It was the kinda town that made you lock your car doors and take a little more care next to the locals. Every vehicle had an angry dent or masking tape and Bondo barely holding it together as you hip-check together along rutted and forgotten streets. Overhead, traffic lights flashed hard red only instead of the usual three – as if to warn you, here there be tygers. I drove into Gary, my neck aching from tracking the battered tin can cars and the slouched forms glaring out from shuttered storefronts. It wasn’t so much a town as it was a funeral procession in slow motion with a corpse more likely to steal your wallet than lay down easy. It was my kinda place.