The Davis family used to run this town. Three generations, however, had seen to the erosion of that once iron-tight grip on the reins which steered the horses who pulled the town towards John Davis’ vision of the future. Celebrities in their own rite, the family represented our very own brand of aristocracy. Big J.D., the now long-dead grandfather and patriarch, presided as the assumed head of the town council for a record thirty-two years, shaping the way of life to which we have now grown so accustomed.
There’s a fucking Little League field named after him, for god-sakes. The man was this town. You can still see his thumb prints if you look closely at some of the older buildings. He shaped and influenced and molded all of it.
The sons, of whom there seem too many to count, emerged in every profession, every facet of this community. There’s the priest, the lawyer, the real-estate broker, the army brat, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. All sons. All behemoths of their industry.
Since no royal family is without it’s share of scandal, the entire clan has seen its share of better days. Their names dominate small-town gossip. Which one was arrested for what? Which one has the drinking problem? Which one struggles with which drug?
The private tragedies of the Davis family are exhibited on public display for housewives and teachers to discuss at PTA meetings, for drunks to gossip about when the TV at the bar has shitty reception, and for faceless crowds of people to whisper among the pews on Sundays.
And with this, the whole town is changing. The commerce building. The board hall. The VFW. This is not the same place John D. Davis helped create more than half a century ago. The old guard is weak and the last remnants of their power has all but faded into obscurity, remaining only as the subjects of off-color gossip and hurtful jokes.