Town Common

Town Common

By Clevis O. Laverty

Twisting and waving across the country side, Route 10 dodges a mountain, sidles up to a stream, circles a clump of pines, and perversely doubles back upon itself. Then, coming suddenly upon a railroad track running through a gully, it hesitates before making the leap. While hesitating, the tail or the road writhes behind it and two commons appear in emerald green with white fences enclosing new mown grass and protective maples.

On one side sprawling unconcernedly sits a yard good store like nearsighted old maid with horn-rimmed glasses, a dingy poolroom, a snappy drug store with black tile and glass front, a discourage garage with even more discouraged jalopies littering its front yard, a hotel with no tenants, and an old brown post office look lazily across the bisected common at the Cape Cod homes, the brick homes, and the miscellaneous homes huddling and clutching desperately at the brink of the precipice, lest they slide down and be devoured by the shoddy mill that squats in the gully.

From their perch on a rusty, worm-eaten bench, three pimply-faced youths wink knowingly at one another as they whistle at a poor-man’s Marilyn Monroe twitching self-consciously out of the drug store—a square box in plain wrapping tucked under her arm.

Head tipped at an impossible angle, one arm dangling down over the end of the bench, the other thrown limply over the back, a drunk sits and stares stupidly at the three Elvis Presleys. Still on his feet, the drunk’s partner staggers through the opening in the fence, starts across the road toward the other common. Halfway across he turns and comes back, the squealing of brakes attesting to the nearness of eternity. A nondescript hound scuttles between his legs; the man buries his face in the green grass and stays there.

At the far end of the common, a group of youths in black, leather jackets surround two girls in billowing skirts and inaccurately lipsticked faces. There is pleading, gesticulating, and a roar of hollow, forced laughter. Boys leading the way with cat calls and jeering, they leave the common and disappear into the gully.

Where is the spontaneous laughter and friendliness of the common? Time was when youngsters would come swarming out of the then not-too-modern-looking drug store, spill into the common, and an old beat-up football would miraculously appear. A game of scrub was on. Nothing was important to them except an end run or a plunge through center with its resulting bruises and black eyes. Back and forth they would shriek and yell across the green grass until darkness hid the ball.

Older youths would limber up along the side with baseball and gloves, while the younger ones gathered in groups along the fence playing mumbletypeg.

Reserved by unspoken agreement, old men used to gather in the second common, watch the antics of football, baseball, and of kids letting off steam. They would reminisce, predict dire futures for the younger generation, and discuss the state legislature. Here also would be placed the “town tree” at Chirstmanstide, and the whole town would turn out to see one antoher’s faces reflected in the twinkling lights and exchange gifts with the help of a stuffed Santa Claus.

When night came, Briggs’ popcorn stand appeared too. Summoned by the compelling odor of hot, buttered popcorn, carefree boys and pert young girls would congregate and laugh and tease—and eat popcorn. Promptly at eight they would crowd into the town hall at the end of the common, where the road hesitated, to cheer their heroes. Whether it be tom Mix, Hoot Gibson, or Rudolph Valentino seemed to make no difference.

Overcoming its hesitancy, Route 10 leaps the railroad track with a bridge. Frightened by this aspect of reminiscence and change, it speeds straightaway without a backward glance for four or five miles before renewing its twisting and weaving and dodging mountains.