Okay. We have this post coming about our favorite Maine places.
And I confess.
Well, not really. I just talked about the Maine that my family loves, the beautiful reaches of East Penobscot Bay. I love that Maine, too. But there’s another Maine that I really love. And here it is.
I’ve been riding by this place for months. A jerk of the head, and a “wow, that’s look cool. I should stop.”
So this week I did.
A battered garage, windows sagging open. No lifts. A pit underneath the bays. Cars frozen in time. Nobody around, the owner retired or really retired. Everything overgrown. A 60s Mercury wagon still sitting on a bumper jack. Kind of like a house left with the dishes on the table.
And what does this have to do with mystery writing? Nothing and everything.
The photos with this post? They’ll stay with me, on my phone and my laptop and in my head. The notion of the place. That will burrow deeper. Who worked here? Where is that person now? What were the plans for these cars? What is the story behind this Maine archaelogical dig?
The story behind the story. Someday some version of this will surface in my fiction. A Jack McMorrow mystery. A Brandon Blake novel. The names will be changed to protect the innocent, and the guilty. I’ll smile as I look at the photos that are on this page. I’ll love committing these scenes to the page. I mean really. Look at the hooks on the front of that truck bumper. The chain from the engine hoist. Something ominous about all of it, no?
This is Maine, the way life is. This is what I do. We do. Let these images burn into our brains like parasites, only to resurface as a single scene in a single chapter. A character we’ll all want to know. A story we’ll want want to tell, right to the very end.