Randy still lit the neon at dusk every evening. God alone
knew why—there was rarely anyone around to see it. He could see it, though, and
surely he still counted for something.
His restaurant had once been a gathering spot on a bustling
downtown square. Then it was a reason people still came to an otherwise dying
downtown square. Eventually the people stopped coming altogether. He’d
officially shut down the restaurant six months ago, but since he owned the
building and also lived there he was still around.
And he still lit the neon.
His brother told him he was crazy to keep using the
electricity on it, but Randy knew if he was crazy it was just crazy for neon.
He loved it. He loved the way it always looked like a party, reminding him of
days when running the restaurant was a nightly party. He loved the way it shone
as a beacon, beckoning any stray travelers to come see what was happening.
He would feed them, too, if they showed up. He didn’t keep
the kitchen fully stocked anymore, but he kept enough food around to cook for a
family or two. You never knew when someone might be driving the back roads—by choice
or because they were lost—and find themselves in need of a meal.
The neon would beckon, and Randy would welcome them just as
he had in the days when he welcomed dozens of families a night. He’d turn on
the jukebox and let them rest from the road while he cooked up mounds of fried
chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, biscuits and green beans. He’d even make them a
peach cobbler. He wouldn’t even charge for it.
Randy sat in his recliner, angled so he could see the neon
from his window, and pictured how it would be. One family would become
two. Word would spread. The combination of neon lights and good cooking would
lure them in, and soon it would be like the old days again.
So he waited. And he still lit the neon.
