Memoirs of Working on Highways in the Rural South

Death and Taxes

It's strange being in a the middle of quaint old town, and being all alone at once.

I don't mean "alone" in the metaphysical sense. I mean alone in that I'm the only living sole around.

In the distance I can hear an old pickup truck rumble past. As it crosses the railroad tracks bisecting the town, it rattles with agony. The squeaky springs pierce the air as the driver steps on the gas.

Next to my state vehicle, the red brick storefronts look forlorn. I peer inside, through the dusty plate glass. Looking into a shadowy abyss, I can make out forgotten tools and fallen gypsum board. Old rags are scattered on the floors, along with other miscellaneous junk.

In an effort to stop the unrelenting rays of the sun, from ruining their street front displays, some store owners stuck tinted film over the glass. The long, total purple strands peel back and bubble, losing the battle Winter sun.

As I continue to walk down the street, another truck passes by. The driver stares blankly at me, hardly noticing my timid wave greeting him.

It is clear to me, even though the railroad and depot remain, trains haven't stopped hear in an eternity. The road bed, right against the street, rises some four or five feet above it in a steep bank.

This gravel wall effectively split the town; on one side, several blocks over, was a modern four-lane highway were several business struggles. On my side; nothing.

Indeed the only permanent businesses in town seemed to be a handful of gas stations, and an equal number of black funeral homes.

One of these funeral homes was situated in what could've been a mid-century bank or post office. The receiving area was situated along a horizontal ribbon of plate glass. The lobby was in this view, visible to all who drove by. Large portraits of the deceased lined the wall facing out into the street. They were dressed in their best clothes, in happier times of course.

Indeed, the only ones smiling seemed to be the dead. Perhaps they had seen the town in its heyday, making memories on the now empty sidewalks.

Nearly tripping over a bike, I noticed one of the stores was open!

Antiques and gardening tools lined the sidewalk, enticing me into its doors. Hey, I like old stuff. A large nickel-solver boombox sat next to the front door playing soul music.

Inside, it was dark like the other stores. Pendent lights hung from the cracked, water-stained ceiling, but they were off. They glowed a ghostly grey in the sunlight.

Out of the shadows, I heard somebody clear their throat.

"How're you doing today, young man? Just looking around?"

An older African-American man greeted me. He was bent down adjusting a large console television. The picture was murky, and there was no sound. He seemed glad to see me, his white hair and facial stubble adding to his friendly demeanor.

I explained to him I worked for the Highway Department, and was just on my break. He seemed satisfied with that answer, and invited me to look around.

As I walked aimlessly around the closely packed shelves and pieces of furniture, I found myself struggling to stay upright. Carpet scraps covered holes and missing floorboards. The darkness didn't help.

A lot of the items in there took me back to my grandparents' house. Rotary dial phones, Bake-lite radio clocks. Others reminded me of the caretaker I had growing up. Jean skirts and big church hats, none of which lacked a variety of ribbons and pins. Even in the dim, dusty surroundings, they immediately drew my eyes.

The television set cane to life, causing me to nearly spring backwards. The sound was still that of a broken record, but eventually the gentleman got it to work properly.

He didn't seem to mind that a stranger was in his store. I faded back into the maze of clothes, like a ghost wandering an abandoned building.

As I sifted through a rack of jeans, I realized that all of it was women's clothes. All of it about the same size. I turned around to look back towards the man, now sitting quietly invested in daytime television.

I couldn't help but rationalize that he knew the people who wore these clothes. They were relatives, maybe friends. The clothes were the unsettled items of their estates.

I couldn't help but feel an immense sadness. As the saying goes, "You can't take it with you when you die."

The old man thanked me for stopping in, and I went back to work on the four-highway. A train horn echoed in the distance.