ICING

MAKING A CHANGE

 

Before Doomtown was born, it was called 'Boomtown.' Those were the days the air reeked with the smell of oil, clothes were never clean, windows too small but comfortable homes  were streaked, turning pictures of the outside world into waves of greasy air currents. And then catastrophe hit. The gushing oil began to spatter, rise from the earth in staccato disorder. It took two years to slow down to nothingness. Esso dismantled its sea of steel towers. The deserted fields held onto the odor of oil, loss of money, hard work that paid well. It took close to four years before Doomtown was actually born.

 

Roy, Marty, Sam, Jessie, Buck and their wives, unhappy children, still live there. Esso sent in noisy, large machinery that cleared the ground, paved most of it, but little blades of grass still try to poke their 
skinny necks thru the cracks to taste the sun, grow into tall, rangy weeds. Thru the pangs and years of griping, complaining to each other, the few hangers on tightened their belts and called No man's land, 'Home Sweet Home.' 

 

On a Thursday, about one p.m., Roy and Marty were tossing horse shoes. Marty was ahead and was disturbed by a dusty black car that stopped near the championship game. Two strangers were inside. A flat tire was easily visible. The driver got out, asked politely if there was a service truck available to help him out. His face was crestfallen, clearly worried, until Marty told him, 'Sorry, NO, sir. But I can do it for you.' A smile, a hand into his his pocket, the stranger put a ten dollar bill into Marty's hand. At first Marty said, 'No thanks,' but with a little prodding, did accept a twenty. Roy was glad for Marty's good fortune but kept his slight envy private.

 

The lady in the car got out while Marty tended to the tire. She struck up a conversation with Roy. 'Is there a lunch room near-by, Sir?' She asked. 'Not one you would call that, but you can get a cheese or a chicken sandwich, on fresh Louie's bread in our bake shop–and an eclair like none you've ever tasted. Louie and his wife run our only lunch room/bakery. It's what you folk's might call a few blocks away. Walk up to the NO fishing sign on the right side of the road, turn left and you'll almost fall into Louie's. We were there no more than fifteen minutes after they got there. On  the counter was a box, not yet tied, that surely held about a dozen eclairs. The car lady had a smear of chocolate on her cheek and bright shiny eyes. She offered Marty and Roy each one, but, as tempted as they were, they declined.

 

Two weeks later bedlam hit Doomstown. Louie ran down the street like a wild man, waving a piece of paper to any and everyone he saw. A crowd of about 15 neighbors circled around him. Louie lisped, a bit of saliva flew out of his mouth. 'Somebody wants to buy my little lunch shop and bakery, if I'll bake the eclairs and other good sweets. I'm sure it's the people whose flat Marty fixed. 'Jessie, you have a lap top, don't you? Look at this on the letter. Isn't this an e-mail address?'  Jessie e-mailed the Glicks, briefly told them that Louie was interested.

 

In just one week The Glick's returned to Doomstown, with an attorney and suggested Louie get one too, a good one. Another week, another week, and the deal was made. Everyone in Doomtown was delighted for Marty but miserable when the details were in order. Marty has his little (empty) shop and house for sale, may never get a customer but will have a large, fully equipped bakery in Newark before Thanksgiving. During the wait to move, he has been working on a great recipe for pumpkin pies.

 

The town is a wee bit smaller.