We journey home nightly on an ill-paved road parallel to I-5. A straight shot from the Darth Vader building downtown to the Boeing Access Road just south of the Boeing Airport. The road, aptly named Airport Way, has few lights and stop signs making the trip pleasant, usually absent road rage so common to the highway.
Along this rather well-kept secret road, there sit a number of remote businesses. A roofing company. A textile company. A few isolated bars. Not to mention the small enclave known to the locals as the Georgetown section of Seattle. Very blue collar. Home of the oldest saloon in Seattle's city limits.
It was on that familiar trip this evening that I sat in our Subaru Forester and contemplated my day at work. Sometime before we came to Georgetown, I looked to my right and saw the flashing red, white, and blue of an Open sign for an eatery. But the inner sanctum of the eatery contained tables and chairs askew, at least as far as I could see by the luminescent apricot hue of the street lights. And I wondered to myself if the owner had simply departed the premises leaving the open sign flickering as a statement of sad irony.
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