Morris grows more excited by the minute as he guns the engine of his classic Monza Spyder while freewheeling through the snowy streets of downtown Silt Ridge. Morris has good reason to be excited: number-one on his list of priorities is this evening’s preproduction meeting for Anthracite Tonite, a one-hour nightly talk show scheduled to launch within the year. If everything goes according to plan – and why wouldn’t it – the gabfest will air on Daddy’s TV stations all across the country, while making Morris a household name. The car purrs as he whips around the corners of deserted side streets. The ancient vehicle had belonged to his current landlady, Francesca LoZelle, whose family owned and operated a world-renowned shirt factory in Silt Ridge generations ago . . . 

My Corvair Monza Spyder

Freewheeling Through Vintage Snowflakes

As snowflakes gently fall across the decrepit skyline of the faded coalmining town, I pull from the warmth of the opera house garage in my company-owned car, a vintage 1962 convertible Chevy Corvair Monza Spyder. Rolling down Main Street, gas lamps reflect across the car’s polished OEM Tropical Turquoise finish.

 Cranking the heat on high, I thrill to the responsiveness of the four-speed manual floor shift transmission. The meticulously maintained Fisher body features a rear-mounted 140 cubic inch air cooled engine. The six-cylinder turbocharged power plant delivers 110 horsepower. At just under 4,000 miles, the pristine vehicle had only one owner: Francesca LoZelle, the lithesome shirt heiress, whose fourth-story garden apartment I currently rent out.

Leave It to the Lawyers

Daddy’s lawyers received market value for the vintage car, and considering the limited edition it was a real steal. Francesca LoZelle never drove the car herself, mainly because she prefers Corvettes. So she thought she got a pretty good deal for something she barely knew she even had. The car was discovered when the staff of lawyers was making arrangements for me to rent living space from the enigmatic heiress. Daddy wants to make sure I stay within my budget and never overspend for anything, including room and board. I like living there just fine, but as I said before, I would prefer if they paid me on time so I wouldn’t have to always go hat-in-hand to Miss LoZelle and explain why I’m late on rent. Again.

Dooley Brinstrom, the TV station’s chief lighting tech, is a mechanic on the side. He makes sure the car operates at all times at peak performance. Like so many part-time and freelance employees at WBVV, he must have a “day job” to support his creative endeavors and his undying passion for TV production. I’m thankful he’s very good at what he does over at the repair shop. I don’t care if he’s less than top-notch as a lighting guy.

Please Don’t Tell Daddy!

I drive past various buildings and former factories, including the country’s supposed first brothel (but please don’t tell Daddy I know what a brothel is). I heard that in subsequent years the ornate stucco building became a gas station. In other words, they replaced the nail beds, torture cells and customized dentist chairs with service bays – again, Daddy doesn’t need to know that I know anything about this. Please don’t tell him! Pretty please! I don’t even know what I’m talking about half the time. Trust me. At any rate, the property has since been converted into a corner convenience store called Carbon King.

As I motor about town I conform to the contours of the vinyl, pure white bucket seats. The ancient cobblestone streets are easily conquered by the vehicle’s heavy-duty, all-independent suspension. As the turbocharger kicks in I feel the effects of a shorter final drive resulting in faster acceleration, reflected in the urgency of the tachometer located on the multi-gauge instrument panel with the smart, brushed-metal trim.

I set my sights on the Five-Point Highway Diner, at the county’s busiest intersection just outside the city limits. It’s going to be a great night of preproduction planning for the “Anthracite Tonite!” talk show. In joyous anticipation, I power down the convertible top and enjoy the fanciful sensation of snow swirling about my face.

Morris takes a break from his pitching to get caught in the crossfire of a death-defying snowball fight. The perpetrators are a group of merchants known as the “Downtown Contingent.” This mysterious group of retailers occupies the rundown shops and boutiques in Town Square, and is constrained to some rather bizarre sales practices – not the least of which is being allowed to sell only one item at a time. Morris has never built a sufficient level of trust with any of these people since arriving in Silt Ridge, and he considers himself at risk in the raging firestorm of whizzing snowballs. He wonders if the men and women flamethrowers are missing him on purpose. Then he wonders if they are employing technology that was supposed to have been banned a long, long time ago . . .

Introducing . . . the Downtown Contingent

Snowballs Heat Up the Night

Whoosh! A snowball sizzles past my left ear at supersonic speeds. Whap! It explodes across a granite wall hard enough to cause pockmarks and dislodge mortar. Whoosh! Then another. Whap! Whap! Whap! And more and more and more after that.

After whiffing on my first two pitches with Noreen, I’m trying to blow off steam. I shovel the wide, sweeping marble stairs leading from the will call office of the Graphite County Opera House down to the Silt Ridge Town Square.

Whap-whap-whap!

A Real Fancy Place – at One Point . . .

Town Square is a spellbinding plaza featuring an enormous, ornate fountain. It represents the convergence of cobblestone streets from all parts of town. “Where the Miners Meet the Merchants” used to be the rallying cry of this sumptuous retail district. A lot has changed over the last couple centuries: there was a time, when it was a real fancy place inhabited by stunning and magnificent horse-drawn carriages.

Who knows? Unless things get back up to speed, we may be returning to that way of life sooner than we think.

And I pose this to you: would that be such a bad thing?

And You Thought BOGO was a Hardscrabble Deal . . .

Arcane laws allow the merchants of the Downtown Contingent to sell only one item at a time. I know, I know . . . this can be very disconcerting, especially around Christmas, but hear me out: each business carries a single item that is one-of-a-kind in the world. One shop, for instance, may sell a single pair of shoes. A lone sequined dress from France might be showcased in the next establishment. The neighboring shop may have only one overcoat for sale.

The whopping price tags reflect their limited edition status. It’s the same for all the shops. There is never a “half-off” sale or Heaven forbid, “Buy-One-Get-One-Free” (the dreaded “Curse of the BOGO”).

Don’t Think You Can Get Away with This

In the past, problems arose when a merchant tried to sell more than one item at a time. This was considered underhanded dealing and poor business practice. It made everyone look bad. Offending parties were severely punished. No one wanted this to get out into the community, because then there would be a boycott. There was a great amount of shame if someone thought they were buying something that was one-of-a-kind in the world, and then found out later it was a false claim.

The snowball fight may have been an offshoot of the Downtown Contingent policing its own ranks. Someone might have gotten out of line, and punishment was merely being meted out in due course.

Soon though, snowballs start shattering windows, never a good sign. A couple of merchants are sprawled on the ground; a few stagger around dazed and confused.

Getting an Earful of Snow is never a Good Thing at 208 MPH

 I hit the deck just as a solo rocket whizzes past. This is getting way too close for comfort. Breathing heavily from my prone position, I looked up with a great deal of trepidation to check if the coast was clear.

And then I realize something . . .

The way they are throwing, they may have unearthed a stockpile of bionic arms.