Nowhereville

Where was this street headed? It seemed as though it was stretching on into infinity. The houses were all looking nice and presentable now, with neat facades, lacking the crumbling aspect of late grandma Faye’s home. However, I had expected that this town would have some sort of center, like a central piazza where one could find the town’s businesses such as a general store, a drug store, or a saloon. That was the place I was headed for; I was hoping to find what I needed there.

On my way, I passed by the house that the old man had previously directed me to. It was unremarkable among the rest, but I made sure to memorize the number on the rusty metal sign hung on the front gate, so I would pay a visit to its inhabitant, the Jew called Horowitz, on my way back. Hunger was twisting my stomach into knots, and although I barely ever ate, I now felt an imperative need for something to eat. The diner – if there was one – was the place I was first headed for.

Whether it was my apprehension or my longing to leave that town as soon as possible that made the distance seem so long, I don’t know. In any case, when I finally reached that sad excuse of a town square, I felt as though I had been walking for miles. I had not encountered anyone since the inquisitive old man, but I had felt the houses’ glazed windows staring down at me, concealing the prying eyes within.

It looked so bleak and austere that I half-expected to see tumbleweed rolling by. A few squat wooden buildings with weatherworn facades encircled the roundabout, which marked the end of what appeared to be S.’s single street. Beyond the cluster of small shops and businesses there was only the desert, stretching out into the heat-blurred line of the horizon. The signs above the buildings were all hand written. The flaking paint gave them a cheerless aspect.

It looked more like a haunted ghost town ride at Disneyland than a real town. I almost anticipated to looking behind the facades of the buildings and realizing that they were props, that only the facades were there.

Directly across from where I was standing was a battered old 50’s style diner. The sign above, only said ‘Diner’ in capitals. Whoever owned it hadn’t even bothered to name it. That depressed me. I couldn’t make out anything through the murky windows. Slowing down to a halt, I took a more careful look around me.

Next to the diner, on the left, was a drugstore, which was inexplicably labeled ‘Apothecary”. This is the 21st Century and there are places in the States where drugstores are still going by the name of apothecaries.

After that, a scruffy wooden placard hanging from rusty hinges announced “Dilworth’s General Store”. The next building had also seen better days. Its windows were boarded up, and the area that the sign had once covered was now lighter than the rest of the boards making up the façade.

On the other side of the square there were a couple more business that looked just as decrepit. There was the bar, which looked like a veritable Western saloon, complete with the swinging doors. The last building on my right was the undertaking shop, labeled “Moriarty & Sons, Undertakers”. Right next to this last crumbling building was a small path, which led to the town’s cemetery. I noticed that it was of a rather large size for such a small town. Just another oddity to add to the rest, I thought.

Fretfully, I set out for the diner, across the piazza. I placed my hand on the door latch with a drawback, but opened it nonetheless. It opened with an unnerving creak. Nothing appeared to be working smoothly in this town; everything seemed to be old, unkempt, and rusty.
A rancid smell greeted my nostrils as I stepped into the joint. The tile beneath my feet was checkered with black and white. The seats were upholstered in tacky red vinyl. Many of them bore cigarette burns or scratches. The tables were all white, stained with food and cheap coffee. Above my head, industrial fans were spinning idly. Their rotating blades made a dull, cyclical noise. The jukebox in the corner had not worked for a long time.

Behind the countertops that served as a bar, the kitchen was revealed as the source of the stale odor. Grimy and greasy pots and pans of different sizes were heating atop an oily, dilapidated cooking machine, releasing dense smoke. In front of the cooking machine, a dumpy old woman was fretting and fussing, chopping up and adding ingredients. The sound of sizzling added to the unpleasantness of the noise made by the fans.

No one was occupying the seats at the tables. Two of the barstools, however, were taken up by a couple of surly-looking individuals. I turned my attention to them. The two men seemed to be well into their sixties, both sporting similar shocks of matted grey hair. Their clothing and state of unkemptness matched the locale. Both of them were speaking in hushed voices, sipping coffee out of a pair of chipped mugs.

In similar exaggerated gestures, the two mugs were dropped onto the countertop with a dull clank upon the two rednecks’ acknowledgment of my entering the venue. I nodded my head in greeting and proceeded to sit down in the least shabby of the booths. The whispering that had been curtailed by the awe induced by my arrival was now resumed thrice as fast.
I waited patiently at the table, luckily not being able to understand any bits of the pair’s conversation, which was more than likely centered on me. I opened the new pack of Marlboro, and with deliberately slow moves opened my Zippo lighter and lit it. Through the smoke I exhaled, I could see the two staring nonchalantly in my direction. I calculatedly ignored them.

Instead, I inspected the greasy menu in front of me. I went with the safest bet, which was scrambled eggs and bacon. I mean, eggs are eggs no matter how you cook them. With an effort of imagination, I led my thoughts away from the dubious oil in the unclean pans that I had seen when I had walked in.

A waiter was out of the question in the dingy joint; therefore I walked myself up to the counter, and cleared my voice politely about three times before the old cook looked up at me.
‘What will it be?” she asked in a disagreeable voice.

‘Scrambled eggs with bacon and a cup of coffee, please,” I responded quickly. Instead of returning to my booth, I took a barstool next to one of the rednecks. They both craned their necks in my direction and this time, I stared back. I might have even smiled. I took another drag of my cigarette and exhaled it slowly.

‘So how are you two gentlemen doing on a fine morning like this?’ I asked, hoping they would miss the sarcasm. They did. The one closest to me smacked his lips loudly before answering.
‘Who might you be?’ he replied in a coarse voice, rudely ignoring my question and replying with another.

‘John Morris, pleasure to meet you,’ I said, once again injecting liberal amounts of sarcasm into the words. Their eyes bulged when hearing my surname.

‘Morris, you say?’ the same one asked. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance –‘

‘Be related to Faye Morris, the old hag who lived down the street?’ I finished his question. ‘Yes, I happen to be her grandson.’ Already having been subjected to the type of interrogation that was brought about by this simple statement, I spoke again quickly so as not to give them time to get worked up about the subject. ‘But do tell, to whom do I owe the pleasure?’

‘I’m Elijah Moriarty, and this is Samuel Dilworth,’ he said, pointing behind him at his friend. I nodded in acknowledgment.

‘So I understand you own the undertaking business, and your fine friend here keeps the general store,’ I stated.

‘That’s right, mister,” Moriarty answered, while Dilworth merely nodded.

The two rednecks and I had struck up a nice little conversation by the time my eggs and coffee were ready. The eggs were basking in oil, the bacon was barely there, and the coffee had a doubtful color and consistency, but hunger got the best of me. Ignoring the dubious cleanliness of the cutlery, I dove in. I wiped the plate clean in a matter of moments, and then gulped down the bad coffee. Terrible meal, but at least there was something to fill my stomach.

I turned back to my new friends.

‘So where are you staying?’ Dilworth asked in his customary drawl.

‘Why, at my late grandmother’s house, course,’ I answered matter-of-factly. Hearing my answer, the two gazed at each other in an evocative way.

‘You don’t say,’ Moriarty murmured.

‘How do you mean? Where else would I be staying?’

‘Do you lock your door and windows at night? Draw the blinds? If you don’t, you’re a foolish man, Morris,’ he stated in a cautious voice.

‘What are you even talking about?’ I asked and sniggered at their fallacies.

‘Don’t you know who lives across the street?’