Cherry Chills
The quaint Anson family soda fountain drew legions of gleaming chrome and pink Cadillacs each evening as local Baltimore youth flocked like bobby socks bees towards honey. Slurping down frothy confections amidst boisterous reunions and flirtations fuelled by Gene Vincent tunes jitterbugging free from flashing jukebox neon. Though old man Anson griped over rambunctious teen crowds upending his regimented stock, effervescent shop girl Cherry Pie could coax his scowl to crack every time with her infectious mile-wide smile.
"Relax, Pops! Kids gotta have some wholesome fun ‘round here somehow, don’t ‘ya know!" she'd tease breezily while whirling past, ponytail bobbing to catch her favourite Chuck Berry guitar riffs.
Just shy of graduating high school in 1956 at sweet sixteen, Cherry already displayed preternatural savoir faire corralling orders for malts, banana splits and cherry cokes from the vintage chrome-lined counter. Regular customers adored the pretty brunette who somehow spin-cycled twelve hours daily serving their sons root beers after school plus the crush of Friday crowds with indefatigable cheer, never forgetting Joey’s extra whipped cream or Betty’s allergy to nuts in hot fudge. Some crass older greasers made lewd comments towards innocent Baby doll looks, but most respected Miss Pie’s spunk holding court meet-up spot amidst Anson’s saccharine scents and spinning bar stools.
Tragedy struck brutally swift scarcely a week from Christmas though during expectedly hectic seasonal pandemonium. Exhausted short staffed staying late preparing batch desserts for a weekend festival booth, poor Cherry fought irritation as the temperamental stand mixer started smoking mid-meringue, threatening to stall completely. Grumbling “hold yer horses!" she crouched to adjust plug links below the countertop built decades earlier. As kneeling Cherry tugged wires seeking securely grounded current, the bakery’s string lights suddenly shorted in sputtering fury - sending massive voltage straight through that vulnerable seventeen year old's knees. She likely felt no pain when the sickening current jolted her heart into eternity. Just fleeting fearsome sparks then limp collapse by holly wreaths with joyful carols still blasting incongruously from the chrome-plated jukebox's speakers.
Sorrow shrouded the community in funereal black those grim December days around Miss Pie’s ornate casket displayed funeral parlour corner amidst mountains of white lilies and weeping teenage friends. No explanation existed assuaging shocked bereft parents why their only daughter’s forecasted bright future now lay extinguished brutishly by faulty premises and freak holiday negligence. The crestfallen Anson’s soon retired, unable to emotionally or economically weather reopening their old-timey parlour so suddenly the epicentre of community heartbreak. By 1960 that tragedy site boarded up when shiny silver diners along Route 66 promised escape west from inner cities and ghosts clinging too tight now to nostalgic soda fountain dreams snack bar dreams.
Yet legends grew locally over decades regarding Anson’s original neon sign flickering sporadically beyond dusty windows despite utilities cut decades prior. And more curiously, strains of Buddy Holly tunes sometimes warbled faintly down the deserted street on summer Sunday nights when crickets and lightning bugs emerged harbingers of youthful secrets. Few braved peering inside the abandoned shop after local delinquents swore they saw ghostly saddle shoes kicking up ethereal tile dust spinning to Hank Williams requesting one last encore. But all local elders knewCherry Pie’s lingering spirit never quite left her modest prince charming fantasy domain.
Through shifting economic eras and urban landscapes reimagined beyond recognition, the little ice cream parlour stands yet on Elkin Avenue. Bolted iron bars and weed-cracked decay now disguise its former gleam luring American Graffiti rebels racing hot rods to rockin’ Bass family haunt. But listen some nostalgic midnight with windows down crossing that fateful block. A playful giggle might tease your ears amidst breeze carrying wisps of sugary vanilla floating just beyond reality’s firm grasp. While sharp eyed passengers could swear they glimpsed inside - twinkling string lights suddenly aglow again haloing youthful pony-tailed silhouette still swaying joyfully to “At the Hop” filtered through pink and chrome soda shop patina. Before rational explanations override imagination, you too might wonder...did that specter just slyly wink farewell before fading silently back to fate’s eternal shadows holding bittersweet tragic dreams?
Cherry still frolics hopefully where her mortal eyes last beheld father Christmas spruce and bobbing holiday tunes. Choosing to lingerplayfully where her Cliques of bobby socks devotees once gathered faithfully for wisdom from beloved leader holding court behind ice cream tinsel counter. Maybe awaiting closure, justice or resurrection - or perhaps simply eternally unwilling to abandon much lovedAnson landmarks that fueled fleeting happiest seasons before unjust currents leached life savagely away. Regardless the era, eager youthful spirits gravitate towards comforting neon oases dispensing sweet sympathy amidst surrounding storms. So they say late at night when leaves twitter down Elm, you might yet catch a sparkling glimpse through the dark... if your heart stays open believing in past secrets each fall revived to shimmer brighter than before fate’s darker designs intervened on one forever innocent era.
