Old Fun Stories - The Introduction

Dr. Lipton Montgomery IV here, folks. I’m glad you’ve decided to join me. This should be fun.

Here we go…

Today’s entry is an introduction. I spent several days in the Old Diner sitting with five old men who used to know the town of Turbot as Terranville. It hasn’t been Terranville since the marshmallow factory closed but they still refuse to call it Turbot. What you will be reading in my weekly entries are the stories these men told about the town they lived in and what it became during that vague period in-between Terranville and Turbot.

The old men called it Fun Town. But, it may never have existed.

Read on…

Imagine a long, two-line road lined with trees. The yellow line is solid double, solid and dashed but, most of the time, it’s dashed. The trees are tall and strong. Leaves are turning brown and red, although a few remain green. The branches are baring themselves. The leaves drop quickly all along the ground. You can see which stretches of road are rarely touched by the amounts of leaves spread around. When you plow through scattered piles that crackle and whoop up all around you, you’re in a rather (more) desolate area of the Route.

Every couple miles you’ll see a warning that the speed limit is going to drop. Slow down and the trees vanish. Sometimes you’ll fly through a town, sometimes it’s a natural clearing or rest stop, sometimes there’s an actual metropolitan area. But, mainly, things are really quiet.

When the road opens up and the sky comes out for Terranville (Turbot), things are still pretty quiet. You won’t see a lot of buildings; most homes are off on side roads, or many people. There’s a large, strange green, triangular building on the south side. Pass through some woods and you’ll slope down to Lake Schulman, which the locals’ll do some fishing on. On the north side is the “Rest Stop” all the signs and arrows have led you to. A large, silver circular building, with an overhang that has a gutter stretching all the way around it. The overhang, depending upon the time of day, lent a strange, thick shadow within the restaurant.

In the space beyond the restaurant, there is an old, decaying building that, apparently, used to be a hotel. But, more about that later.

Inside the diner, things are pretty standard except they’re circular. Two entrances, one on the west side and one on the east. The layout is constructed from three circles. Along the edge of the diner are booths. Perfectly spread out along the whole circumference, with the exception of the doors. Then, there is the counter (after a little circle between booths and counter) which has stools lined up all the way around with four spots for the waitress, Darla, to exit. Between the counter and the center is Darla’s strolling space. All the accouterment necessary for running a good diner was tucked under the counter or in the little refrigerator or in “special” nooks. Then, one would reach the center. Where Ronny cooks. A completely enclosed space except for one door that Ronny locked behind him. Two holes in the wall that flew open and ejected the food. Unless Ronny wanted to see you, he didn’t get seen. No one ever really saw in there (although mythological speculation abounds) and Ronny wouldn’t let me in so this is a rather strange area in an already strange town.

The two days I was there there was never a slew of customers. In fact, the main visitors were the five gentlemen I talked with. Cars pulled up, people stopped in for a quick bite and then left. I was worried that there would be moments when Darla wouldn’t be able to handle it but it was well taken care of. 6-8, 6 days a week. I don’t envy them.

I explained to Ronny and Darla that I’d be asking these men to tell stories. They didn’t seem to mind. Well, actually, they did mind, but, when I’d given them $---- each, they allowed it. Provided it didn’t interfere with their customers or their running of the diner.

So, on October 20, at 7:30 AM, I sat with these five gentlemen and discussed their lives, the stories they knew and, more specifically, what this area was before it was Turbot.

Next time, we will meet the men. Their elaborate stories of Fun Town shall begin.