Our Town

The apartment perched above a windy corner downtown, and below; the Korner Kafe with the starch-laden foods the name implies. You'll watch lumpy potatos and tough beef drowning in thin tasteless gravy served by a sweet young girl, pregnant by the tired young man living at the run down hotel behind the bank. They'll do fine though, he's a part-time construction worker; she cleans rooms part-time at the 'Big Red Motel'. She'll be famous someday for her poetry about the feelings of a lonely child. Old farmers, bankers, insurance salesman, the CO-OP workers make up a rattling crowd for lunch; the kids get to join for the breakfast buffet. The kafe is at the main corner of the downtown business district, a 2 block stretch of old buildings, and tired merchants.

Two bars, two grocers, a bank, a post office, and a hardware store. The funeral parlor announces its events by posting a computer printed sign regarding the recent dead, next to the barber shop where no one goes for a haircut, or to buy the faded American flag in the sale window. The two gas stations vie for the business of the lost traveler while renting videos dating to the 70's; the bleach blonde Norma Jean look alike busies herself not reading the Natl. Enquirer she keeps hidden behind the counter just out of the sight of the patrons who know its there. The 'Big Red Motel' does a terrific business in the fall during hunting season, as long as the weather holds up. Becoming dry and lifeless as the wind blown leaves that pile around it the rest of the year.

It doesn't seem to bother anyone that their lives are made up of tedious tasks culminating in meaningless existence, complaining only that there aren't any kids willing to work at the Dairy Queen. The Pizza Ranch is filled to capacity on Sunday morning as the faithfull 'belly-up' for another helping of broasted chicken at the all-you-can-eat buffet. It's been a hard morning of hellfire and brimstone; the preacher is hard as his God, lots of rules and no mercy.

The conversations invariably end in discussions about the football team; having spent the season trouncing every smaller town within shouting distance they were pununeled to submission during the opening game of the playoffs. It was of course, the coach's fault. The youth have less concern for the loss of prominence than for the thrill of cruising main street. The weekends are filled with the sounds of too loud country western and rap music as the girls maintain just enough distance to keep the boys chasing them. Teen pregnancy is taboo only in conversations, not in practice; and the drug store on the corner at the highway are the only drugs around.

The poor folk gather for an evening of cursing and other one-syllable conversations at the 'Club' across the street, a big empty space with a wide screen TV and a pool table where you can listen to your favorite times skip on the jukebox. Where toothless young men woo over-weight women and cynicism is served with the beer. I heard that dances were once held in the side rooms; not any more, private parties only in the washed out 'conference' rooms.

The more scrubbed and polished crowd go to the 'Saloon', across the street and a block up. Where the has-beens and the wanna-bes' hang out and discuss the high school, and every other sports programs and whether or not they'll make it to the playoffs next year. A boring place where people can spend the evening impressing each other with their knowledge of trivial things. Where 'cute' girls drink too much and flirt with manly men wearing 'Big Red' everything. It's owner is generally aware of the tediousness of the whole thing but has decided to ignore that unsavory image of despair. After all, she's not from here she's from 'back east'; Ohio.

She's also the editor for the average small town newspaper advocating little more than mediocrity and boredom. On the front page you'll read about Martha Snoots' relatives the 'Snouts' being in church on Sunday, staying for coffee and broasted chicken at the Pizza Ranch before stopping to place flowers on a grave at the cemetery filled with nothing.

The yuppie wanna-be's spend their time at the country club, a remodeled farm house on the south side of town. They have the new water tower over there, and nine of the most brutally taxing holes you could hope for, and "do watch out for the goats that keep the greens trimmed."

All in all, it's an interesting little place. I get the feeling that any one who can read and write is looked upon with a sense of amazement and wonder. So far we've been lucky, the preachers haven't come to call.

© 1995-2001 A. Hominid G