I told the van driver to let me off in front of Parkinson’s. He said he didn’t know where that was. I told him it was a restaurant in the middle of downtown. Ocean Avenue. Near Third. After a long pause for recollection, he said the name must have changed. I probably meant Lowder’s. I told him I probably did. He told me to be at the pickup area in front of the police station at 3:00 p.m., no later. Not even one minute. Did I know where it was? I said if it hadn’t moved in 25 years, yes. We pulled up in front of the restaurant. I said I’d see him at three. The door opened. I got out. The door closed behind me.
25 years.
I didn’t recognize anyone, and looking around, apparently, no one recognized me, either. The server looked a lot like Barbara Wachal. I asked if she was Barbara. She said she didn’t know who that was, and what did I want, breakfast menu or lunch, without telling me her actual name. “Breakfast is over in ten minutes.” She handed me two menus and pointed to the clock as if to reinforce the urgency of the message, adding, “You’d better make up your mind because Benny doesn’t like to fuss with eggs and pancakes when he’s got burgers and other stuff on the grill.”
The place had changed a lot. And in some ways not. The pale green malt mixers were gone, as was the ice cream freezer. Someone had painted historical scenes on the walls. I didn’t remember seeing them back then, but I recognized the abandoned thread mill. The dam. The old amusement park. Swinging around on the stool, I saw the front window was mostly covered in blue and white, our high school colors. Reading backward, I could make out “BEAT PAXTON.” The cross-county rivalry had survived another 25 years. I played a couple of seasons of football, mostly enjoyed the games from the bench. Sat there with Charlie Carpenter. He was a dumbass if there ever was one. One time the official field clock on the scoreboard went out and coach asked Charlie to run up to the scorers’ booth to see how much time was left in the half. Charlie came back, breathless, “It’s 8:45.” Coach gave him a look like I’d never seen before in all my seventeen years. Charlie clarified, “Quarter to nine, coach. Quarter to nine.”
25 years.
The woman who wasn’t Barbara Wachal took my order and hurried to the serving window, no doubt to make sure Benny hadn’t changed the rules. He grabbed the order slip, frowned and returned to the grill. My request for eggs over easy, light toast and a slice of ham had made it under the wire. Quicker than I expected, she set my order on the counter and topped off my coffee. I looked up and waved my arm back in the direction of the front windows.
“Homecoming?” I asked.
“Homecoming.”
“Me too,” I said.
25 years.
She turned away without comment, grasping the menus in one hand, coffee carafe in the other. She topped off the rest of the waiting cups down to the far end of the counter. When the place was called Parkinson’s, we used to joke about how Ma wouldn’t eat there because of the name. Like she’d get the sickness, or maybe all of us would. We didn’t often eat in restaurants, so it really didn’t matter. I went there after school sometimes is all. They’d let us smoke in the back booths then, hang out if we didn’t make too much noise. Five o’clock and they’d kick us out for the dinner patrons. I’d go home. Most times he’d be there, Larry, my stepfather. I preferred when he wasn’t.
25 years.
I stepped outside. The sidewalk had little white patches every so many feet where the parking meters used to be. The street was mostly empty of cars. The storefronts a mixed bag of empty with a few scattered attempts at revitalization. More empty than revitalized. The city fathers were talking about it when I left. Probably still are.
25 years.
The County Court House was the one building in town that remained exactly as I remembered. Square. Solid. Stone. The name of the county chiseled above the third-floor windows. The scales of justice intact.
25 years.
I was getting a little winded now. Parnell Street and the Court House were a dividing line between downtown and the residential area. Bigger houses at first where our local version of the rich and famous once lived. From the signs out front, most housed law offices and bail bondsmen. That, too, was as I remembered it. A few still had carriage houses turned into garages. Back then, Caddys and Lincolns. Nowadays, Mercedes and BMWs.
25 years.
Another block. Simmons Street. Narrower sidewalks. Smaller houses. And ours. Don’t ask me why I went there in the first place. I couldn’t give you a straight answer if I tried. The good memories, the bad. Mixing together as one. Tricycles and small red and yellow riding toys. A new generation of kids. In reality, a second or third generation since the days I claimed this as my neighborhood, my house. A car I didn’t recognize—obviously—sat in the driveway. I stopped in front at the walkway leading to the porch. The grass was just beginning to sprout and the earth had a fresh smell to it. I miss that. Ma moved out a few months after I left. I looked at the car again, as if it belonged to an interloper. Like I belonged, and it didn’t.
25 years.
Her funeral was scheduled for 1:30 p.m. I waited outside until I heard the first notes of the organ. Walked in. Took my place in the front row. My stepbrother, Larry Jr., sat on the other side of the aisle. We exchanged not a word, not a glance. I hadn’t seen him since they buried the old man. And my trial. Like it happened yesterday. Cruel sonofabitch. Brutal. Wife beater. Gave him just what he deserved. And justice for Ma. I don’t regret it, or the price I’ve paid ever since.
25 years
#
2:56 p.m. I was early. The van pulled up at 2:59. The door opened at 3:00. I entered. The door closed behind me.
25 to life.
by 
John Timm
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