Exploring

Things just keep getting better in Halcyon as I discover that the Post makes one hell of a mean burger. Homemade, all beef, charred to perfection, with loads of toppings it exceeded my expectations and then some. The super crispy steak fries then took it to a whole new level. For a bar that advertised their pizza first and foremost it had been a pleasant surprise. Ric was going to love hearing about such a great meal.

The Post was quiet with just a couple of gray haired regulars trading outdated gossip so I decided to explore my new home patch after my meal. I begin to roam the perfect grid pattern of the streets of Halcyon beneath the dappled shade of the ash trees that lined nearly every lane and the many lilac and chokecherry that were dotted here and there. The greenery wasn’t nearly as lush as I was used to back east but given the semi-arid grasslands beyond the town’s borders the place was a veritable oasis by comparison. Like the people the plants had to be hardy survivors to thrive out here. Though the frontier days were far in the past an hint of that pioneering spirit still clung to this place.

There were few sidewalks in town and no need for them as everybody just walked on the streets. As I stroll I meet a number of friendly locals, even recognizing a couple from my outing the night before. And I see the old fella on the quad who seemed to make it his business where everybody was going. Without fail the people give me a nod and a kindly greeting, even as they quietly wondered who this new ginger was roaming their town. I am only too happy to nod back and echo back their comments about the nice weather.

It doesn’t take long before I’d seen the main sights of the town. The town office with the attached library, the small school, the baseball diamonds and hockey rink, some quaint shops and the smattering of other businesses that called this place home. There was even a cool woodworking shop in a converted house with a chainsaw carved eagle in the front yard that looked like it made bespoke guitars and other stringed instruments. I also come across the beauty salon I was told about but I keep my distance for now as I didn’t want to get distracted by Cassidy with my evening phone call still to come. There was almost a uniformity to the dwellings, most of them stand alone buildings that ranged from poor white trash to barely upper middle class, with almost nothing above or below that range. There were no palatial mansions and no squalid tenements or homeless squatters, the whole of societies classes were sort of smooshed into the lower middle section of the ladder.

All in all it was just a town. Nothing special. The streets were laid out in a grid because they could be, there was nothing in this empty landscape to get in the way. But while the town’s bloom had faded but it had held onto something special that was hard to define. Life moved at a slower pace here. People still smiled at their neighbor and asked about their day. It was by no means some kind of wonderland of nostalgic Americana, far from as I see plenty of the things that give these small towns such a bad rap among the more urbane, but when taken as a whole it felt…homey.

I was just about to head back to the motel when at the far end of a street, right at edge of town where the deeper greens from lawn grass faded into the paler greens of wild grass, I spot another cool little shop being run out of a converted two-story house that desperately needed a fresh lick of paint. At the near corner of the house was a little rounded tower section that had a third floor. At the peak of the tower was a black iron weather vane in the shape of a raven. The place had…character. The detached garage was surrounded on three sides with detached shower doors, signs from defunct businesses, coils of rusting barbed wire, and god only knows what else leaning against the walls. In the overgrown yard sat tables filled with old bottles, mugs, knick-knacks and even tools just sitting there fully exposed to the elements and with nobody watching over them. A faded hand painted sign above the door advertises it as ‘Raymond’s Vintage Shop: Antiques and Collectibles’. Looking back to the junk sitting on the tables I shake my head and ponder the meaning of ‘antique’.

“Heh!” I mutter as I snap a photo to send to Ric later. “Cool.”

With a few minutes to spare I decide to check it out.

Bells attached to the creaky screen door jingle as I enter Raymond’s, a musty wave hitting my senses as I cross the threshold. The outside had been a perfect teaser for what was inside. Every shelf, every table, every surface inside the place was lined with item after item of the most useless shit I’d ever seen. There were multiple shelves of VHS tapes and just as many of old DVDs. There were dinner plates and collectible spoons and kitchen gadgets ‘as seen on TV’ from the 1980s, and mismatched sets of golf clubs, and owner’s manuals from cars I’d never even heard of and so, so, so much more. It was a museum of mundanity as from what I could see there wasn’t a single object in here that could be considered rare or special. It was just a bunch of…stuff. There was so much my eyes couldn’t linger for even a second before something else pulled them off in another direction. It was overwhelming!

The aisles between the tables, shelves, display cases and the like were barely two feet wide, meaning I had to step carefully as I began to explore so as not to knock anything over in my wake. The house hadn’t been redesigned in any way meaning it still had the layout of a family home. To my left was the living room was which stuffed with living room type bric-a-brac, down the hall was the kitchen chock full of kitcheny things and to my right was the dining room which seemed to have no theme whatsoever.

Tucked into the corner of the dining area, atop a spindly brass and glass end table, an item snags my shifting gaze. A binder. An open binder full of plastic sleeves which were filled with…baseball cards!

“Ohhh, yes!” I whisper, my legs already taking me there. Excitedly I begin flipping through the binders pages to see three by three grids of players from yesteryear. The cards were hardly in mint condition and they were from a smattering of different sets and different years, running from the late 80s into the 90s. By my guess they were the collection from some kid at the time. That was fine by me as I wasn’t looking through the lens of an obsessive collector searching for a treasure, I was looking through the eyes of a super fan who loved his Atlanta Braves even more than hamburgers. I didn’t care about rarity, I didn’t need mint condition, I just needed… “Oh!” I stop dead, staring at the cards. “No fucking way. Tom Glavine. Holy shit, two Tom Glavines!” I whisper. “Maddux.” Turning the page I gasp. “Smoltz!” They were players before our time but my brother could recite these name and their legendary abilities like others could Olympian gods.

Behind me I hear the creak of stairs as someone descends to the main floor from above. Raymond no doubt. I hear them come to stand at the entrance to the dining room and stop about ten feet behind me. Enthralled by the binder I ask without looking back. “You sell these individually or do I have to buy the whole binder?” I flip another page, then another. “These are great.” With a laugh I flip a few more pages, scanning each one for more Braves. After a few more seconds I stop as I realize my question had gone unanswered. Turning around I say again. “I was wondering if you sell these individ…” The words die on my lips as a pair of eyes as dark as a moonless midnight peer into mine from across the room. “You!”