Spencerville

was what had killed downtown, or perhaps downtown had killed itself because of a lack of vision, as well as a profound break with, and misunderstanding of, the past. In a perfect little hometown such as the ones he’d seen in New England, the past and the present were one, and the future was built carefully on the existing foundations of time.
    But Keith supposed that if he’d stayed here and seen the changes evolve, rather than experiencing them in five-year gulps, he’d be less nostalgic and not as startled by the physical transformation.
    There being not a single grocery store left in downtown Spencerville, Keith had to forgo that experience, and he pulled into the lot of a big supermarket.
    He took a cart and went inside. The aisles were wide, the place was air-conditioned and clean, and the goods were mostly the same as in Washington. Despite his longing for Mr. Erhart’s chaotic grocery store, the modern supermarket was truly America’s finest contribution to Western civilization.
    Ironically, Keith’s urban shopping street in Georgetown was more like rural Spencerville than Spencerville. There, Keith, on his rare shopping trips, went from one small specialty store to another. The supermarket concept was alien to him but instantly understandable. He pushed his cart up and down the aisles, took what he needed, met the glances of housewives and old-timers, smiled, said “Excuse me,” and didn’t compare prices.
    He was surprised at the number of people he didn’t know and recalled a time when he’d wave to half the people downtown. However, there was a familiar face now and then, and some people seemed to recognize him but probably couldn’t place his face or recall his name. He saw at least ten women of his own age that he’d once known and saw a man he’d once played football with. But dropping out of the sky as he had, he wasn’t prepared to stop and identify himself.
    He didn’t see any of his former best friends and, if he had, he’d have been a little embarrassed because he hadn’t kept in touch with any of them and hadn’t attended a single class reunion. Aside from his family, his only contact with Spencerville had been Annie.
    He saw her turning a corner and pushed his cart faster, then abandoned it and caught up with her. But it wasn’t her, and in fact didn’t look at all like her, and he realized he was having a tiny midafternoon hallucination.
    He went back to his shopping cart, and, without finishing his shopping, he checked out and took his bags to his car.
    A Spencerville police car with two officers inside was blocking him. He loaded his groceries and got into his Saab and started it up, but they didn’t move. He got out of his car and went to the driver. “Excuse me, I’m getting out.”
    The cop stared at him a long time, then turned and said to his partner, “I thought all the migrant workers left by now.” They both laughed.
    This was one of those moments, Keith thought, when the average American citizen, God bless him, would tell the police to fuck off. But Keith was not an average American, and he’d lived in enough police states to recognize that what was happening here was a deliberate provocation. In Somalia or Haiti, or a dozen other places he’d been, the next thing to happen would be the death of a stupid citizen. In the old Soviet empire, they rarely shot you on the street, but they arrested you, which was where this incident was headed unless Keith backed off. He said, “Whenever you’re ready.”
    He got back into his car, put it in reverse so that the backup lights were on, and waited. After about five minutes, a good number of shoppers had passed by and noticed, and a few of them had mentioned to the two cops that they were blocking the gentleman. In fact, the scene was attracting attention, and the cops decided it was time to move off.
    Keith backed out and pulled onto the highway. He could have taken rural roads all the way home, but instead headed back into town, in case the gestapo had more on their minds. He kept an eye on his rearview mirror the whole way.
    This was not a random incident of fascistic behavior toward a man with out-of-state license plates and a funny car. And Spencerville was not some southern backwater town where the cops sometimes got nasty with strangers. This was a nice, civilized, and friendly midwestern town where strangers were usually treated with some courtesy. Therefore, this was planned, and you didn’t have to be a