There’s a new tenant stirring things up on Elm Street. A billboard, of all things, with the bold promise of “Chesterburgh’s First Genuine Speakeasy Experience.” Not behind a secret door. Not buried in some basement. No, right there—smacking the sidewalk with neon pink and navy blue letters, plopped in front of the boarded-up Gloria Theater.

The Gloria — a faded relic that’s been ghosting the neighborhood since 1997 — is the kind of place Chesterburgh loves to forget and then remember in the same breath. Rumor has it that it once hosted a jazz club in the ’40s, and then slowly decayed through the years, swallowed by the weeds and the smell of old popcorn. When the news of a block-wide restoration floated last year, most residents braced themselves for the usual suspects – condos, or a chain store, or maybe worse, a combination of both.

So when the billboard went up last Tuesday—neon buzzing under a foggy sky—it was a jolt. “A speakeasy?” Mrs. Coburn, 72 and the neighborhood’s self-appointed historian, squinted across Elm Street. “Is this 1925 or 2023? It’s the kind of thing you hear about in fancy cities, not here.”

Except, this isn’t exactly fancy, not yet. The billboard isn’t just advertisement — it’s a puzzle piece handed directly to the public, with no official permits lodged publicly and no city council discussion on the agenda, as far as I can tell. Which, coming from Elm Street, is more intriguing than troubling.

I poked around town hall, where the usual murmurs swirl around the planning office like smoke rings—but no one was willing to pull the curtain on this one. A clerk, nicknamed Jane by folks who’ve long given up on wearing their work badges, shrugged. “Nothing official,” she said, tapping her screen. “Permits pending, or maybe lost in the shuffle—hard to say.”

Downstairs, in the dim-lit corner of the Elm Street Coffee House, I caught up with Max, a barista who’s been slinging espresso here for a decade. “People are stirring,” he said, pouring a shot with precision. “Some love the idea of a speakeasy. It’s got character. Others say it’s a gimmick. But either way, it’s got us talking.”

Max isn’t joking. The neighborhood has been humming with whispered theories. Could it be the work of local entrepreneur Sam O’Riley? Sam’s known for his offbeat ventures — a pop-up bakery in an abandoned firehouse, a thrift shop that only sold stuff with faded Chesterburgh stamps. But nobody can seem to confirm if Sam signed on.

Then there’s the matter of the Gloria itself. Most passersby glance at the place like a dented bicycle left against a fence—a relic barely worth a second look. But here’s where the story wrinkles: the Gloria’s owner, one Thomas Eddington, has been uncharacteristically silent. Eddington’s name bobbed up a few years ago when he threatened to auction off the theater to a commercial developer, but the deal mysteriously fell through. Locals have put forward all manners of possible reasons: a hidden lien, an old promise to preserve the building, or maybe a ghost story too inconvenient to unsettle.

I caught Eddington on his rare stroll down Cherry Lane, fiddling with his worn leather satchel. “I’m watching and waiting,” he said cautiously. “This neighborhood deserves more than the usual mess.” No more, no less—that’s Eddington at his best: cryptic, measured. No promises, no denials.

His caution is contagious. The city council meeting scheduled for next week has a packed agenda, and acknowledgment of the speakeasy project is nowhere to be found. It’s almost as if the city wants to pretend it’s not happening, like the billboard is an unsanctioned anomaly, a neon slip of the tongue.

For now, the speakeasy is as real as the rumors and twice as inviting. The billboard flashes its invitation: “Step back in time. Drink like it’s 1927.” There's no address, no website, just a QR code that leads to a minimalist landing page with a cryptic c