Whether this is due more to some subconscious death wish, a latent need for adventure, or my spinning-compass sense of direction I can't be sure, but last night I unwittingly ended up on Quindaro Boulevard, a formerly thriving neighborhood now infamous for being goddamn dangerous and scary, for what was probably the tenth time. And each time has been at night. And warranted or not, I always panic, pulling an illegal U-turn in the middle of the road and high-tailing back in the other direction.
|holy shit, this was so not my experience.|
Last night I drove to western Shawnee hoping to escape the city lights and see at least part of the Perseids meteor shower. And, parked in front of a beige suburban house on a dark suburban street with sprinklers hissing a soft spray of water over the manicured lawn, I pointed and ooh-ed and ahh-ed as a lone falling star dripped faintly down the sky.
Then, off in the distance, a suburban dad approached, identifiable by his khaki shorts and baseball cap. Instead of telling him that I, the lone stargazer, was waiting for the first chance to break into his house and empty his fridge of the mid-quality beer (probably Beck's) I knew was in there, I got the hell outta there.
Despite my hopeful trek further down K-7, I couldn't escape the rows of streetlights that streaked below the bridges like landing strips, or the occasional cluster of fast food joints and box stores. I finally gave up and decided to head home.
Don't ask me how I ended up on Quindaro. Along with letting me borrow your shit (hint: if I return it at all, it will be damaged if not irreparably at least to a point rendering it temporarily useless) you should never, ever ask me for directions or follow me anywhere you've never been before, because odds are I will get lost, and if I don't get lost I will take a rambling, indirect route that will cause your fucking brain to explode. In other words, directions are not my strong suit.
Despite my nearly hourlong detour, I did eventually make it home at 1:30 a.m. without any whiz-bang bullets biting me in the thigh, or what have you. And was it worth it? Probably not. But that's life; not everything has to be fraught with meaning. Sometimes shit just happens, you know?