The View From Scranton

The Moosic Noose

It is a stain of a town. Nestled in a hedge of underwhelming hills and trimmed with a frost of sixth growth forest. You'd miss it if it were there, but it isn't so you don't. A splotch of roadkill, sheltered beneath a canopy of pure slate. An island of cloud parked right on its head. God's carport. Leaning awkward and leaking spit and blood in some sedentic trailer park.

To hit the town you must first traverse a highway lacking in even the requisite repetity of fast food amenities. A Mickey D's every, say, 30 miles, rather than 5. A truck stop but once between fathoms. Nothing else. No more. Forget hotels. There are none. Why would there be? There is no reason to stay, overnight or otherwise.

It is that chartless. Not uncharted, mind you. Chartless. People have come here and gone again. Some gave it a moment, others gave it a moment more. None lived past the moment they surrendered. All surely regretted the struck seconds of their lives. The shops and the taverns and the diners are shuttered, those that aren't are filled with ghosts. Drunk with despondence.

The town, if it could be called a town and it can't, is named Moosic. It is a hundred-plus years old. A hundred thousand tears cold. Its flame-keepers claim to be experiencing some population growth. If so, it is a growth the size of a mite's tumor.

To bring newfound glory to the town I propose the Moosic Noose. Think about it. The place is already known as a place of the dead. Why not make it the place you go to die? Euthanasists. Assisted Suicidals. Kervorkian's kids. All those at the end of their tether could go there for enough rope. Rope, alas, twined into the trademarked, patented Moosic Noose.

It would be a hoot. It would be a holler. And it would be a start to the end of an absent history.

Now, what's the number of the Moosic Chamber of Commerce?

posted by John Hood. @ 9:35 PM