The Small-Town News Network

Want to find out what’s going on with your neighbors? Hang out at the local diner.

BY KEN SHELDON

ILLUSTRATION BY MARK BREWER

f you live in a small town, you have no secrets—which is bad if you’re in the witness-protection program, but good if you wonder where your kids are hanging out or where your chainsaw ended up. So how does all that news and gossip travel? We take you to the local diner, where we lift the lid on the small-town news network.

Behind the counter is Eleanor , who has been serving you breakfast ever since you moved to town and has your order in before your bottom hits the seat. Even the slightest variation in your regular order is a tipoff that you are: a) trying to lose that holiday weight gain; b) thinking about dating again; or c) still getting over the flu. Eleanor is a good listener, so be careful how loudly you tell your friend about that rash.

Lester is in charge of the town dump (a.k.a. the transfer station, because “transferring” your garbage sounds better than “dumping” it). He can tell that you have company coming because you just tossed out your old toilet seat. “That’s a dead giveaway,” Lester says, adding that folks generally replace toilet seats right before major holidays. “At any other time of the year, a new toilet seat is kinda suspicious.” Lester can also pro- vide a fairly accurate estimate of your alcohol consumption based on your recycling.

Francine became head teller at the town bank the same year Edison invented the electric lightbulb. If you call her about your account, she doesn’t have to ask you security questions, like the name of your oldest nephew (the one who got in trouble with the law), the pet your parents told you ran away, or your first-grade teacher (the one who ran off with the gym teacher), because she already knows all those things. Francine does all the bank’s credit checks; basically, if she vouches for you, you’re good to go.

Beatrice , the town librarian, zealously guards the privacy of your reading matter, but she nevertheless can tell from your borrowing history that you’re a vegetarian, that you’re thinking about starting a dogsledding business, and that your kid has a report due on DNA. She also knows you’re considering a vacation to Africa—though your information may be somewhat dated since that Visitor’s Guide to Beautiful Botswana was published in 1967.

A vital part of the small-town news network, the town clerk, Walter, has the inside scoop on your house (taxes paid and unpaid, how much water you’re saving with that new toilet), your cars (registered, unregistered, and parts only), and the fact that you need a new dump sticker. Walter also knows that you bought a new car you can’t really afford, what you’re really adding on to the back of your house, and that you signed the petition against giant inflatable lawn decorations, which was narrowly defeated at town meeting.

Bev, from Bev’s House of Beauty, has been doing the hair of most of the women in town for 35 years. She maintains a comprehensive database of information, organized for easy retrieval into a number of categories: Men (from Available to Soon to Be Available If He Keeps It Up); Children (Bragging Rights, They’re Killing Me, and Another One?); Friends (True, Fair Weather, and She Really Said That?); and Affairs (Foreign, Current, and You Didn’t Hear This From Me).

Ed , the town’s postmaster, has put together a pretty good profile of you based on your junk mail: Neither you nor your spouse belongs to an organized political party (he’s Republican, you’re Democrat); you once attended the First Church of the Last Times but now go to the Undecided Assembly of God; you belong to the Mushroom of the Month Club but only because your kids gave it to you for Christmas; and you finally joined AARP because it was the only way to stop them from sending you applications.

Ernie edits the local paper, a rich source of information for those who know where to look. Notices of property transfers alert locals when you arrive in town and when you finally decide to unload the old money pit. The police log lets folks know that your goat got loose, that the taillight on your Subaru burned out, and that your grandson accidentally punched 911 while playing with the phone. And the help-wanted ads are a tipoff that Earl finally got tired of Doreen showing up late for work at the market.