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| This is a real place in Rochester. |
Sitting next to the boarder between Maine and New Hampshire, Rochester, population 31K as of 2009, is a sizable town in the southern Seacoast section of the oblong state, one of the few towns that can claim it has a "share" of the Atlantic, tho the town itself is landlocked with the exception of a few dirty rivers that feed thru it.
No, Rochester exists for the shear reason that raccoon shit exists, because it has to; no rhyme, no reason, it's just simply there.
Nestled at the foot of the White Mountains and at the very most southern tip of Lake Winnepasaki, Rochester is the gateway for summer vacationers on their way to kinder trappings northbound. The town is simply a pit-stop; to refresh ice, to get a soda or boat fuel, someplace no one wants to spend very much time at all, if they have nicer places to be.
From the outskirts, pick a hill (there's a ton) and look at the farm land the makes up a patchwork of properties surrounding the town proper. Still, centuries later, property lines are forged with knee-high stone walls, set in perfect squares. Old farm houses, likely passed down from generations of patriots who hiked to Lexington or Concord or Bunker Hill, still stand on this property, slowly sinking into the dirt like an old war matron too proud to die. Along side these sagging old buildings, the occasional abrasive ranch home, newer, single-story, plastic siding, cutesy-driveway, jarring to the landscape like a bar room sucker punch to the base of the skull.
The roads from these plots, towards town, are lined with the occasional discarded Miller Lite can, half crumpled, faded with age. A mailbox hangs by a bent rusty nail to a rotted post, the name of it's owner half missing.
The town itself, what most would consider "downtown" is like any you would find in middle America. Pizza places, Subways, tire stores, gold and pawn brokers, gas stations, and a bar about every fifth step. With St. Patrick's Day looming, the proprietors shamelessly post signs with overflowing flagons and leprechauns on every window of their establishments. It's almost overkill; like the extra kick sent to a disobedient puppy.
Rochester is a town that Republican Ideals long forgot: the average age of someone pushing a baby stroller is around 22, tho they look older, mid 30s with a lot of road wear. Both sexes exhibit facial, neck and hand tattoos, smoke cigarettes precariously close to infants and share a 40+ inch waste line. If one were to guess, the chief export of Rochester is violent domestic assaults, bad parenting and lung cancer.
On a nearby tv, the local news runs a story about a Rochester couple being brought to court on charges of Gross Child Abuse, the facts of the case state that the live-in boyfriend beat his girlfiend's 3 year old son with a belt for pissing his pants.
It all seems to fit; Rochester seems like the type of town in which a kid would get beat with a belt.
Out front of the Cumberland Farms off of Main Street, a gas station and convenience store, Police Officer Ted Ramsey props himself up against his cruiser. Like all cops, he's wearing a cocksure smirk under his mustache as he balances his store-brand cup of coffee between his thumb and forefinger.
"Pharmacies, that's our biggest problem," he remarks while peeling back the tab on his plastic coffee lid. And it's no wonder, there seems to be as many pharmacies, be it a Wal-Greens or a local Mom&Pop, as bars in Rochester. These pharmacies, says Officer Ramsey, stay open late, which to the mildly afflicted tweeker, must look like glowing hot lust at midnight.
As if one queue, a spidery-looking, face-scratching twenty-something crab-walks out of the convenience store clutching an energy drink, eying the cop like a wary Hyena stalking a fresh kill. Officer Ramsey returns the gaze, a silent match of witlessness, before he carries on.
"It's all we can do to keep up," he carries on about the pharmacies like a poorly written script for a bad tv cop drama, "they push, and we push back, and they push back even harder, so..." he trails off, either pausing for effect for just losing his train of thought. He comes back after a second of staring off into space. "I've been working here for two years, and you know, there's good people here, really. They live here, just, all you ever hear about is the bad ones," and with a sense of finality in his statement, he leaves it at that.
Inside the store, the employee behind the counter, a skinny twenty something with bad skin named Dave, has a different take.
"This place sucks, man. I'm getting out of here as soon as I can," but when that is, who knows, surely not Dave, who has a pregnant girlfriend who doesn't work. When asked if he's ever been robbed or a victim of violence on the job, he laughs a little and shakes his head.
"Not me, but it's only a matter of time. I only started working here a month ago, but I hear stories from the other employees. I actually have my first night shift alone this weekend. Can't wait." he deadpans before ringing up a customer who's buying at least $60 dollars in scratch tickets, beer and cigarettes.
The local library has been in Rochester for just over 100 years, and is attached to the town hall. According to the librarian on duty, a forty-ish woman named Mary who's been working in the Rochester Stacks for close to 15 years, the library pretty much is the de-facto Blockbuster for the community.
"We loan out more movies than anything else," she starts as she flips thru a sort of record keeping book that looks a lot like a grade book elementary teachers keep in their desks. "But of course, we don't get a lot of them back," her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, "I think they get sold or traded for drugs," and she doesn't look up, but looks down at an empty space on her desk.
As of right now, she says, there are 30 dvds out, but she estimates that only half will make it back in. And what's the use of late fees or banning of memberships if the culprits never come back in the first place?
"If it gets to a certain point, we'll make it a police matter," but she goes on to say that she doesn't think the local police department gives stolen library merchandise a high priority, especially if there's multiple culprits.
The library went on the offensive in a way, by limiting the number of DVDs a member can take out, from three, to one at a time. Still she says, it doesn't stop them from wandering off.
"And don't even get me started about the internet terminals," she abruptly turns the conversation and does exactly what she said she didn't want to get started with... "we find all sorts of ..." she pauses for the right word "smutty things, left on there."
She's never found anyone acting in a lewd manner, she's quick to add, which she's relieved. She says that she wouldn't know what to do if she did tho.
"I'd probably ask them to leave," she blushes.
Upon wrapping things up, a man interrupts the conversation by placing a clear plastic DVD case down on the desk and waits for it to be checked back in, so he can presumably rent out another. The title of the returned DVD is a "Veggietales" cartoon, a children's show that teaches children wholesome Christian values using CGI fruits and vegetables.
The man's broad face and build exudes all the charm of a shotgun left on a get-a-way car's floor.
He wanders off, to the DVD section and Mary the Librarian waits a breath.
"That's Jason," she begins, her voice lower, "he runs the Youth Ministry over in Gonic," the next town over. "He's in here all the time."
She seems satisfied with sharing this information, as if it's vindication for the town's hard-scrabble way of life.
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