When I was a kid, the sidewalks that ran along the streets contained lost treasure, were the ramps for our bikes, and wound a long path to friends’ houses. I hadn’t seen these sidewalks in nearly 30 years, and when I peeked inside the old house with green shutters, the cabinets still were a shade too dark of brown and the yellow and brown countertops still contained the burn marks of a science experiment gone wrong.

This is where we held “coffee can court,” as we called it. Everyone would put two dollars into a coffee can and we’d air our dirty laundry. It was like playing baseball shorthanded, though, where you’d throw the ball up in the air and play both the pitcher and hitter at once because there were never enough players for a full game.

Judge, jury and executioner sat in the same seat. The bailiff and the plaintiff were the same. The crying mother who couldn’t figure out what she had done wrong for her son to end up here, and the court clerk whose face only communicates boredom no matter how much the mother wails, both represented by the stoic face of an 8 year old brother.

The rules were simple: 6 dollars to be divided up among the kids to correct the wrongs of the previous week. We rotated through each week, and if you were the judge last week, perhaps your generosity or revenge would be remembered this week.

He wore a suit that he bought out of the back of an 18 wheeler sale that traveled through town. The type where they unload everything and set it up on tables that contain foreign made table saws, pellet guns, and suits made in countries he’d oftentimes get confused. When I was a kid, I watched him walk out the back door with a beer can whose color changed based on what was on sale. He’d take a couple drinks and then pour the rest out.

The liquid would coat the green of the shrubs and the orange and pink flowers that lined his deck. It’d sparkle when the setting sun hit it just right. I’m ashamed that I didn’t judge that man more. How wasteful to pour it out, only to see it glimmer in the sunlight. That was 20 years ago, I suppose, and in 20 more years, I suspect I’ll be ashamed for wishing I had judged him more. That man knew what enough was. Something I’m not sure I’ll ever learn.

Twenty years of memories never counted for much, at least in a place like that. Two roads that run on forever and there’s no reason to turn around and go back. You either stayed or you left. There’s no in between. That’s the hell of it, really; there’s no in between.

Four hours after leaving that town, I found the in between. In between there and home, it seemed. She had quiet eyes that spoke too softly when she wanted to scream. That’s the type of woman you find in the in between. The last restaurant I had seen was over an hour ago, so I guess that explains the mix of egg rolls, tacos, and apple pie on the menu.

Her blue and white apron looked as generic as the parking lot, but I suspect she made it herself. The seams were double stitched with two neat rows of stitches around the edges. It’s uncommon to see that type of pride anywhere, but here it felt like it fit right in.

When she spoke, her voice sounded like it was carrying her dreams off to another place. Maybe she’d make a run to the northeast and eat fresh crab. They serve it here, but she’s sure it tastes better there. If for no other reason than you can watch the fisherman bring it in.

“You gonna give me one lil’ egg roll?” I inquired. Not sure of what the standard process was.

“I gave you two,” she replied. Not sure if she meant two egg rolls or two secrets whispered in low tones about how she’d get out of here if she could.

“Oh.”