We’re always interested in doppelgänger towns, aren’t we? Same name, different place. There’s a Minneapolis in Kansas, and someday I’ll get around to it. This week . . . Fargo.
I think the pictures bear this out.
No, I don't think it's booming.
“Can you get the car through the front door? No? Can’t help you.
Triplets, dozing in the old folk’s home.
Detail: big-box front door with a faux stained-glass window, strange blind, the word “Cash” written in small letters.
The Elevator: skyscrapers of the plains.
Really, I don’t know what else to say here. There’s almost nothing about which one can comment.
Boarded-up busted window, stuff jumbled in the store.
But is that a piece of ornamentation up there? It is.
Yes: Masons. You’d think that would be the cornerstone, since that seems like a Masony sort of thing.
Dead bank, I'd guess:
Time has erased the sidewalks, as it will do. They can take the weight of a million feet, but are helpless against time. Or perhaps the road receded?
No one’s here anymore. No goes here anymore. There’s nothing here for anyone to go to.
“Boss, I just got tired. Got down to the bottom of the door and my back hurt. I quit. Just didn’t see the point.”
The burger company came in and built a new restaurant, and the dad gummed thing just sunk.
The sign over the door says “Community Building.”
The remnants of the slanted roof from the bygone building still cling to its neighbor.
There’s a door on the second floor but I don’t think they’re worried anyone will walk through it.
If you look at it one way, the right side looks like it could be an angled front.
And that’s Fargo.
The other one.