Wilbur is an ex-high school science teacher. He had a breakdown. These days he sits in the Rex, the local café, drinking coffee that's always on the house. He sits sorting his haul from the day: half smoked cigarettes. Ones he's found while prowling the few streets of his north woods community. No one is sure of the criteria for the butts that Wilbur keeps and those that he rejects.

Wilbur has no need for money; the town provides for him. His only need, and only happiness, is that of cigarettes. Young's: the general store is an ancestor to the old-time mercantile and a grandmother to the mini-mall. It's a one-stop-shop. You can get a hunting license, groceries, fence posts, and plumbing supplies all at once. The proprietor, Howard, "hired" Wilbur to do odd jobs like sweeping the side walk or carry groceries for the blue-haired ladies. There was always a pack of Camels or Marlboros there to pay him. Sometimes, if he thought he had been stiffed on his salary, Wilbur would MORPH into Joe Frasier and pop Howard in the nose. But it was always okay. It was just Wilbur.

This hickville has no stoplights. No need to in a town of less than 300. The only time there's a traffic jam is when Wilbur decides to get his kicks by logrolling down Main Street. No one honks or yells. Everyone just waits "till he's had enough. It's a small price for Wilbur to have some fun.

Wilbur died a few years ago. The whole town turned out. The store that is open 365 days a year closed for the funeral. The little Lutheran church on the corner was packed. People cried for this namer-of-planets, this outsider, and this eccentric. They cried for Middle River's own Joe Frasier. He gave this little town a chance to care. Wilbur was able to live his life to the fullest here because the town never demanded he be locked-up, restrained, or medicated to passivity. Wilbur lived his life the way he wanted to live it. Thanks to the town.