Howard Johnson’s End

Paul Corman-Roberts

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The single seat counter has now become the longest bar in this dying train depot of a town.

In the middle of the floor is one of those circular stone fire pits where a fake fire would warm a fake hearth, an oasis among the garish carpeting.  You can see the ghosts of swinging couples in polyester and corduroy lounging around the stone circle like ancient pueblo people used to, but with foo-foo cocktails.

No more gathering round now: inside the firepit is a guy on a stool with a cowboy hat and faux sequined vest. He programs an outdated looping machine of sad old pop country electronic drumbeats while he straps an acoustic guitar around his neck and croons like Glenn Campbell.

I hear there are louder, brighter, more modern nightclubs and pick up spots in nearby towns. Larger towns even, almost small cities. I’m not interested in those places.  Desperate people don’t go to those places.

I’m interested in this place.  I’m interested in the people who would rather come here.

I think they used to come here before on cold winter nights, when this place used to be a Howard Johnson’s. They know the stories from this place that I do not. They can tell the stories I need to hear.

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Paul Corman-Roberts is the author of the graphic chapbook The Sincere (Libran Apocalypse, 2022) and Bone Moon Palace (Black Lawrence 2021) which was nominated for the CLMP Firecracker award. He is a co-founder and co-director of the Beast Crawl Lit Festival and is known to occasionally keep time for the U.S. Ghostal Service. You can find him on Substack at Paul’s Substack.

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