Rob Roensch recasts the coming-of-age tale deep in the Midwest in his third book and debut novel, In the Morning, The City Is the Prairie. Matt, a college dropout, can only cycle through his second shift at the local Costco, stalling out his life, relationships and personal growth. We follow as his life approaches a crossroads marked by the sudden presence of an estranged and dying aunt, a girlfriend whose life is lightyears ahead of his and a younger sister blazing with the desire for societal change. Against the backdrop of the big sky of Oklahoma City, Matt stumbles through his life at a frustrating pace, a classic example of the earnest but oblivious young adult male. Yet, despite the appearance of a classic formula, Roensch skews the linear narrative, signaling to the reader the story will not be as straightforward as it first appears.
Matt’s routine is upended when his mom moves his aunt into his bedroom (because yes, Matt still lives with his parents). The black sheep of the family, Matt’s aunt has been in and out of jail and now has terminal cancer. Heightening the disruption is the tension between Matt’s father and aunt, which underpins a sense of family history that hasn’t been forgiven. Matt’s girlfriend Jane, a teacher, is in the middle of the local teachers’ union strike. Her passion and outward perspective overshadow Matt’s own narrow and, at times, selfish outlook. Her frustration is only mirrored in her interactions with him, who represents the apathy of their city at large. In reference to the strike Matt states, “They won’t succeed. It’s Oklahoma. It’s America.” His sister Sylvie’s environmental and punk sympathies also highlight Matt’s apathy. During a conversation about California’s wildfires, Matt says, “It’s not like we can do anything about it.” To which her response is, “Cool … Good attitude.” More than merely a friendly ribbing between siblings, Sylvie’s impatience with Matt’s deference is a catalyzing agent to her own activism.
Not a flattering picture of Matt, but his best friend, Connor, an ultra-successful, autistic-coded savant, works as a wonderful foil for him to be measured against. Connor often has to be grounded and kept within “normal” patterns of behavior, with Matt gently shepherding him as much as he can. Connor’s often esoteric and increasingly abstract rants give a peek into why he might be so successful, pushing stocks around and coming into a small fortune. The choices Matt makes later are ultimately informed by his interactions with Connor, who seems to have everything.
When Matt is given an out from his current circumstances, Roensch subverts the expected coming-of-age narrative and keeps the story rooted in place. “Driving in Oklahoma City is often disorienting … You always know where you are, but you could be anywhere,” is another comment from Matt trying to grasp at the displacement that feels very topical to the story. The story takes place in 2018 and is grounded in the zeitgeist of that time, this sense of wandering and burnt-out purpose. In hindsight, Roensch calls to mind the deep breath before the pandemic that will dramatically alter the cultural and social landscape.
The most encompassing image of the book is the sky. Flat places often don’t have much to look at, aside from the swallowing blue overhead. “The unpredictable, enormous sky and the gently troubled flatness of the land are the only true permanents,” is a deft summary of the landscape here. Looking up at the sky with fear, instead of imagining possibility or hope, becomes a motif in the novel. Matt considers a church as he drives by: “I wonder again why all our churches are so much wider and flatter than churches in photographs and in the movies. It’s like we are all afraid of the sky.” It is the prevailing realism of the story that causes the work to shine. From the stark grid of the city’s streets to the ever-precarious state of a middle-class family’s finances, Roensch does not romanticize his characters’ situations. By the end, the reader is left with the belief that there will be no miracle for Matt’s aunt, there is no perfect happy ending, and life continues at an unremarkable but swift clip. Stylistically minimal, but not without deep moments of intimacy and reflection on the issues at hand, Roensch captures what “small-town-but-big-city” stories can be like. It is a true achievement that such a work can capture one cob of the Midwestern experience.
