The creaking screen door bangs shut in the wayward wind, dust racing across the knotted boards of the porch to be swept instantly back into the empty road. The neon's transformer buzzes, the icebox shuddering as the thermostat cuts out. The grey stray opens its eyes, blinks, stretches - claws extended – then returns to feline dreams of stalking and saucers brimming with milk.

Overhead the power lines moan in the brisk northerly, criss-crossed and sharp against a sparkling blue sky, the clouds held back by the mountains some fifty miles distant. A car comes down the street but passes on by, the driver hidden in shadow and Wayfarers, a cap pulled low. In the seat next to him a dog sits, round-shouldered, eyes fixed ahead. The breeze through the open window flaps his ears, so at a glance, he looks like an old uncle wearing a snow hat.

Stacked against the wall are three red plastic crates, full with bottles; empties from yesterday’s surprise visit. The only other signs are the dried rings of beer on the tables, the piled-up crockery and glasses in the sink inside and the all-but-empty deli cabinet that holds the pies and fancies.

They came roaring into sight in an old Greyhound bus, leaving a trail of smoke the length of Main Street and would have set the population scattering had there been a soul around. As it was, they had to make do with a couple of cur dogs from across the tracks and a chicken that had jumped to freedom from the back of a farm truck earlier in the day. The dogs were too fly to get squished but the hen wasn’t so bright. Went running clean under the front wheels in a mess of clucking and brown feathers.

As they stumbled from the bus I could have sworn that they were a reincarnation of the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club from the fifties Brando movie, The Wild One. Except there were women amongst them. I counted them as they poured into the sunlight, making it forty-six the first time round, but then four more were hauled from the baggage compartment where they’d apparently been left to sober up. It hadn’t worked.

The fifty of them assembled across the street and after a brief deliberation, headed my way. I showed all I had to show around the place and after an hour of raucous, yet good-natured discourse, they left. Gone as quickly as they had come; strangers still, with no names given, none received, no comments written, no contact numbers left.

Today, it’s business as usual. Three fifteen in the afternoon and one visitor. Maybe I’ll close early and clear up yesterday tomorrow.