I once lived a little more than a half mile east of Geyer, Ohio.
There is really no conceivable reason for Geyer to exist. It’s not at an intersection of two highways, there is no river, or port; it just exists, although it does intersect with a railroad and a township road, but that happens all the time.
There is a junk yard there. I contributed a ‘62 Simca and strongly suspect my ‘63 Chevy truck, I sold to a teenage rabble-rouser, ended up there also. That’s the only commerce in town unless somebody is cooking meth.
I talked to an old timer one time. He told me that there used to be more bars than houses in Geyer. He said there were 11 dwellings, six of which were bars. Sounds like my kind of town.
Geyer used to be on my jogging trail. I recall after many a long run passing through the town and thinking ‘man, I could use a cold one.’ There’s something mystical about places like that; they create something in you that only alcohol can appease.
When giving directions I’d always say, “Take Route 65 south till you smell it and head west until you step in it.”