In the midst of New Holland there lies a certain road. Make a left off of Main Street on to Custer, and then right onto… Locust Street. The tiny homes and duplexes are lined up, looming over all who pass. Brick and siding, dull red and gray. There are cars all along the curb. They make it impossible to pass anyone. Double speed bumps are necessary to restrict speeders. Even though the cheese factory is two miles down the road, the whole neighborhood is rank with the scent of fermenting dairy products.
I jump off the school bus and bolt for the front door. It’s only then that I notice our trashcans, which have blown into the street; and our creepy landlord has tracked gooey brown mud all over the driveway. He came without permission again.
Eventually I get inside and make sure to lock the door. Behind the lacey curtains of the living room, the windows are covered. My mom tacked up some thick paper, and one of those thick metallic sheets that you put in car windshields. She’s perturbed at the thought of peepers and creepers. Frankly speaking, they do bother me a bit. I would love to go to the little park along the avenue. But I can’t because of the fools who drink, smoke and do other unmentionable things there. The miscreants of the area have tainted this place for children. There are some awesome looking railroad tracks behind my house, only I can’t walk on them because of the potential muggers.
From my seat on the sofa, I hear a loud thud in the basement. Did someone break in?! I find that I hold my breath in terror. I’m going to die. I’m certain of it. I realize that it’s just the ancient heater, the one our landlord promised to have repaired.
Soon dusk settles, and I know I have to take out the trash. When I reach the asphalt, I take note of the rubbish that lines the curb. A two liter soda bottle and some open, but unused, feminine products, are just a few of the pieces of refuse sitting about. I have not a clue are to why or how they got there. I throw the trash bag into its receptacle, just as a mini van pulls up to my next-door neighbor’s driveway.
The driver soon takes off, leaving an older lady standing on the pavement; she’s carrying a black trash bag and a kiddy flashlight. She doesn’t even live in my neighborhood. “Hey,” she hacks at me in a graveled tone. I freeze and awkwardly mumble “heyyyyyy.” The woman proceeds to my neighbor’s driveway on the opposite side of my house. Sitting in front of the recycle bin, she rummages at random. Once her back is turned, I race into the house. I hate Locust Street.