Thats what she said right! Hah! Ok. So as everyone knows (because I cant shut up about it) Id like to be a writer. Id like to write. Id like things to be written and read by me! Get it? Ok so Im working on a book slash story slash work of literature-ish. I like it. And Id like to put the intro on here so that you can see it. Now Im doing it because I hate the way I write on this blog, its not the way I write and so Id like ya'll to see how I really like to write. You probably wont like it. But its the opening page and so deal with it. Later.
Iroquois Trail is a street like the rest of the streets in the rest of the neighborhoods that collect themselves up around the outside parts, the dirty dusty corners of Atlanta. Here the houses spread out comfortably, liberally along each side of the little road and they are filled mostly with Mexican and South American families, and their extended families too all living together. Their trucks with the shiny stainless steel wheels and chrome trim, the airbrushed decals and landscapes that resemble the rural parts of Mexico painted on the tailgates, parked out front one after the other, lined up and backed out into the street and cul-de-sac. There are the black families too and they don’t come out much. You can tell their houses from the Latins. The Latins always were working on their houses. The yards, the siding, the driveways. They could turn a pile into a palace in a week’s time, re-pour the driveway and bring it all the way around to the back of the house. They laid the white concrete, you can see them out there sometimes leveling it, knee pads on and on all fours swiping back and forth smoothing out the rough spots with their wood handled smoothing plates. They make those old houses on that street new again. They paint them all kinds of colors now -sea green, sky blue, salmon pink, Easter yellow- and they stick out too, bright and contrasting against the earthy worn brown of the other houses. The black families don’t mind it and never say anything about it. They stay in mostly and keep to themselves. You usually can catch them in the early, dark blue morning hours when the sun hasn’t broken the crisp cool wetness out of the air yet, their hunched over tired silhouettes hurrying off to work in their dull rusted junkers, clanking against the cold and spitting out of sight. The white folks seem to find something wrong with the Mexicans though. Most of the whites, the ones who started out there and grew up right along with the rest of everybody since the beginning, they moved out a long way back. There are only a tired, lonesome, sorry handful of the white families left. A couple bent up old houses, ripping at the seams and looking grey and contorted, with a stubborn few of the washed up old hold outs boarded up inside and staring out through their dusty cream white blinds and wrinkled plaid curtains and through the overgrown pines and willlows at the road they grew up on going all to shit. That is the way it is there now on our street. But this is not the story of how our little road is. This is the story of how it all used to be. This is about the way things used to be on Iroquois Trail.