Weaverville

20 minutes

General Audience

A faded yellow Civic paused at the corner of 7th and Main Street. It inched forward into the intersection, where it made a sharp left. The car rolled on for a quarter-mile, past metered spots, mostly empty. It suddenly made a u-turn, and settled along an unmarked stretch of curb on the opposite side of the road.

As it shut off, the Civic's engine seemed to complain, like a stallion years past its prime. Derek Davis cracked the door, then opened it the rest of the way with his boot. He planted his foot on the graying asphalt, and rolled up out of the bucket seat. Main Street was on an incline, the town center descending, or maybe just slipping into, the nearby Ohio River. Derek needed two attempts to get to his feet. He tapped the car door in just the right spot to unlock the hinge, letting gravity pull it closed. He pushed the keychain lock button, then, remembering, locked it manually.

As he did so, he found another place where the paint job, once a loud canary yellow, had chipped away. The difference was less noticeable back here in Weaverville than it had been at Florida State. The large spoiler on the back was another matter. It looked embarrassed to be there. But maybe that was just Derek. Anyway, it would have to go.

He stepped to the sidewalk and began marching toward 7th and Main. His phone said Nickles Hardware was still in business, but he hadn't been able to spot it coming round the corner. The sound of his boots on the sidewalk was muted. He was practically alone in Weaverville's sleepy downtown, but the acoustics felt off, as if the pavement sucked up all the noises, and ushered them off before they could become a problem. The pavement itself was pure Weaverville. Cracked in places; brand new in others,  a patient in triage. When a thing -- a car, a town -- was past trade in, it was time to get a new one.

But there wasn't going to be a new Weaverville. The establishments he passed were like the pavement. There were three fine old stone buildings, this one housing First Bank, that one offices, and the third what Weaverville called an upscale hotel; the Whidnar, where he'd had a high school job. But these were mingled in with a run of shops with boxy, peeling facades. A few were diners, or bars, or small stores with sparse shelves and more lights on than customers inside. Derek passed three that had closed for good, chains across the doors as if to keep the world from taking any more.

There was something vaguely wrong about the air. It wasn't a stench, exactly. It wasn't that specific. It was just a murky, used feeling in vapor form. The smell of a crawlspace, or of something bought at a yard sale. It spread over everything.

Townies said it was the Ohio River, or the collected, vestigial atmosphere of the thousand factories that used to line it. Those had started closing when Derek was still learning to walk. Once upon a time, Weaverville had been "Little Las Vegas." The crooner Dean Hennessey had grown up here, and the mob sent dealers to cut their teeth in its illegal casinos before they went off to Nevada. Maybe it would have been better for the town if Hennessey had stayed, instead going on to Hollywood. All that was left of that past were murals that the town still maintained — at the expense of the sidewalks, Derek supposed.

He paused briefly before a Chinese restaurant. Once, on lunch break from his job at the Whidnar, he'd stopped here for some Beef Lo Mein. The printed menus had their prices written-in by hand beside others blacked out with marker. When he'd come in, a small Chinese woman, and a fat, black-haired Caucasian cook in an absurd kimono had appeared from nowhere. He remembered them looking at him with something like confusion, as if they were already ghosts, and hadn’t expected company. The Lo Mein tasted as if it had been heated in a microwave. The Chinese woman had hovered around him, maybe to make sure he was real. Now, looking at the long-closed establishment, Derek wondered if he'd been its last customer. He started walking again.

As he neared the intersection with 7th Street, he wondered if the town had always been gray. He tried to get a fix on the dull, sepia malaise, but couldn't pin the color down. Here was a blue mailbox. There the red "Expired" ticker on an empty parking meter by an empty parking space. At Florida State, Derek had learned the ins and outs of advertising. He knew how to say "Hope lives here," with complementary hues. He knew the geometry of, "This should be fun." The town didn't know these things, or hadn't in a while. The colors were all there, more or less where they should be, but the pallet was impoverished, somehow. It was like walking in a flashback.

Derek rounded the corner onto 7th, and looked for 1904, where Nickles Hardware should be. He felt a sudden foreboding. There was something he should be remembering, but he couldn't think what. The big hardware store outside town had been bright inside. Inside, you could forget about Weaverville. The people milling the aisles all lived somewhere. But coming down here felt like coming back. Derek had no intention of coming back. He'd worked too hard to ever come back.

When he found Nickles Hardware, he wasn't surprised he'd driven by. The shop's façade was beige vertical siding framing glass display windows that were lifeless in the same unaccountable way as the general atmosphere. Very little was displayed there. The large block letters, once orange or red, had faded to match the exterior walls. A sign in the glass read OPEN.

Derek walked up to the door, and looked through its small window just to be sure. There were lights on inside. He saw tools hanging on the walls, pvc piping of various sizes in bins, some spray bottles, and shelving with paint cans in the back. He pulled on the handle.

The door stuck a moment, and he thought it was locked after all. Then it suddenly gave. Ringing bells announced his presence. The sound was actually comforting. Proof of life inside. There was no one behind the counter. He felt as if he were invading someone's living room. There was a call bell on the counter, and he considered tapping it, then changed his mind, and walked back toward the paint section.

Derek thought it unlikely he'd find the drillable wood filler he'd come for. Doing projects at the family home had always been Derek's way of keeping peace with Dad, when he knew what he wanted was not what his father wanted for him. In this case, Dad wanted him back in Weaverville after college, not going off to the parts of the world where the sun still shone. Dad had a connection at First Bank on Main. It was a sure thing, if Derek took it. But Derek had interviews lined up at two advertising firms in New York, and one in Silicon Valley. His father was dreaming.

Derek knew it was a dream of love. Good intentions, and all that. Dad still believed in Weaverville. His father didn't want to admit that the place was already dead. Admitting that would make it so. He loved his parents, but his loyalty didn't extend to this ghost town he'd worked so hard to escape. Now he sighed, and looked dubiously over the shelves' meager offerings.

In a place this small, he assumed they'd group similar items in one row. He guessed right. Cans of paint, wood stain, lacquer, and sanding paper. It was all there, lovingly spaced to hide its paucity. Since the big store hadn't had what he needed, he really doubted he'd find it here.

Derek stopped short, and smiled. He reached above him, retrieving a yellowing, pint-sized tub of Lumberdry. The tub had been sitting back in the shadows all by itself. It looked old. Very old. But there wasn't any expiration date. At $5.99 he might as well. He turned it over in his hand. He had a strange feeling, like synchronicity, or déjà vu.

"You finally find what you're looking for, Deek?"

Derek looked up the aisle toward the register. The clerk was behind the counter now, smiling at him. It only took Derek a moment to recognize the speaker's face. He felt a little knot in his gut, and understood why he'd felt uneasy on the way here. How could he have forgotten who owned the place? And, even without seeing the clerk, the name ‘Deek’ would have given it away. That's what they'd called him in middle school. By sophomore year, he was just Derek. He'd shed Deek, as he's shed his own gangly body and acne-scarred face. He'd also shed the one friend who'd wanted to keep him Deek, because the kid couldn't follow where Derek was going. Shane Nickles. That was a long time ago.

Derek walked toward the checkout counter. He had a vague feeling of guilt, like a sin never confessed, and almost forgotten. There'd been a time when he and Shane had been friends, and there'd be a time when Derek had made new ones. In high school, Derek had punished himself for three and half years to get a chance to become something other than Deek "The Geek" Davis. He'd made second-string quarterback to Jason Hawley, Wonderboy, and rode the bench as a senior rather than slip back into being Deek. And it had paid off. He'd gotten his shot, and made good. Not that he’d actually played football at FSU, but that hardly mattered. He’d gotten away, far away, making use of the tools he had.

At the counter, Derek smiled at Shane, and placed the Lumberdry down. The pudgy man looked at it curiously, and frowned.

"Think it'll work?" he said.

Derek shrugged. "I mean you're selling it."

Shane looked up at him thoughtfully. He was, Derek thought, not much changed from high school. While Derek was bulking up, and learning how to carry himself with confidence, Shane was getting wider, and scrubbier, and becoming the kind of kid who acts like he doesn't care, because he doesn't really know how to behave. Shane would pass him in the hall sometimes, Derek talking too loud, out of his depth, or staring longingly over at Derek and his new friends. He hadn't tried to treat Shane like a leper, but he hadn't tried not to. By junior year, Shane didn't greet him in the hallways anymore, and Derek didn't bother with friendly nods that said, "Hey there. We used to hang out."

He didn't feel bad about it. Not that bad, really. At fifteen, Derek had seen what he wanted, and run after it. Not his fault if Shane couldn't keep up. Not his problem if Shane still looked almost the same way he had at high school graduation. But now Derek took in the heavy-set frame, and the soft blue eyes, and wondered what was different about him. It wasn't his appearance. It was his countenance. There wasn't any resentment there. He looked quite peaceful.

"Well," said Shane, smiling warmly, "let's hope it works this time, eh?"

Derek wrinkled his brow.  "Yeah, okay. You had other customers who said it didn't? I mean the seal's still intact, but this tub looks pretty old."

Shane flashed a sage grin, and placed his meaty palms together. "Keep all the impurities out, and you won't have any trouble. Well, I suppose that's the way these things go."

"Yeah, suppose," said Derek, looking around the room.

He would have thought there was a subtext to Shane's words, but the other exuded such warmth, Derek must have been imagining it. Shane seemed happy. Happier, in fact, than Derek was at the moment. Derek sensed no bitterness in him. Yet he felt the other was trying to tell him something anyway. Not knowing what else to do, he took out his wallet, and counted out ones. He pressed them toward Shane's hands, still placed palm-to-palm, as if in prayer. Shane pulled his hands back quickly, then held them up, palms out.

"It's on the house," he said.

"Naw," said Derek, "you guys need the business."

Shane smiled. "No. We don't."

Derek laughed nervously, hovered the bills in the air in indecision, then finally returned them to his wallet. Again, he thought Shane was saying more than his words. Maybe just refusing business to an old turncoat friend to make a point. But one look at Shane's face convinced him he was wrong. No one could be that warm, and that cold. Still, the situation felt off. If Shane wasn't going to bring the matter up, maybe he should. No. No, he really shouldn't.

"Well, thanks," said Derek, picking up the tub. He nodded awkwardly, and turned to go. He was near the door, when Shane spoke again.

"Just one thing, Deek. You didn't answer my question."

Derek stopped, and looked at him, shrugging the question back at Shane.

"I asked," said Shane, "if you found what you're looking for."

Derek sighed. So there had been a subtext.

"I don't know, man. I'm finding it. I'm closer."

Shane's expression was thoughtful. There was no judgment in it.

"What does it look like, Deek?"

Derek shrugged with his eyes.

"Guess I'll know when I see it. If I had to give it a name, it'd be...Something More."

Shane pondered that. He nodded approvingly.

"We weren't made to find it here," said Shane, with the weight of authority.

"You got that right," laughed Derek. "This place is...it's a town full of ghosts."

Shane folded his hands again, and nodded in a way that invited Derek to expound on that. Suddenly, as if some Muse had just alighted on his shoulder, Derek knew just what it was that bothered him about Weaverville. It was something he'd noticed all his life; well, for half his life. It had grown in him, day-by-day, until he couldn't stand it anymore. Now, for the first time, he could put it into words. In doing so, he could also tell Shane why he'd had to leave him behind. That it hadn't been personal.

"Just look around you," Derek began. "You can feel it in the air. It's like... there are still people in the stores, and in the houses, but they're not there beside each other. It's not about whether the population of Weaverville is growing or shrinking. It's just a lot of people, all living one-by-one, but all alone. Like those movies with the people who don't know they're dead. They're all ghosts. Even the businesses are ghosts. They just can't admit it yet. They come out at night. They go to the bars. They still go to see the Red Dogs play. For a few moments a day, they get together, and pretend they're all still living. But life has passed this place by. It's all gone gray, but they can't go. They’re all stuck."

He stopped talking, surprised, and a little embarrassed at his little monologue. Shane pondered him. Derek should have been unsettled by his penetrating gaze, but something in his gut relaxed instead. He'd made his confession. If Shane was offended by what he'd said, there was no sign of it.

"That was very poetic, Deek," said Shane, in a voice that seemed too  collected, to come from the greaser kid he used to know. "Poetic, but only half true. You're missing something. May I tell you what?"

Derek opened the hand not holding the tub.

"Sure."

Shane clasped his fingers together, and seemed to lean forward.

"The thing is, Deek, the world is full of ghosts. Some of them still have blood coursing through their veins. They pay taxes. They go to work. But they're already dead. But then there's the other kind. They don't breathe anymore, but the air they taste is sweet, and the world in which they move is bright, and full of wonder. See, you can be living, without really being alive. And the other way around too. Life is a matter of perspective, Deek. Being dead is too. If you're alive, then you put life into the world. You make it bright. If you're dead, then you can nibble and nibble. You can fly all over, looking for the sun, but it won't warm you. Because you've missed the point."

Derek frowned. "And what's that?"

"That life is a choice, Deek. You're alive if you decide you are."

 #

The Civic made a left on Stack, a right on Hill until it became 8th, then another left on Adams Street. It snaked its way up into the hills overlooking Weaverville. Away from the town center, Weaverville became a place. Nearly every home had cars in the driveway, and a lived-in look. He slowed down, passing a group of kids of mixed ages. A girl of about twelve rode a pink bicycle, trailing two older boys. Another boy of about seven carried a toy boat, and ran behind them, yelling, and trying to keep up. Derek supposed the kids were homeschooled. Jake wouldn't get out for another week.

His younger brother, as far as Derek could tell, was a lot like him. They were too far apart in age to be close, but with two older sisters, Jake had eagerly awaited his return from college. He found himself spending a lot of time with the kid, drawing energy from Jake's enthusiasm for life. They looked alike too; both sandy-haired and long-boned. He could see his little brother eyeing his frame, dreaming of the muscles he'd have when he worked hard enough. He was Jake's image of cool. Derek hadn't had that. He'd had to make his own image, and turn himself into what he thought it was.

Turning onto Cardinal Street, he passed the Hawley home. It was a sprawling rambler with a huge yard. In Tallahassee, a house like that wouldn't be in the same neighborhood with the modest little family homes on Cardinal. Derek thought of old books and TV shows where one rich man lived in the one big house at the end of the street. It didn't seem to work that way anymore. Out in the world, there were neighborhoods you didn't go in, then there were developments where you'd go, but wouldn't want to actually live. The big, new houses were all in their own slick developments, with streets whose names had no connection to history, fabricated, like their manicured landscaping, in the minds of developers. Those houses were too large to be practical, with pristine, identical lawns that seemed too small for them. It was a particular kind of modern ugly that he just couldn't stand. He had to admit that this was a point for Weaverville.

Cardinal Street rounded slowly east, and Summit was near the end of it, just before the road angled steeply downhill. Derek turned onto his old road, and drove toward the house. There was space in the long driveway, but he parked on the curb. He grabbed the Lumberdry, and got out. Walking up the lawn, he thought of happy days tossing the ball around with Dad. There hadn't been any tension then, only a bright-eyed kid who didn't know enough yet to be discontent with his station in life.

Derek opened the front door like he was robbing a museum, and slipped downstairs. The door to the basement bathroom was swinging clear of the hinge plate, the wood no longer holding the screw. His drill and tools were still out where he'd left them, there being no little people in the house to worry about these days. He'd just removed the door, and set it against the hallway, when he heard his father come down the stairs.

"Saw you pull up. Did you have any trouble?"

Derek glanced up to acknowledge his father.

"Hey, Dad. They actually didn't have wood filler at Home Depot."

His father nodded, unsurprised. "I don't think they inventory well at that one. I've had to go to the Weirton location so often, now I just go straight there. Ends up saving me time in the end."

Derek nodded. "Good to know."

"But you found some?"

"Yeah," said Derek, handing him the Lumberdry.

His father took the off-white tub. He squinted at it, and turned it over curiously in his hands.

"I wonder if these things expire?" he said.

"Yeah," said Derek. "Was wondering the same. I couldn't find a date on it."

His father looked at him curiously, then at the small tub.

"Haven't seen this brand in years," he said, handing it back gingerly, as if it might disintegrate.

Derek took it absently, while he rooted around in his toolbox for a putty knife. That done, he cracked the plastic seal on the tub, and unwrapped it. He opened the Lumberdry, and poked his finger into the putty. It gave easily, and he rubbed a pinch between his pointer and thumb.

"Seems good," he said.

His father nodded, looking thoughtful.

"So you went to Home Depot first. Did you see Jason?"

Derek searched his memory banks for a Jason. Only one came to mind.

"You don't mean Wonderboy?" asked Derek.

Jason Hawley, Wonderboy, had been the Red Dogs' starting quarterback all four years. Except for one game. The championship game, which Hawley had been losing, before he'd gotten hurt. The game that gave Derek the chance to be hero-for-a-minute, and helped him get out of this town. He looked at his father curiously.

"Is he in town?" Derek said.

"If by 'in town' you mean 'lives in Weaverville', then yeah," said his father. "He's been working at that Home Depot for around two years. Stocking shelves. Simple stuff."

Derek shook his head in disbelief.

"You didn't know?" asked Dad.

Derek hadn't known. His father shifted; leaned against the door frame. Derek saw that he'd put on some weight. His belly spilled out a little over his belt.

"Jason, I guess, didn't take to college very well. Came back here. He has some problems, you see."

"Hmm," said Derek.

It sounded like Wonderboy might have a few cracks after all, but Derek decided not to pry into it. Not that they'd been friends or anything. Especially after that game. But it was unsettling anyway to think that Jason couldn't escape Weaverville. The place was like a black hole. He stuck the putty knife into the wood filler, and began smearing it generously into the drill holes.

"The thing is," continued his dad, "even after that game, and the injury, he didn’t lose the scholarship. But after rehab, he didn't play well. Wasn’t the same old Wonderboy. That’s when the other problems started, I guess. Just wasn’t meant to be."

Derek frowned at the familiar expression, but decided to let the comment pass. Then he couldn't.

"In my opinion," he began, treading lightly, "there's no such thing. The problem with guys like Jason, is that everything comes too easy for them. As long as he was Wonderboy, he could do no wrong. But he didn't know what it was to really want something. To work for it. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t bounce back. There's no 'meant to be' about it."

Derek felt his father suddenly tense, then, more deliberately, relax. There was a long silence. He made doubly sure the putty was pressed in deep, then began scraping it flat. He could feel his father trying to formulate the words to broach the same subject that he'd repeatedly tried to close. Without looking, he saw Dad's mouth open and close the way it did sometimes. Like a fish feeding.

"Son, don't take this the wrong way, but...are you certain of what you want? Can you paint me a picture of it?"

He said it so gently, so cautiously, that the question got past Derek's defenses. He found himself trying to draw that picture. It came in flashes, images of success and victory, but without specific content. He tried to think of himself making it in New York, or California, or even Florida. That was the main thing; making it. Being one of those who lived in the light, and moved where they wished.

"I remember," continued his father, "how much you used to hate the commercials during games. You used to talk about how fake it all was."

"Except Super Bowl," said Derek.

"Well, of course," said Dad.

But Derek knew what his father was driving at. Derek had always wanted something authentic. He found even normal small-talk difficult because it seemed so fake. He'd majored in advertising, not because he loved the shrink-wrapped, neon insincerity of that field, but because he was good at it. Especially, because it could make him money. But it wasn't even money that he wanted. It was freedom. It was light, and movement. He needed to escape the well-worn treads of his birth town before he could even see what was worth having. What he wanted was everything that wasn't in Weaverville.

He looked up at his father. Dad's face had a sincerity that almost forced Derek to admit how much he'd hated his major, and the actual content of the work he planned to do, even though it would be a point against him. After all, he could always do something else once he'd set aside some money. Travel, maybe.

"I don't know, for sure, what I want," Derek began. "But I know what I don't want. I don't want to live in Weaverville. I want...I want something vital."

His father nodded. Derek saw that he was really thinking about his words, not just coming up with a retort.

"Living things," continued Derek, not trying to press the point, but just thinking out loud, explaining it to himself, "move themselves. They don't rest on...on this idea of 'meant to be.' They..."

But he couldn't finish the thought. The more he considered it, the more he had to admit that he only knew the attributes, the superficial characteristics, of the thing he wanted. Not the substance of it. He tried a different tack.

"Dad, if you take a right out of Summit, and keep driving down that hill, you end up on Main Street."

His father nodded.

"Well, it's dead. It's full of people, and businesses, and houses out of place and out of time. And running out of time, too. I want to live on the real Main Street. The Main Street that should be there, but isn't. It's in other places now. Not in Weaverville. I don't just want to live there. I want to be one of the people who gives life to it. I want to shape it. I want to live in a place that can still be shaped. This place is a..."

He wanted to say "fossil," or maybe "graveyard," but the words sounded biting and cruel in his mind. His father seemed to understand anyway. To Derek's surprise, he didn't look hurt or offended, as on other occasions. Only deeply thoughtful. He pointed at the puttied hole, then leaned in to rub it with his finger.

"You're going to need to sand this when it's dry, Dee—Derek."

Derek nodded. His father quietly sighed.

"The way I see it, son, life lives where you put it. A place is a place, if you love it first. If you love it, you can change it. Make it beautiful to everybody, not just you.”

Derek put his hands on his knees, thinking.

"If a guy can’t grow in his own soil,” continued his father. “I don’t think some other soil is gonna magically fix everything. All over the country, people are getting up and leaving. Throwing away what isn’t new.  Are there times I want to pick up and go? Sure, but then what happens to this place? You wouldn’t ditch a house, or a car, when you could still fix it up. Same thing with  a town. Anyway, that’s just the way I see it.”

Derek studied him. For a moment, his father was not the man who disapproved of him. For a moment he was that same omniscient being from bright days when Derek was happier. It struck him that maybe he already had a good image of what he ought to be, even if he didn’t know what he wanted. That idea unsettled him, and he started looking through the toolbox.

"Don't have any sandpaper," he said. "Do you have some in the garage?"

His father looked at him for a moment, then shook his head no.

"I saw some on the shelf there at Nickles," said Derek, ruefully. "I should have picked it up."

His father frowned at him. Seeing his expression, Derek wondered if his dad thought he was ignoring everything he'd just said. He didn’t know how to answer his father’s comments, but he also didn’t want him to think he was brushing aside his counsel as the ramblings of an old man. It wasn't true. He was listening. But Derek wasn’t ready to make any concessions. Not yet. He started to say something to head this off, but his father’s expression stopped him. The man’s face was a mask of confusion. Even fear.

"You said you got this at Nickles? Nickles Hardware, on 7th Street?"

Derek shrugged. “Yeah. Pretty poor selection, but they had this."

His dad kept looking at him. He suddenly dropped into a crouch, and placed his hand on Derek's shoulder. His grip was gentle, but firm.

"Who was working there?" he asked.

Derek grimaced, his old guilt renewed. "You remember Shane? He was a kid I used to hang out with in middle school." 

His father's face went white. All the blood seemed to have left it. The hand on Derek’s shoulder began to tremble, and then to grip him, vice-like, as if for dear life. His father pulled him to his feet, and all but planted him against the wall.

"Not...Bo Nickles' son? You...used to build models together? In the basement?"

"Yeah," said Derek, puzzled. Something like ice water seemed to trickle down his back. He felt a sudden, nameless fear of he knew not what. His father swallowed, the huge, old man's Adam's apple moving up and down twice like a boxer's glove parrying a blow. There was a long silence as he stared into Derek's eyes. He pinched his shoulder several more times, like he was trying to convince himself that  Derek was really there.

"Son, Nickles Hardware has been closed for three years."

Derek shook his head. His mind began to race. Something... some detail from his first or second year in college. 

"No, I was there an hour ago."

His father shook his head again.

"Bo Nickles is in the nursing home on Willow Avenue. He closed the shop when Shane died." 

There it was. The little detail. In the computer lab at school. The article that popped up on his feed, about the townie who’d...But Derek hadn’t finished it. He hadn’t wanted to know about anything in Weaverville. He’d completely forgotten about it until now. Could it possibly have been..

He slid out from his father’s grasp, heart leaping in his chest, then catching somewhere in void, refusing to come down.

"But I talked to Shane! I was there today!" 

Eyes wide, his father clutched at him again, hugging his boy to himself, holding onto him for dear life. Their minds, for a moment, were one. Both men looked slowly over at the yellowed tub of Lumberdry.  When his father spoke, his voice was distant, alien.

"I guess you wouldn’t know. It happened when you were away.”

He paused, then pressed on. “About your second semester, a little girl ran into the road outside Nickles Hardware. A truck came barreling round the corner from Main Street, and Shane jumped the counter, and went after her. He knocked her out of the way, but...The thing is, Derek, Shane's buried at Union Cemetery."

#

Derek let the heavy glass door shut behind him, and walked to his car. He was parked at the metered space before First Bank on Main Street, not far from his first job at the Whidnar Hotel. The Civic's engine struggled a few times before it finally turned over, but he wasn't too worried about it. Soon he could buy a new one. Or maybe Dad would help him fix it up.

He backed out of the spot, and lingered for a moment in the middle of the avenue. He considered  turning once more onto 7th Street, just to have a look. No. Some things were better left alone.

On the way up Main Street, he went over his conversation with Michael Lawson at the bank. Did he have other job prospects lined up? Yes, he did. Did he understand that First Bank couldn't offer him the same salary he'd get if he went out east or west? Yes, he did. What skills could he bring to First Bank? Did he have anything specific in mind? Yes, something very specific.

Derek surveyed the town. It wasn't entirely dead. He saw a young family — husband, wife, and stroller — making its way toward a diner that was still open. Three boys on bicycles zipped down the sidewalk, making jumps out of the uneven pavement. Maybe two thirds of the businesses here were still clinging to life. So, not dead yet.

He went over the plan he'd presented at his interview. It was a long shot. He figured they'd either take it, and him, or, more likely, they'd promise to give him a call. They'd taken it instead. So that was that. 

He'd coordinate with the city to fix the sidewalks. A small local theater company would help design the new bi-annual festival. The bank and the city together would create the high-yield fund for revitalizing the town. Weaverville's citizens could invest in it, and local businesses would draw from it at specified intervals, pooling their resources to pull themselves up together. Out of gray obscurity. Out of the grave.

And the skies over Weaverville were still a little gray. But there was blue in there too. Roads could be repaved, lampposts fixed and painted, trash removed. Faded colors could be made sharper with just a little work. Some of the greatest works of art had limited pallets. It was all in the way you looked at things.  Wasn’t that the whole point of advertising, to cast things in their best light? No, even better: to draw out the light, color, and drama that was already there, just waiting to be discovered. Weaverville could become a place again. With his skills, Derek was sure he could find its hidden colors. He would summon the ghosts out from their personal mausoleums. He'd make them live again.

Derek looked at Main Street, and, just for a moment, it was resplendent. In his mind, it bustled. True, it was only a potential, a half-reality, frozen at the moment of indecision between being and non-being. But he fixed his eyes on Main Street, seeing what it could be. And seeing, he made it real. 

© 2021 Joseph Breslin All Rights Reserved