When your choice is “stay home and do dishes in advance of the arrival of your guests” and “go look for Ben Allen,” and you are me, I think we all know I’m going to go look for Ben Allen. First off, his road is easy enough to find. It connects Dickerson and Hart through a windy, weirdly rural feeling neighborhood. The part of this side of Ellington is predominately black. That part over there features a dude who was walking to the mailbox in his Confederate Battle Flag t-shirt.
Next, I went off to the cemetery where I got very lost, had a weird anxiety attack, considered just stopping and asking at the office, and then decided to ask the grave diggers I’d seen on my first run through. But right before I got to them, I thought I’d just turn left and see if I could spot him and there he was. I mean, so quick and so weird I have to tell you that I almost wonder if I didn’t see him the first time I drove by, maybe off in the distance, and it registered subconsciously but not consciously, so that when I came back by, I could get right to him. I don’t know. It was weird.
He appears to be buried next to his family. Vandals have toppled the top part of their monument onto the Overtons. I hope the Overtons are jerks and haunt those fuckers’ asses. Ben is buried in what looks almost like a settee. Sue is not there. I wonder if she remarried or if she’s in her family graveyard.
Then I drove to the site of their old home on 8th Avenue South. Right next door to the Lutheran church. I couldn’t get out and take pictures because of the convention center construction. But I took one from the street.
And then off to the funeral home, which is, frankly, not that exciting looking.
But there you go.