The memory ends at the Nifty Fifties Cafe, where the sign is half destroyed and the food is half edible. The whirlwind trip that we took to Medicine Hat (don’t ask why no one quit knows the reason) lasted less than fourty eight hours but was like living a memory. A memory of striking out for the familiar unknown with most of the usual suspects. Liqour fueled into a haze of small town strippers and one casino.

Long weekend monday and the world is quiet while we wait for cut up frozen fries passed off as hashbrowns, over cooked eggs and greasy bacon. The cook has disappeared out the back door to smoke a least three times before our breakfast is served. Walls are dusty where they aren’t covered in James Dean, Elvis and Marilyn Monroe memorabilia. The whole place has the feel of a rock in a river, passed over. The memory must remain and never fade in the nifty fifties cafe.