My Special Place

Currently Listening To: Waiting by Shiny Toy Guns
Last week in assembly, a girl I haven't spoken to in the three years she's gone to our school of less-than-500 students gave a speech about all the shit that's gone down in her life (serious shit), and that our school has made her feel confident and what not. So, a brief recap of that briefness: her special place is school because it makes her feel safe.

Now, what about my special place?

Oh, I've got a great one. But it's not a place that makes me feel safe. Quite the opposite, in fact. My special place is the way I've recently started driving home from school. Basically, you go the same way as usual, but halfway down the highway you take a right straight into the bowels of hell. You pass by various ranch houses on large lots, followed by THE COMPOUND. What the fuck is THE COMPOUND, you may be asking? THE COMPOUND is this seriously sketchy grouping of houses and American-made cars on blocks surrounded by a sloppily-put-up retaining wall fence with some cryptic message I don't care to remember spray painted on the side. Who lives in THE COMPOUND? Trustworthy sources (some kid I talked to in middle school) claim Neo-Nazis, though a charismatic cult, Communists or the KKK are not out of the question.

Needless to say, driving by is uncomfortable. Breaking down on the side of the road is bad. Breaking down within half a mile of THE COMPOUND is bullet-in-the-brainpan worthy. Imagine House of Wax, Texas Chainsaw and Wrong Turn rolled into a thin flour tortilla and grilled to perfection.

After THE COMPOUND, there is the little town of Macedonia. I'll be damned if the name of every town in Georgia wasn't taken from my Ancient World History book from Freshman year. Macedonia, of course, is where my radio is hijacked from the audio-orgasm that is SIRIUS 26 Left of Center and switches to some rinky-dink station coming from someone's basement, which plays various essays and rants about the New World Order and how uncivilized people in Africa are (I shit you not... and this isn't THE COMPOUND). This happens a lot, of course; the frequency I listen to SIRIUS on is pretty popular for people's car-iPod things, so I'm frequently subjected to other people's crappy music. That's what I get for using a (paradoxically) Vacant Frequency (which is the name I plan to use for my Dan Brown/Robert Ludlum novel).

Following Fred Phelps Radio is the power plant, which was deemed one of the ten worst in the country (though I'm inclined to say it was #1 on the list). I don't know what to say about it other than that I close the vents on my car when I'm in sight of it.

From here on out, there's a lot of unremarkable minutia. Rinky-dink airport. Windy roads. Broken roads. One-lane bridge. I like to blast M.I.A.'s Kala and pretend I'm driving in the jungle of a third-world country. It helps that my car is a beat up, outdated Honda SUV. Third-world, to be sure. My life is like the ghetto. I grew up on the streets.

What's most exhilarating is that (SHH!) I'm not supposed to drive that way. Not because of the possible cannibals, bigot radio or power plant. It's the one lane bridge. Dad, I love you and how you always look out for me.