Buffalo Trace #12

Buffalo trace
Charlie was a slender man in his early thirties, gray had begun to creep around his head years ago and now it is filling in the last streaks of brown running past his right ear. His face is still young with just the expected laugh-lines not showing age but revealing years of grinning widely. He has a smile reminiscent of early Chaplin, lips pressed tight with one corner of his smile higher than the other. As a child with a club foot growing up in a working class Boro on the south side on Manchester, his time was spent playing on the street and in the alleys that crisscross the old Irish neighborhood. It was a rough place with all the vices and traps that fall steadily on the shoulders of anyone who is willing or unfortunate enough to find themselves in the embraces of lawlessness.
After dark the gas lamps come on and illuminated the night with an eerie flickering effect as the smell of burning natural gas fills the night air. The towering building seem to curve outward as they reach into sky and it feels as if they bend anymore it would rip them apart, showering the ground below with the contents of a hundred Irish family belongings soda-bread and Scotch, rosined bows and wingtips would rain from above. He has grown into a man with a love for family, a love for community, and a desire to mentor all the kids in his neighborhood. There is nothing that keeps him here, he has no family left and real friends. After the mill closed, he lost all hope in living out his days in Manchester. The shops that use to line the historic downtown have all but closed down and with the mega-stores there seems to be no mom and pop stores left. This has disturbed him a lot and he longs for the good old days when everyone knows everyone and the street were lined with smiling faces.
Charlie put his house up for sale last fall and there was only a hand full of buyers that ever came buy. The only hope for a home seller that he had left was to auction. More people showed up just to watch then to buy, you could tell that because hardly anyone had paddles. After what seemed like two minutes of bidding, the gavel cracked and it was sold. The man that bought it, Charlie knew to be a slumlord and knew that in five years his house would be in a state of disrepair that the house would never come back from. With just a carload of his belongs and two boxes of pictures, there was really nothing keeping him here now. With only a half nights rest at the nicest motel in town he was off with out even a wave goodbye, not even the lady at the bank said bye to him when he cashed out the bank account that he has had for fifty years.
The road has now opened up and the buffalo fights for the pole position as we all go streaking down hill. This stretch of road is bland and bare with only the occasional roadside distraction. In the rear-view mirror Manchester looks more like a plane crash high up on the peak of mount Tarsar. The orange glow of industry and the endless trains pouring for the center of town looks like some kind of mystical beast. Now I can start making decent time. At this time of night, all there is left on the highway is greasy stressed out drivers, strung out truckers and the movers and shakers hitting their own tune on the asphalt stings. The audible zoom and the cars body roll is all I need to tell me that I'm passing these cars at a rate exceeding thirty miles an hour. The buffalo sputters as I lay off the accelerator just in time to pass the last exit. It is going to be a long night from Manchester to Harvic is less then six hour, it will not be a record but for the buffalo and me it will be a commendable attempt.