There is a distinct sound of knuckle knocked against the metal of a garage door. Each tap like a bat striking a ball. As I wait, my eyes catch the sight of a chipped and rusting mail slot.
Every sense feels heightened. I figure that’s because it’s the first day this year that feels like summer, that’s bright enough for people to apply sunscreen. As soon as I walk in, I notice the smell.
“All neon shops have it,” neon sign preservationist Dave Waller says, his smile discernible through his face mask. Walking through the Neon Williams shop in Somerville, Massachusetts’ industrial district, the Inner Belt, I feast on the best eye candy. Despite the hot afternoon, I reason, if neon lighting were a season, it would be autumn. It reminds me of the mesmerizing glow of fall foliage, or a warmly lit holiday like Thanksgiving. Or Halloween night, with that one house that gives out the best candy.
The smell that Waller refers to is a mix of hot glass and electricity, it turns out. At first, it smells like any other maker space. Dust and metal. A quiet museum wing desperate for a renovation.
Then it strikes me, my own brain at full illumination. Not any museum wing: the Lightning! exhibit at the Museum of Science, Boston. Or, on a smaller scale, those plasma globes that made popular desk toys in the ’80s and ’90s. Static. The fleeting minute before a rainstorm.
I’ve come to Dave and Lynn Waller’s shop with an old beer neon in need of repairs, salvaged from a taproom I worked at. I figure if drinking at home is going to continue for the foreseeable, I might as well spruce up the ambiance.
After dropping off my sign, I stroll around the cluttered shop and dodge hanging, bent tubes and glowing messages from the past. Beyond the restoration work, new neon still takes shape inside. I spot a rectangular red and white sign advertising “Curb-Side Pick-Up” on a workbench. For a company that traces its history to 1934—the middle of the Great Depression—Neon Williams is accustomed to keeping, protecting, and restoring light, even at the dimmest times.
Words + Photoby Samer Khudairi