Stopping by Roscoe

I posted yesterday’s blog, and it caused quite a nostalgic
stir on FBDC, with some twenty comments, and they’re still coming in. It’s gratifying when I touch on something – a
common memory that gets people talking as they themselves remember.

As I mentioned, I left a few things out – details not fit
for Internet posting and all the eyes that might fall on the sordid details of
a respected school administrator’s misspent youth. There was another, very specific item I omitted
– not because of fear of self-incrimination but because I didn’t know quite
where to fit it into the piece. The
Roscoe Diner was on my mind the entire time I was composing my post, but in the
end I’d left this detail out as well. Frankly, in the format I’ve been working with, I couldn’t figure out
where the eatery should enter into the narrative. As my college roommate, Greg King mentioned,
Roscoe, New York was the unofficial midpoint between home and school.

Perhaps I should have put it right in the middle.

When I think of Roscoe and the diner, the first image that
comes to mind is of a sign depicting a thick, meaty trout breeching almost
joyfully, someone’s skillfully tied fly imbedded in its cheek. “Welcome to Roscoe. Trout Town, USA.”

I suppose I could Google it, but back then you wouldn’t
have, and I remember being skeptical about that sign. Did they determine the moniker of Trout Town
based on poundage? Did the town keep records of all the lunkers that had been
pulled in within its limits over the years?

Or maybe Roscoe had simple decided one day they would
proclaim themselves the capital, based solely on how happy the fish on their
welcome sign seemed to be about being hooked.

Other images, in addition to that welcome sign, include a
wide parking lot, which was always packed with cars sporting license plates
from all over, from Montreal down to Florida. Because of the time of year my friends and I normally traveled home from
school and back, the diner was often full of men in loud plaid vests and coats –
hunters taking advantage of the abundant deer population in the area. Deer carcasses could be seen strung onto the
hood of many a vehicle in that large parking lot. Some were big bucks with elaborate antlers,
reaching up to slate-gray winter skies, while others were more delicate looking
does who seemed more peaceful in their repose. I can recall seeing one carcass that must
have been recently dressed, as I could swear I saw steam rising from the body
cavity there in the parking lot.

These were glimpses into another life, one I read about in
the books I loved at the time – by Hemingway, Sherwood Anderson, Jack London, and
others. The images I took in at the
Roscoe Diner made their way into my own work, as well. In one of my short stories a boy is cornered
in a diner men’s room by a drunk man who is showing him a school photo of his
dead son, who the man says would have been about the same age as my
protagonist.

The story had its strengths, most notably in the description
of the place, but was ultimately highly derivative of Raymond Carver’s work,
probably to an embarrassing degree. But
I did get praise for its emotional honesty. And its setting. And I have the
Roscoe Diner to thank for that – a place as iconic and as real as any other I’ve
been to.

I don’t remember much about the food, except that it was
plentiful. And for a 19 year old young
man on a long winter drive home, sometimes in automobiles with no heat and
questionable safety standards, the portions were perfect. My friends and I devoured the large helpings,
fueling up for the couple of hundred miles to go before we slept.

Dedicated to Greg
King, the best roommate of them all.