Sheet Cake Blue is more than a color. It’s my current mood.
We are suddenly in the midst of an area that looks shiny and new, almost like it’s been plunked here fully formed after being purchased at a Costco. The speed limit slows to forty-five, then thirty-five, with stoplights and gas stations and fast food joints. There are a few newer planned communities with homes sprouting up like brick mushrooms, and strip centers with the normal Texas trifecta: donut shops, tanning salons, and Mexican restaurants.
“There’s the high school,” Tank says, continuing his A-plus narration of things about which I do not care. “Their football team won state last year in their division.”
I glance over to see an older, two-story brick building with a web of trailers expanding out and out and out. The football stadium, naturally, looks shiny and new—Texas priorities!
Lindy went to school there.
The baser part of my mind has slapped a cheerleading uniform on Lindy, and I give myself a mental smack for checking out her legs.
Did she date any football players?
It shouldn’t spark jealousy to imagine Lindy dating other guys before we even met. I mean, I hardly can stake a claim. And yet I’m ready to go back in time and break some jock’s hands for touching my girl.
A few minutes later, we move from the new part of town to what reminds me of the start of a post-apocalyptic movie. Weeds sprout up between massive cracks in the sidewalks, and a blinking stop sign hangs at an angle. There might as well be a barbed-wire fence between the part of Sheet Cake we just left and the one we’re entering.
“And what area of town, exactly, did you purchase?” I’m afraid I already know the answer.
We bump over a train track, and Dad winces as the bottom of the Aston scrapes concrete. I see the actual town square just ahead of us.
A little TLC—is that what Tank said? This town needs a set of defibrillator paddles.
“I own everything from the tracks onward,” Tank says, infusing his voice with bright cheer. “Welcome to the historic town of Sheet Cake, property of yours truly! Park anywhere you like.”
He’s not joking, because all of the street parking is available. ALL of it. I could probably leave the Aston in the middle of this intersection, and it wouldn’t matter. But I pull into a space and get out of the car, meeting Tank on the nearest sidewalk. He smiles broadly.
Does he see something different than I do? Because what I see is a ghost town. Historic Sheet Cake is more like an empty pan with a few stale crumbs.
Tank throws a heavy arm over my shoulder. “Let me show you around.”
The grand tour of the town itself could be done right from this spot on the sidewalk, but I humor Tank and follow him. I’m sure in its heyday, whenever that was, this place was gorgeous. Most buildings have wide balconies on the second and third floors with wrought iron railings—except for a few places where they’ve fallen off, sitting on the sidewalk, ready to be slapped with a loitering ticket.
“Check this out!” Dad stretches an arm out toward the square in the center of town.
Where charm once was, now there is only knee-high grass and overgrown flower beds surrounding a white gazebo that’s falling over. I can see the appeal—if I’m imagining the after photo, not … this. It’s like the abandoned film set for Hart of Dixie and Gilmore Girls and Sweet Magnolias all wrapped up in one.
And DO NOT JUDGE ME for knowing all those shows. I am a man comfortable with his love of small-town drama with a heavy pour of romance.
I squint, trying to imagine what this place would take to fix up. I could totally imagine living in a renovated, loft-style apartment above one of the storefronts. It could be kind of cool, if the town weren’t so dead.
The only signs of life are at the end of one block, where there’s a white-columned municipal building next to a library. Both are open, according to Tank, though I’ve yet to see a single person entering or exiting either. And I’ve been looking. Because that dumb, optimistic part of me keeps hoping I’ll see Lindy coming around a corner.