west by northwest (by midwest)

The old Fresh Market sign was obliterated first. It happened just after the store closed and the city took over the parking lot. The first time I saw it, I was hurrying around the perimeter of the parking lot, avoiding eye contact with the menacing men that sometimes congregate on that block. I noticed a smudge of black–smoke? an airplane?–hovering in my peripheral vision like a bee or a UFO. I cupped one hand over my eyes, looked up, and there it was: a post-war cityscape with fallen skyscrapers; a secret sentence in an FBI file; a Franz Kline painting.

I didn’t realize I was walking toward the sign until I found myself standing beneath it. It had lured me into the parking lot despite the danger.

I wondered if the Fresh Market corporation wanted to erase all traces of their store in this neighborhood–hence obliterating all signs of their failure. If so, it will never work. Everyone still refers to this as the old Fresh Market–or if they’ve lived here awhile, the old Albertson’s. The place doesn’t lose its association just because someone paints over the sign. Even when a new store moves in, old-time residents will call this the “old Albertson’s” or “old Fresh Market.” That is part of how cities stay alive. I remembered when I visited Rome and I could not understand how a city just kept building on top of itself, covering old ruins. This. This is how.

Or maybe Fresh Market just wanted to stop drivers from turning into the lot, only to realize the store has closed. Since I cannot drive, I forget sometimes how different the city appears from a car. Pedestrians can sense a store has closed without any warning: no lights, no crashing of carts in the front entrance, no sugar scents from the bakery, no employees lighting up on break behind the store, no life inside the store. On the street level, the place feels like a corpse. No need to check the sign for store hours; we pedestrians already know the Fresh Market is dead. Drivers, on the other hand, never know until they turn into the lot and park the car.

But then another blacked-out sign appeared across the street, where an auto shop went out of business. Of course, the sign did not literally “appear”; it always stood there. But I never noticed it–never really noticed it–until someone blacked it out, erased it, obliterated it.

This time, whoever did it obliterated all signs of the store name–no abstract shapes traced around the letters. Something about the intersection of the two blank slabs gives me chills every time I walk past this sign. Is this the crossroads at which Salt Lake City stands? This corner feels ghostly and prescient. From beyond the grave, the store warns us about empty storefronts to come. I imagine every sign on the street blacked out, blank. Even ghost towns don’t look like that.

I try not to feel bleak. Instead, I think of the City Creek revitalization project just a few blocks to the east. It promises a shiny new mall, towering condos and a Harmon’s grocery store. And to the west, there is the new Sunflower Market. To the south, a gigantic new Whole Foods. The neighborhood is alive. But what about these ruins? What happens to a city that obliterates its history–even seemingly insignificant fragments like the name of a grocery store or tire shop? When Roman engineers dug tunnels for new subways, they uncovered the ruins of imperial houses–complete with kitchens–and even an old copper factory. Who back then recognized the significance of those places in Rome’s history?

Granted, an old Fresh Market feels like a far cry from an imperial house, but even still, think about what a grocery store could tell future archaeologists about life in 2011. Think about how the store nourished the neighborhood for so many years. Surely another business will move in someday and crash a wrecking ball into the bricks, and then everything will be gone. But somehow, that feels fundamentally different than blacking out the sign. That would be an act of life, not death–of hope, not failure or shame or denial.

As I walk past the obliterated signs, I find myself clinging to memories of what once was–if only because the blacked-out signs force me to remember. It’s just like the old game: Don’t think of an elephant. You cannot help but picture that elephant, despite your best efforts. The signs say, “don’t think of ______,” but I do.