The Talent Show Read Free

immigrants poured into Cape Bluff, starting up a foundry, a furniture factory, woolen and grain mills, a plow works, and other businesses. Cape Bluff grew, and at the turn of the twentieth century, ten thousand people livedthere. It was one of the first towns in Kansas to have electricity.
    An interesting side note: in 1933, Bonnie and Clyde spent several weeks hiding out at Cape Bluff after pulling off a string of bank robberies across the Midwest.
    After World War II, the price of lead and zinc plummeted, and the fortunes of Cape Bluff with it. Most of the mines closed down, and the population dropped by half.
    Today, there isn’t much evidence of Cape Bluff’s glory days. You can still find a few badly marked open pit mines and shafts that occasionally cave in, creating sink holes big enough to swallow large animals and small cars. The main street—Main Street—is cluttered with a Burger King and a few other fast-food joints, gas stations, a supermarket, a movie theater that doesn’t show movies anymore, and the faded signs of businesses that picked up and moved elsewhere many years ago.
    The rich folks, with their summer homes and designer cars, live in Kansas City, Tulsa, or Little Rock, each about three hours away. Cape Bluff is working class. You have to be tough to live there. Resilient. The people have survived two WorldWars, one Depression, countless recessions, gas shortages, crop failures, not to mention the occasional “weather event.” Four tornadoes touched down in the 1990s, ruining countless lives.
    There were a lot of downcast faces as people filed into the high school auditorium that Friday night. Many were wearing ripped clothes and soiled shoes, or walked with a limp. Some people had lost everything they owned. Tornado insurance was a luxury not many people could afford.
    There were few smiling faces, and no laughter. Old friends hugged one another, relieved to see that the other was still alive.
    Some people came to ask questions, to get advice, to see neighbors, or just to vent their anger. Some came for a Friday night out. It was something to do, and it didn’t cost anything.
    Reverend John Mercun, the pastor of First Presbyterian Church, greeted everyone as they lumbered up the steps.
    â€œMaybe God didn’t intend for people to live here, Pastor,” said Honest Dave.
    â€œGod protected us, Dave,” Reverend John assured him. “Nobody died.”
    Usually, it was Mayor Rettino who ran the town meetings. But on this night, she sat quietly on the stage with the other local politicians. There were no prepared speeches. Nobody wanted to take ownership of a natural disaster. It was left to the chief of police, Officer Michael Selleck, to tell everyone to take a seat and call the meeting to order.
    A microphone had been set up in the front of the auditorium. People began lining up to wait their turn to speak. First in line was Bill Potash, the father of Don, the young Seinfeld fan.
    â€œI rebuilt my house three times,” he said before the microphone produced some squealing feedback. “Now it’s gone. There’s nothin’ left. My truck is wrecked. The insurance doesn’t cover tornadoes. We’re living with my sister’s family. And we’re lucky to have ’em. But why is it always us? How much am I supposed to take?”
    There were murmurs of sympathy through the auditorium.
    Bill Potash wasn’t expecting anyone to have a satisfying answer for him. He just wanted to say it out loud. Tears in his eyes, he went back and sat down next to his wife and son.
    Honest Dave was next in line.
    â€œI may have to shut down Hummer Heaven,” he announced. “Nobody’s buyin’ big cars anymore. How am I supposed to sell anything when everybody wants to go fifty miles on a gallon of gas, and all I can give them is sixteen? I didn’t see this coming. I guessed wrong, and now people are laughing at