Otter Lake

 It is the stars that pierce the night

and anchor the world below

– The Journal of William Ralston 1641 

   Nobody would ever call the stranger’s car nice. Its faded paint and dented exterior were actually improved by the slush-streaked dirt. It had a generic look and could have been any make. But the now extinct Oldsmobile made his place in the world feels even more precarious. He had twenty dollars in his pocket, a quarter tank of gas, was drowsy as hell, hungry and lost in this dark rural labyrinth of tiny towns and abandoned farms in Michigan’s thumb country. Lets just say that Otisville, Mayville, Columbiaville and just coming into Otter Lake was his new world.

     He didn’t know where he was or if he was going in circles, but was acutely aware that north led to the black edge of the Great Lakes and south would put him in the middle of a decaying industrial no-mans land. The sign read “Entering Otter Lake”. He looked around thinking a few minutes rest and a cup of coffee would be his salvation.

     The snow came down in clumps, like tiny parachutes. There was no wind and their graceful descent ended abruptly as they smashed into the windshield. The four lane street suddenly turned back into an empty two lane blacktop. He found a dirt road and turned around. Sure enough, he had passed right through the town.
     The five small buildings that made up the heart of Otter Lake were abandoned and dark. They were ringed by a few surviving businesses. Candy's Cafe was closed. It had a dim light inside and a giant ice cream cone in the parking lot. Cindy’s Beauty Parlor was across the street in a small, red brick building that looked like it once had been a bank. Diagonal to the beauty parlor was the grocery - Ed’s Superette. 
    The battered Olds slowed and then stopped. He pulled down the visor and turned on the vanity light.  The tired, unshaven face of a stranger with greasy tangled hair looked back.  The man felt sspent. He had nothing left and nowhere to go.
    In desperation, he pulled around behind a row of abandoned stores to the shadow edge of the parking lot. He didn’t think any of what the sign said was Otter Lake’s “Population 425” would mind. He resigned himself to this necessity. A cold night and his thin jacket had the feel of yet another ordeal. Images of a warmer coat in the trunk flashed - too far, too late. The last thing he remembered was the crunching sound of tires on gravel as his car stopped.