In
a small corner of Plano there is a spacious place I like to call “Deadend Avenue.” It is roughly a mere four blocks from 14th
street, and surrounded by dull, industrial
malls ever built. One might walk one’s
dog in the middle of the night and see
the rare person doing slightly shady repair work on a vehicle, or unloading unmarked, non-descript packages into a
small warehouse, where you then will be met with either dirty looks or the rapid closing
of a warehouse door—with no
explanation what-so-ever or care.
One then should merely make one’s way home to either the prospect of safety or at least paid security.
This
place, is often marked by couples, who dress
beyond their means or feelings. The
houses are spacious, given there are no
nearby amenities for four blocks in
all directions. Overpasses abound where
the streak of a yellow dart streams through
and no signal warns or is present that could keep you from becoming a splat on the back roads. The nearest convenience store little more
than a in-and-out liquor where one
could buy the cheapest of spirits
available.
Perhaps the most unique aspects is
the wasted area of grasslands where chiggers
roam freely waiting to bite into your legs and backsides at a moment notice—where
neighbors will turn their heads to
your presence and where dish or cable is the only saving grace available to the boring drab existence that is present among these places. This
barren waste of a place is more akin to places dogs or the elderly go to die—where any dream you might have is immediately
quashed in actual sleep or in the distinct rot
you feel forming inside your soul.
