Creative: Neon Eats

By Mike Marino

ome of the farmland was plowed under the subsoil of finance, to the banks, and others sold out to corporate farms and huge behemoth American conglomerates. Sold land, pennies for the dollar just to get out from under. Families moved away, back east to places like Indiana and Illinois, for God's sake, richer farm land to be sure. As the towns population was let out like air in a slashed tire, the merchants too began to feel the loss. Had to cut back on merchandise and service. Raise prices on products that nobody could afford anymore.

If you listen closely to the past, you can hear the voices of a family traveling on vacation. The radio on, tuned to some obscure daytime AM station in the middle of the desert, in the middle of nowhere. Count Basie pounding out the beat to perfection. The preacher's voice, loud and proud looking for donations while preaching everlasting salvation. The kids making contorted faces at passing motorists. Time to stop at that cafe, been here a thousand times before on this road, but have to get fuel for the car anyway, and grab one of those giant burgers and homemade fries. The creme soda is also to die for.

The years passed. The kids have grown and gotten married and have families and little face contorters of their own now who rule the backseats and still ask, "Are we almost there yet?" The families get together, as always for the holidays, sit through innumerable hours of 8mm film and Kodak slides, and reminisce about the good old days. Like clockwork, the conversation invariably gets around to those wonderful old road trips. "Remember that diner we used to stop at, in Rogers, in California I think, and those huge burgers? Those were great burgers. I wonder if it's still there?"

The Rogers school too now stands empty, a panhandler, a hobo on the side of the tracks. Crumbling concrete and the phantom sounds of ghost football voices that cheer no more on Homecoming Night. The echoes of the past still reverberate through the empty, decaying halls. The windowless facade stares from empty eye sockets as though seeing the past as clearly as we see the present." I think it was '39," say the oldtimers. "Yeah, it was '39 ... that year we won the division in football ... what was that kids name? God, he could run."

The school emptied itself of seniors every year, out to the cold world, away from the warm blanket of youth, scholastic routin, friends and familiarity. Some to college. Some to war. Most, all married now, blown and scattered across America like dandelion seeds. Every now and then someone pulls out the Yearbook from a box stored in the attic, opened slowly and carefully as though a rare Guttenberg bible, centuries old that threatens to crumble like a rotted shroud. Each page studied carefully. A smile here, a tear there, then recognition.

"Yeah, I told you it was '39. Billy, that was his the kid's name. Got us the champeenship that year." Then a pause and a sigh. "Billy died in '43. Okinawa I think, just a kid at the time. Man, could he run." As you walk by the empty school now you can almost hear the cheering from the stands as Billy's memory lives on today. Man, could he run, but not fast enough.

The drive-in is gone too. Weeds fill the empty lot, the old screen is tattered and aged, like the Gloria Swanson character in Sunset Boulevard still waiting for her closeup Mr. DeMille. The speakers were stolen or sold for scrap long ago, and the concession stand a testimonial monument to vandalism. Instead of the roar of Godzilla, now all one can hear is the scream of the wind at night as it blows through the empty lot, once full of life, teenaged angst, sexual discovery, heavy metal and chrome.

A lot of the merchants folded up long ago, to seek new fields of retail riches. The town, once numbering 365, now was somewhere around 62. Two lane tumbleweed riding the asphalt that remained, heading out to nowhere in particular towards the endless horizon. Some of the remaining townies had been here since birth and would remain until their death, clutching the past in their hands.

Sadie, who used to ranch with her husband Earl, for long hard hours until he died in '72 was now "the crazy lady" who lived in a broken down trailer with no running water but plenty of warm booze to numb her and give her comfort. The property they owned had long ago gone into foreclosure, and what little money they had saved up went to pay for his burial and her seemingly endless supply of soul burning Vodka.

In the good years, she hauled bales of hay to the far reaches of the spreading fields. Hungry livestock came at a quick pace when she was spotted bumping along the field. Ernest Tubbs' new record was out and it played on the lonely country gospel station, KPSD. Earl heard that song for first time on the Opry driving that old truck at night, that magical analogue time of the evening when WSM in Nashville would fade in and out on the radio half a continent away.

The farm was filled with supplies most of the time brought in from town. Food, grains, feed, fertilizer, gingham and always, a little present for Sadie. Earl always hid it under a sack, and when he pulled up in the truck she would smile because she knew it was there. On the stove, Earl's favorite meal was cooking, her present to him. They both worked hard not only at the farming and small ranching but at making each other happy. He's long dead now, and she sold the land and moved to town. Earl still lives in her heart, and together, they're never far from that farm, a piece of them still remains on that land and will be there for a long time to come ... until Crazy Sadie finally drinks herself to death.

The meat market is gone too. You could always get more than just the freshest meats in town. You also kept up on the latest gossip in the neighborhood. Turns out that "nice" boy the Carson girl's been dating is AWOL from the Army and been arrested. Did you know Sally Hellstom is pregnant again? Also heard that one of them new fancy supermarkets is coming to town, at the edge of the road out by the Meyers property.

Sure, some folks will go there at first, check it out, buy a few things, but in the end they'll come back here. Why, I have the freshest meats in the entire county. They'll be back, you'll see. Say did you hear about the Peterson boys? They got in trouble again.

Stan stared at the heat outside through the dusty windows. A Johnny Lee song on the jukebox. Thought about selling the place for years, and finally did, to one of those large interstate truck stop chains. Been home for years, but now, nothing left, but home is where the heart is after all. Some of the old timers still stop by to chew the fat and the food, truckers mostly who still lament the passing of the old days too. Jake brakes and exhaust mingling with the jukebox and the grease from the grill. He smiled and wondered what they would do with that old neon sign that didn't work, hadn't worked in years.

The town that was so full of life once, was now just an exit number on a roadmap. An old decrepit joint in the middle of the nowhere desert soon to feel the crash of the wrecking ball. Memories and road ghosts of the past, mixing with the dust, diesel, and dirt, and a few dead flies on the window sill...order up!

Crazy Sadie summed it to Stan one day, not too long ago, when he debated on fixing the place up for one last hurrah. Even having the neon recharged in the old "EATS" sign.

She just looked at him incredulously, cackled her cracked laugh and said, "Boy, they ain't no need for no neon no more."

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