked if I minded. I joked, "You kiddin'? I'm not one of those uptight explorers that haunt the halls of UER. If ya gotta go, ya gotta go." Bulldozers and wrecking cranes won't mind. Besides, what did deconstruction workers do prior to Porta-Johns?
Business done, we took to the stairs. One floor up found us face to face with reality. Seeing the entire side of the building, well, actually not seeing it was interesting. It was gone. Smashed. Having been here alone before, I'd felt like I'd wandered the corridors of some industrial gothic mausoleum, replete with vaulted cathedral ceilings. A repose of decay where technology lay empty, somber, and unearthly quiet. Interred. Rarely visited by those who care.
Those impressions didn't lay hold of me now as I faced the fact this place was going, dying. I gazed on flesh stripped from its body; the open wall ripped from the girders. I was sobered. A private sanctuary of the explorer -- this explorer -- was approaching postmortem.
Piece by piece.
(Any urban adventurer will tell you there's a tendency to identify with an abandonment. It's a paradox; this sentimental attachment to a decrepit place. The building is not yours, but in a sense, it almost is. Especially if you visit often. You protect her. Guard her. Leery of bringing a stranger to enjoy her, you jealously want nothing more than to gape when the fancy strikes. You stay long to bare her secrets and enjoy her charms; treasures the idle explorer or hurried adventurer do not partake of. When it's time to go you stall to leave, dragging your feet like some lovesick teen; young enough to know nothing of real love and old enough to feel its pangs anyway. But she's no creature of flesh and blood, she's but a hollow shell of brick, steel, and coal dust. And life outside her surreal womb beckons. It's a harsh reality, if but for nothing more than its contrast to the vague, cobwebby, fantasy world in which the mind and soul of the explorer can dwell. And so you leave her, wistfully, longing to return not five minutes after departing.)
We split up and took opposing corners of the second floor, each careful to stay out of the others perspective. Peeks through busted windows showed no signs of coppers. A few pedestrians. Nobody near and no one to threaten our visit. But that didn't stop me banging my foot loudly against loose equipment. I was glad we were out of eyesight when it happened. "Gawd, they're gonna think I'm some kinda n00b," I told myself, swearing to be careful in a place chock-full of demolished walls and decommissioned instruments.
I mean, it's not like the floors were swept clean. But my frikkin' foot just had to make a noise.
The upper levels were much better. No solid floors. No concrete to stand on, just catwalk. And you didn't know if the grating would hold or not. If it had shifted, even slightly, one's weight would be plenty to send you like a rock dropping thirty feet or more. To perdition. We had to ascend several flights to reach the next landing. The sun was setting fast and I snapped a few pics though broken windows. Rays of burnt orange and purple strained to penetrate opaque glass made worse for light with grimy smears. It rocked.
TheRev noted the windows. And the firehose strung through 'em. The same hose that was tied off onto steel piping used for handrails. Across which was strung the familiar yellow DO NOT CROSS tape. Odd that this landing sported protection tape; I mean, the entire building was one huge safety hazard! But like I said, I knew the floor. I was comfortable with it. He wasn't. The firehose made it worse for him. A misbegotten safety marker that taunted, "Go further and you'll die."
I went further.
I grabbed the railing and used one foot to test the grate. It held. Now both feet. Still it held. I walked back and forth on it. TheRev watched in disbelief. Now I jumped up and down. Nothing happened. TheRev still refused. Now "faith may be the substance of things hoped for," but he wasn't buying any of it. I walked off the grate onto adjacent concrete steps of the continuing stairwell. Rather than follow, he adroitly placed one foot over the rail and onto the stone, making sure not to touch any of the catwalk. Servo followed close behind.
We exited a small corridor that dumped us onto the main roof, for this is a "castle," and it has many roofs. As you face the building, we stood on the right side, closest to Peerless Storage and farthest from demolition. Servo remarked how solid the place was built. "Like a tank," I replied, exhausting the limits of my engineering prowess. Twenty minutes or more saw us framing shots of the stacks, the skyline, the catwalk of doom, Sinclair Community College buildings, the church down below, a trio of exhaust ports, unidentified piping, the coal chute. Everything.
I could tell myself I did all this because the world needed to know. Future generations lay in peril of ignorance; not seeing what I see, not going where I go, and not knowing what they missed. Our documentation efforts would hopefully outlast us. That's part of the point. But the real reason I was here is because I hold more regard for this condemned building and its history than I do for the rules of society that forbid me to enter it.
It got darker by the minute. No big deal -- we all had lights. Leaving the roof by the access door we returned to the central landing. Dead center of the catwalk was a set of stairs keading to the highest turret; a path that, in waning light, looked pretty foolish as it edged the missing wall. TheRev was going no farther, I can tell ya. He remained at the landing. Servo followed me as I scooted up the center catwalk to steps in the mid-portion of the castle. Safe cement steps. I was dying to look out through the coal chute...
But it was just too dark, Ray-O-Vac headlamps notwithstanding, and the uncertain structural integrity so near this open side, made this the last stop. Servo and his fancy rig shot some twilight scenes of walkway stretching across the huge coal hopper. I didn't. I just watched. My camera wasn't gonna be taking any cool night pics. I had no tripod.
We walked back down. Past an empty elevator shaft. Cheap caution tape the only barrier preventing us from falling. Walked down into the dark, leaving the firehose, down to the solid flooring of the second story. Servo set up housekeeping again and took advantage of the shadows to get some good images. TheRev shot off a few as well. With his camera. And his tripod. (I didn't have one, remember?) But I was still gonna take pictures. He asked and I lamely mumbled, "Sure dude, I just pull real tight on the camera strap around my neck. Helps keep it steady."
He was convinced. I'm certain of it.
Finishing the photo shoot, he proffered his tripod. I glady accepted. I screwed my camera down tight on the shoe and shot off a bunch. Not sure how they turned out but by god I took 'em. Now TheRev had wandered over to some oil machine thingy. It was old. Looked industrial-cool. (Like maybe it belonged in a greasy garage full of greasy mechanics good at greasing you outta your dough.) It wasn't fancy, but several glass tubes hung from the top. Somebody just had to have one or two of 'em. But they were securely attached, and the whole flippin' thing was covered in a film of oil. Imagine.
Got my black leather gloves all nice and grimy helping him remove those little gems...
I posed inside a rusted B&W boiler, hoping Servo could frame me. Didn't work out. Some kind of screwy "ectoplasmic" light streaked my face when the image was viewed on his LCD. Okay, it looked ectoplasmic. It followed the contours of my cheek. Tried again, this time standing outside the boiler. It sorta worked, I mean, considering the subject matter and all.
We finished up with the bragging shots, the I-was-here-but-you-never-will-be proofs. Together we headed out, just like professionals, just like Charles Bronson, just like... yeah, yeah.
No one was about. It was as quiet on the street as it was inside forbidden chambers. We had our pictures. Nobody got arrested, and no one was hurt. All in all a very successful tour, or mission; whatever you wanna call it. We crossed the empty lot and strolled past a big Catholic church and recalled our vehicles were parked in reserved spaces. By permit only. We jokingly hoped nobody had 'em towed off.
"What would Jesus do?" quipped Servo. Like, if Jesus were in town He wouldn't have our cars yanked. He'd understand we had to park 'em in private spots belonging to the church. He knew, as did we, that cops don't scrutinize ecclesiastical areas.
We laughed. And hoped to see the cars right where we left 'em. I only had to drive back to (some undisclosed city near Enon) and I sure didn't want to walk. But Servo and TheRev had to trek all the way back to Colum... you-know-where. Yeah, way farther than me.
And you know how it is. Art students may have fancy-schmancy cameras, but they compensate for it: they just don't eat.
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