Breaking Bread

It was a sleepy town that was not quite in a city, but neither was it far enough into farmland to be considered rural. It was just far enough from the hustle and bustle of the urban landscape to maintain a semblance of peace, but still far enough from the backwoods of the arcadian lifestyle to still be considered a suburb. Cul De Sacs and condos dotted stretches of highway, broken up by vacant lots filled with construction halted for the season. Wire chain fences barricaded these dangerous plots where kids managed to find or make breaks in the fences to find open fields to play their games as opposed to riding their bicycles across busy roads for miles until reaching the only shopping plaza in town. These arcades held all the local dives and the only grocery store until the next town over. A single game shop served as the only entertainment venue for out-of-school teenagers who were not quite ready to return to the solitude of their cul de sacs and dead silent homes. Out here many of the adults worked out in the city, not returning home until late hours, or even the next day. It was what many grew up with around here, nothing odd at all. The local sheriff was known to keep an eye on the kids who never got into much trouble beyond trespassing on the construction yards. But out here, in the middle of nowhere, there wasn’t much trouble you could get into. Not much new ever seemed to happen to the town out in the middle of everywhere.

Middletown. That was what everyone called it. It had a proper name, but locals couldn’t tell you what it was anymore, except that one fellow who lived at the edge of town who has been working as the postman for seventy years. It was where nothing ever happened. A safe place to raise your kids. The county’s school was renowned for its education programs with the community college right within the limits of the suburbian town. From grade school until university: no one seemed to ever leave the town. Many families have lived here for generations, their ancestors' founders. New faces often came and went leaving the town to stagnate. Newer businesses often shut down after a few days for not being able to fit the niche needs of the sleepy suburb. There was a market that got deliveries from the distant farmlands on the rare occasion as most produce was grown locally in the small farms about ten miles out: the only bridge leading out of town crossed over a hearty river that rushed with heavy waters through the seasons, even worse during fall. The rest of the town was surrounded by mountains and woods making it a perfect spot for hunters so all the meat was provided by locals. It was a generally self sufficient town which is what sometimes made it difficult for new bodies to move in. The occasional hipster or newlywed couple would move in and stay, one of particular note was a woman named Misha who was neither of these things.

She was a broad woman who had a thick, foreign accent and deep red, curly hair that sat in a messy bun atop her head. Misha was recognized by the monogrammed apron she often wore, a gift of her late husband. She had purchased the old radio shop that had shut down when its former owner, Mister Crowley, had died suddenly in the night. Crowley was always a heavy drinker and given that he was creeping along the slope of eighty it came as no surprise by the town. Construction on the building started in the spring. It was fall now and the finishing touches were becoming more apparent. New mortar was placed with a coat of deep blue over the brick face. New windows were placed on either side of the shop front to replace the old segmented windows that had once displayed Mister Crowley’s possessions. Miss Misha had spent much of that time out of town preparing for her grand opening. Around the same time the old city hall, which had been moved to the old library, had been cleared out and made a residence after being purchased by the red-haired woman. Miss Misha moved into the newly renovated building about the same time the new sign for her shop rolled in on the bed of a big, red truck. The sign was for a new burger parlor called Misha’s Munchies. The sign itself was threaded with neon, fluorescent lights that would dance with colors when plugged in. The new eatery had drawn the attention of many young and old alike. The shop was advertised to have a grand opening the morning after and sold fare one would expect of a burger joint: loaded fries, milkshakes and, of course, burgers. But there were also treats that the town did not usually get to experience like burritos, chowders and borscht, said to be Miss Misha’s specialty. That won with some of the older crowd who felt it had a sense of their youth, a place worth exploring. It would be a family friendly place. It was a dream come true for many, especially the college crowd who had grown tired of pizzas and salads much of the semester over. At the end of the day, without much to do, many returned home, or to their friends, to play video games or tabletops. Not many went out after night in Middletown as it had a curfew that restricted many beneath the age of sixteen, leaving older siblings to babysit their younger siblings until parents came home at the early hours of the morning.

Back in the basement of one of the cul de sac houses a young man named Jon recounted what he had seen in the window of the still closed diner.

“And inside was an old arcade too, and a jukebox!” His recollection was filled with holes, at best, and exaggerated at worst.

Jon was not his full name, but the preference came from there being so many Jonathans on campus. It was easier than simply referring to him as 'black John’. Being that he was the only Johnathan in town of a darker persuasion. He could not be called out on any one thing or other as heritage itself was a murky concept in his mixed family line. His black hair was cut short, buzzed back and he typically wore flannel shirts with jeans. Today it was a green and gold pattern.

They had been occupying the basement of one of their friend’s house: Nathan, who had been waiting for his parents' return. Their younger siblings were sound asleep, but the young man was unable to leave them alone to hang out. Not that it mattered as his old hang out, the radio shop, had been turned into a burger place.

He resented that just a little bit. He held up his hand, displaying his music player snug in his palm. “Why would a Jukebox matter?” Nathan was often mistook for a Native, but he was possibly Hispanic.

It was one of those gates that were left wide open by the fact he never answered the question straight. He always wore a bandana wrapped around his head which helped keep his long hair at bay. Earphones were always plugged in his ears beneath the cloth making it difficult to tell whether he was listening to you or not as his eyes never seemed visible. Nathan typically wore a pair of jeans and a short sleeved shirt, even in the winter, that often depicted metal genre motifs. It wasn't hard to tell what he was dedicated to listening to. At least he had the sense to wear a long sleeve beneath during such seasons, which today was one of those days. He wore a grey shirt depicting a band’s indiscernible mashed up logo, underneath a warmer long sleeved shirt. Slumped over a table in the basement which had board games scattered about: he wasn’t the least bit interested in Jon’s over excited news concerning jukeboxes.

Jon shook his head. “That isn't the point; Nichole, you have to back me up on this!” He seemed intent on getting the pair down to the new diner the moment it opened, which was tomorrow! “Real burgers! Not venison or pork burgers! Actual beef burgers!” It was a big deal for some whose contact with beef products was limited. With the town depending mostly on local meats wild cows weren’t typically on the menu.

Nichole was one of the local cheerleaders on campus. A stylized punk whose roots aligned somewhere between Irish and Ashkenazi. There was no telling, no knowing. So many families had lived here over the centuries that telling who was who by founding families was easier than otherwise. She had been lounging on the couch nearby playing Nathan’s gaming console. She lulled her head back, the piercings along her nose and eyebrows catching the dim light of the ceiling fan above. Popping a snap of chewing gum in her mouth she considered it, if only because of the mention of beef.

“I am getting kidna tired of turkey burgers…” She professed, only for Nathan to snap up in his chair and clasp his hands on the edge of the table.

“You take that back!” The young man was quite an avid griller of turkey burgers, wild turkey quite a prolific, almost pest bird, in the region. “Turkey burgers are great!” He asserted with more energy than he had in the past minute.

Jon sighed and motioned his hands, and attempted to stand between the two, calming them. “Look we love your burgers Nathan, but having them about six times a week for lunch can be a bit of a drag.” The seventh day, and most holy of days: Friday, was reserved for pizza. Nathan could see he was outnumbered and settled back in his seat. He sulked back, arms crossing over his chest. “Alright, it’s settled. Let’s head out early so we can beat the crowds.” Which there was sure to be.