The Old, Weird, America

Some folks say that the Old, Weird, America is a place long time gone. A distant memory that should be cast away in the name of the new and clean.

It is truth that the Old, Weird, America is a dark and dingy place. Many of its inhabitants bordering on the scoundrelous, the kind that will rob you of your watch when you're laying face-down in a ditch after a few too many. Though there are also many here who cast a nearly saintlike glow and will pick you up out of that same ditch and help you home (they may even give you time). There are many more that are just your average folks, the kind that may just pass you by and leave you to your own business. They may pass judgment unto you or they may not and leave that up to your lord. One thing though is for certain, they number exactly 374 in this little town... Or maybe it's more to the tune of 5053: the Census Man was shot at last time he came through, and that was nigh twenty-five years ago and he ain't been back since.

Many of the men belong to fraternal orders, some of the orders are in good standing, some in not-so-good-standing, and a few that we probably shouldn't talk about, well at least not here. Strange rituals though are the order of the day. Really not unlike those you'd find in most church houses as it should be said. Last week a Shaman erected a longhouse on the leeward side of Lester Hill and has only allowed a few chosen few entrance, the mayor's son being among them. Some nights other locals gather at a large bonfire at midnight and their silhouettes can be seen dancing around the flames through the shadows of the trees from across the river.

An early Autumn storm blows the first fallen leaves across the brick main street a few houses up from downtown and you can see some of the folk hustle into The Hole In The Wall featuring a violent neon exclaiming SHLITZ: "THE BEER THAT MADE MILWAUKEE FAMOUS" in the bar's only, grease covered, window. As they scurry in, they form a bottleneck at the door. The small man makes it in last, but you know not to judge: there is important talk that must be had within. This is standard fare in The Old, Weird, America.

A carnival set up their tents last summer in the old brome field south of town, arriving by train pulled by a rusting steam engine. It still sits on the abandoned siding leading into the field. Maybe the locomotive gave up the ghost or perhaps the carnival folk just like the place... Either way, they are still here and they are staying. It's not unusual to see The Illustrated Man or George Washington in blackface walk into the Wolworth's in The Old, Weird, America to buy a new coat. Siamese twins or The Boygirl are a normal sight in the local watering holes.

As twilight descends, you hear a beautiful caterwauling emanating from The Hole In The Wall.

A man sings:
"When I was just a little boy
So my mother told it to me
Way, haul away
Haul away, Joe"

The barroom chorus responds:
"Way, haul away,
The good ship now is rollin' to me
Way, haul away
Haul away, Joe"

The sound is striking as it rolls out of the barroom door, cutting through the autumn air. But what captivates you is the man walking up to the telegraph pole carrying something in each hand.

Stepping into the light of the shaded lamp mounted to the pole with the brim of his fedora shadowing his eyes, he sets down a small amplifier alongside his guitar case. He plugs the amp into an outlet at the bottom of the pole. Out of the case he pulls a battered hollow body guitar. He plugs this ax into his amp switching it from off to on.

As the tubes in the amp warm up and begin to hum through its speaker, you step forward and drop a greenback into his guitar open case.

Just as the courthouse bell strikes nine, the man begins to play. You hear the man bear his soul under the soft glow of the shaded incandescent in The Old, Weird, America.