Peter Grist - Flashback

He glanced briefly into the rear view mirror that was screwed to the dash just to the right of the instrument cluster and was disappointed to see a man in his mid-fifties, short, cropped grey-brown hair and a wrinkled forehead over the top of the modern classic Aviator sunglasses he still wore. ‘At least the dream could have made me younger!’ he mused. He could also just see in the mirror the tops of the huge rear fins that started just behind the doors and reached their dizzying apex just after the trunk with a triple stack of tail lights on either side, one of Virgil Exner’s best designs. Enjoying the experience, he rested further back into the comfy seat, wound the side windows down using the chrome winders and rested his left arm out of the opening and cruised further into the town. The car was a two-door pillarless coupe or two-door hardtop, with the windows down it gave an unhindered panoramic view of the scene. He glanced left as he passed the wide turning for the town square, briefly noting the neat cut grass and bare concrete plinth in the centre, the backdrop of the antebellum town hall with its white marbled columns and steps framing the peaceful scene. The road wasn’t very busy, just a few Army trucks but he slowed slightly so that a two-tone blue and cream 1955 Chevrolet could cross into the square. He passed a dentist, a florist, a grocer and hardware store, all closed or just opening for business, all of which had big canopies over their shop fronts, the stars and bars hanging down from poles placed at 45 degrees between the stores. Some of the street lamps had baskets of flowers hanging from them, fresh and colourful, glistening in the early morning sunshine from recent watering, pearls of water still dripping from underneath and causing lazy puddles on the sidewalk. The blacktop was fresh and smooth, contrasting with the recently painted yellow lines. This seemed like a place where the folks took pride in their town.

He looked ahead and saw that the main intersection was coming up. The traffic light hanging limply overhead showed green, so he depressed the gas pedal a little more and drove onto the crossroads. Ed felt, more than heard the vehicle to his left. He glanced to his side to see the high front grille of a dusty red Dodge pick-up truck thundering swiftly towards him. He slammed on the brakes as the beat-up old pick-up rumbled on, running a red light, the driver seemingly oblivious to the black DeSoto, and for just a moment, he saw the face of a child in the passenger seat, a coloured girl, hands against the side window, pleading, screaming, tears rolling down her face. Then they were gone, but the image was etched into his brain like a Kodachrome photograph. This wasn’t just a petulant child throwing a tantrum, the little girl had obviously been terrified and he had to help. The hard braking had stalled the car for some reason. He turned the key to restart it and the car leapt forward in gear, Ed braked again, way too hard, overreacting and with no seatbelt to restrain him he hit his forehead hard against the steering wheel.

Ed jumped up, startled, banging the back of his head against the head-restraint of his car as he came awake. Yes, his car, his trusty five-year-old dusty blue Mercury. He was shaking uncontrollably and sweat poured from him, with the engine and air conditioning switched off, his car felt like an oven. He blinked away the sweat from his eyes then stared around; he was still parked by the highway on the outskirts of the town. The sun had definitely dropped down in the sky. His shaking hand blindly fumbled for the ignition key, found it and started the 3.0li V6 engine. A blast of ice-cold air came from the ‘air-con’ unit, hitting him in the face, freezing the sweat to the contours of his face. The radio came to life, free of static and REM was singing mournfully that “everybody hurts sometimes”.

He sat there, just staring out of the window. His shaking slowly subsided. Five minutes past, then ten, for a while time lost its meaning. He could remember every single detail, the rusty rocker panels on the late 40s pick-up, the hubcap missing from the back wheel, the terror in the girl’s eyes. It had all seemed so real, but a beat-up Toyota pick-up driving passed in the opposite direction brought Ed back to the present, the other driver staring at Ed, parked in the middle of nowhere. Ed shivered, turned off the radio and turned down the air-conditioning; he knocked the gear lever in the centre console into drive and tentatively moved his car out onto the now empty highway, savouring the quiet except for the reassuring road noise from his tires and low drone of the Mercury’s engine.

He passed the two huge grain elevators again, but this time they looked more tarnished and dull, the surrounding buildings considerably more decrepit. As he drove further into Ludlow he became more agitated the more he looked around. His dream was still very clear, he looked to see if Joe’s diner was there, and yes, the building was there, identical, but instead of the aluminium-sided diner and neon sign he saw the familiar big yellow ‘M’ over the door of a fast food franchise. The 5 and dime was a drugstore now but the building had hardly changed. The malt shop was still on the corner, complete with teenagers leaning against their cars, only now the cars were early nineties pick-up trucks and SUV’s. But how could that be? He’d never set foot in this town before, how could it be so familiar? The whole place looked tired and forlorn, a sure sign that the interstate highway had done no favours to the people that lived here. Many of the smaller businesses were boarded up or had old ‘closing down sale’ signs in their dust-covered shop fronts. Some soldiered on; a hardware store, a pawn shop, a fishing tackle and gun shop all had open signs hanging from their doors. The baskets hanging from the street lamps were rusted and empty; the blacktop was faded and cracked with many a pothole breaking through and the sidewalk slabs were cracked. The only thing that was really different was a dump truck pouring fresh steaming asphalt for a road crew fixing up a patch of blacktop near the turning for the town square.

He drew up to the big intersection in town. The traffic light overhead still showed green, but Ed came to a halt at the stop line. What did he expect to see anyhow, the old Dodge rolling up the road? He felt stupid but still could not manage even the hint of a smile. He used the back of his hand to wipe away a bead of sweat and flinched at the pain. He looked closely into the rear-view mirror and saw a slightly curved bruise coming up on his forehead just above his shades, which to Ed looked roughly the shape of an old steering wheel. He looked up and down the deserted street, spotting an old saloon up on the right; he signalled and turned that way, time for a drink.

The words of Garth Brooks looking back on the memory of a shared dance with a loved one tumbled from the old Wurlitzer jukebox, the large lazy bubbles flowing from either side of the slowly turning light tubes, the bubbles picking up speed as they reached the chrome ornamentation of the domed music machine before finally disappearing. The melodramatic notes of the country singer drifted through the dim light, across the dark, beer-stained hardwood floor, pausing at the empty tables, and finally coming to rest in the ears of the man perched on a stool at the bar, the slow tune not helping to improve the guy’s mood.

“Get you another beer?”

Ed looked up from his long empty glass toward the bartender, bringing him back to the present. “Yeah, sure.” He pushes the empty vessel towards the bartender. A new glass is quickly filled from a tap and placed on the already soggy cardboard beer mat that is advertising a brew called Hoppin’ Frog. He takes hold of the replacement, idly drawing patterns in the condensation on the outside of the long glass and watches intently as the carbon bubbles mimic the juke box and make their way up from the bottom of the glass to join the froth at the top, some attach themselves to the side of the glass only to be knocked off by another bubble racing up behind.