Funhouse (36 page)

As he imagined happened with most people in similar situations, he wished he had made more of an effort to see her, made time to go visit, or even just to call more often to ask if she was okay. He could give many reasons why he didn’t, the job that demanded so many of his hours, the family who he was trying his best to nurture and protect, or even the fact that there never seemed to be enough time. However, he knew, deep down, that they were all just bullshit excuses.

He never went, because he was selfish.

His attention was drawn back to the road by the sign which rolled out of the heat haze as he continued down the pencil line of blacktop.

REST STOP/ SERVICES!

Last chance for gas for the next 100 MILES!

Take next slip road!

He smiled to himself at the urgent nature of the faded green sign, and the way in which its message was composed. There was a demanding quality to it. Why so many exclamation marks? He imagined the words being said by some backwater preacher, each line read in such a way as to give importance to what should otherwise be a standard message for a driver looking to take a break. It read like a demand, which only served to further pique his curiosity.

Take next slip road!

“Whatever you say pal.” He said to the relentless desert, smiling as the sign flashed past him.               Even though he very much doubted that the aforementioned rest stop
was
the last chance for gas, he didn’t want to take the risk and be left out in the middle of nowhere after dark with no fuel and a car which had no roof.

He could see the slip road ahead, snaking off out of sight around a brushy hillock, and if he wasn’t curious enough, the next sign ensured that he would definitely be stopping to check this place out.

Like its demanding counterpart, this sign was also green and aged by the elements, but if the first sign was demanding, this one was written with some sense of finality, a statement of fact. The chipped and faded white letters this time carried no bullshit, no false information about how limited fuel supplies may be. It simply stated where in the world Bill Norton was going.

ENTERING

Candyland

Pop. 122

As far as place names went, it was pretty cool, and Bill didn’t think twice as he slowed and peeled off the main highway and down the bumpy slip road.

Candyland
, he thought to himself as he jostled the car along.
What a fantastic name.

The car bustled and jolted on its suspension, as Bill Norton made his way into the
unknown.

             
Candyland was barely a town. Bill cruised down what he presumed was the main street, taking in the ambiance of the place. The stores - those which weren’t closed and boarded over - were tired and jaded, and looked to be showing signs of giving up the fight against the constant abuse of the elements.

             
There was an eerie silence, and Bill immediately noticed that the streets were empty. Nothing moved, and he was aware of just how loud the Cadillac’s engine sounded in the hot July air. Despite the heat, he felt a chill brush down his spine.

             
There was another sign ahead; penned in much the same way as the one he referred to as the ‘shouty’ sign. It was tied across the length of the street between two lamp poles, and was no less subtle than its predecessor.

This is CANDYLAND!

Do NOT mis the fete in the town square!

Hot Food! Cheap Gas! Frendly welcum!

              Not only was this also an exclamation point overload, but was also badly spelt. He didn’t like it, and was so overcome with the feeling of being watched, that he almost turned around and headed back the way he came.

             
You can’t do that
, He reminded himself.

             
And why not?

             
Because you need gas and this is the last chance to get it for the next 100 miles. The sign said so.

             
He thought about telling his inner monologue to go screw itself, and that an exclamation mark did not mean something should be taken as gospel. Besides, surely to god in today’s modern world, somebody, other than in a shithole like Candyland, would have decided to set up shop and supply gas for weary travellers like him.

             
But you can’t be sure…

             
Again, his inner voice was correct. The facts were that he needed gas, and if he had to stop in Candyland (Population 122) to get some, then so be it. He tried to ignore the ramshackle storefronts and sagging roofs as he proceeded down the street, which although devoid of people, did have some life.

             
A skinny, runt of a dog with patchy, matted fur limped  across the street ahead, and he also saw a couple of alley cats pawing through a mound of garbage bags piled at the side of a bakery that last looked to have done business in the fifties. But of human life, however, there was no sign. The road turned right ahead, and he hoped that somewhere beyond there would be some signs of civilisation. He drove around the corner, and suddenly, the world of Candyland was alive.

             
The town square was filled with people. Stalls were set up around the perimeter, leaving ample room for people to mingle and chat. The explosion of chatter and the mouth-watering smell of barbecue instantly dispelled Norton’s fear, and he noted that even his inner monologue had retreated back to its hiding place. Norton brought the car to a halt, instantly feeling the burning heat of the sun. He looked at the on-going fete which had been advertised by the sign on Main Street. There would be ice cream, maybe even deliciously cool lemonade, and of course, that wonderful smelling barbecue, which was making Norton’s taste buds come alive with desire. Part of him knew time was of the essence, and that he really couldn’t afford to stop, but on the other hand, he
had
been driving all day, and was a good couple of hours ahead of schedule.

“
Hell with it.” He muttered to himself as he shut off the engine and climbed out of the car.

He walked towards the village square, his shadow thin and stretched ahead of him. One of the locals saw him and veered to meet him.

“Good afternoon to ya' good sir! Welcome to Candyland.” The man said.

He had some kind of speech issue, and pronunciation of the letter‘s’ came out as a ‘ttth’ instead.

He was short and overweight, and somehow squeezed into an ill-fitting cheap blue suit which looked straight out of the '70's.  Rivulets of sweat ran down his balding head and over his face. The man whipped out a handkerchief and wiped himself dry, and then rolling his eyes he looked at Norton and flashed a yellow toothed grin.

“
It’s so hot the god-damn birds are layin’ their eggs sunny side up.”

Norton nodded, as the man stuffed the handkerchief back into his breast pocket, then held out a pudgy hand.

“My name's Clayton Candy, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Norton shook the man’s hand. It was soft and sweaty, and Norton couldn’t wait to have his grip released.

“Pleased to meet you Mr Candy, I’m Bill Norton.”

“
So, what brings you to Candyland today?”

“
I uh, need some gas. Almost out.”

“
Oh, we can certainly help you out there. No problem at all. Won’t you stay and enjoy the fete with us? It’s quite the event here.”

“
I would, but I’m a little pushed for time.”

“
Oh come on Bill, surely a few minutes rest won’t harm? Anyway, our gas station attendant is right here at the fete. I’ll show you around and introduce you so you can be on your way.”

Clayton slapped Norton on the shoulder and steered him towards the fete, taking all arguments out of the equation. Norton didn’t fight too hard, he was, after all, pretty peckish.

“So, Mr Candy, is this your town?”

“
Oh no, not at all. I’m just the Mayor. My great, great granddaddy founded Candyland way back. I’m just the latest in a long line of Candy’s running the show here.”

The two walked past stalls selling various brick a brac. For every local that greeted Mayor Candy with a nod of the head, a wary eye was cast towards Norton. There was something unusual about the people, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Clayton went on.

“We're a small town Bill, and between you and me, I like it that way. We keep ourselves to ourselves and let the world go on without knowin' about us. Oh, you gotta try this.”

Clayton waddled over to the barbecue, which was immense and filled with sausages, burgers, steaks and chicken legs. It looked beautiful, and smelled even better.

“Franklin, this 'ere is Mr Norton, he’s new in town. Why don’t ya give him one o’ your special burgers?”

Franklin looked older than time itself, a withered shell with leathery brown skin and a distinct sprinkling of liver spots. But ancient or not, Norton appreciated the old man’s cooking skills, and gratefully accepted the giant burger offered to him.

“Ketchup?” The old man asked, holding the bottle towards Norton.

“
Yes, thanks.” He said as the old man squirted a generous amount of sauce on the burger before replacing the top half of the bun. The burger was almost as wide as the span of his hand. It wasn’t some shitty processed McDonalds fare either, but a real, homemade burger in an actual bread bun.

“
How much do I owe you?” Norton asked as he started to fish for his wallet.

“
Oh, don’t ya worry about that. Take it as a welcome as our guest today.” Clayton said, once again pulling out his handkerchief to wipe away his sweat.

“
Thank you, that’s very generous.”

“
Go ahead and try it boy.” The old man said as he flashed a gummy grin.

Norton obliged, taking a large bite.

It was heaven.

The meat was succulent and juicy, the char grilled taste giving it a kick that was out of this world. Even though he had been fortunate to eat in some high class restaurants, Norton didn’t think any of them came anywhere close to the fare served up by the old man.

“My god, that’s amazing,” Norton said between mouthfuls as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

“
Glad you like it son, it’s an old family recipe.”

“
It’s delicious.” Norton said as he took another bite.

Clayton clapped Norton on the back and steered him away from the barbecue and further into the crowd.

“You married, Bill?”

“
Divorced.” He said as he finished off his burger. “I had a wife for three years and she has been my ex for two.”

“
I’m sorry to hear that.”

“
It’s okay, she was a bitch.”

Norton laughed, and then saw that Clayton looked quite offended, so he morphed his laugh into a cough and hoped it went unnoticed.