Carl the Death Driver / Ch-2 / Pt-2

Arriving at the Primrose Avenue stop sign once again, the rearview mirror of LUVCARL was a panoramic display of trash containers strewn about the periphery of 22^nd Street. So many fallen garbage bins with household waste and landscape trimmings of every kind imaginable.  The unwanted surplus of homes and the excess organic matter of the parcels of land they occupied, all scattered about the road in a density that antiquated streetlights could barely reveal. Swirls of wind from the east picked up their pace and made efforts to push some of this discarded material toward the curbs. The futile work of wind continued into the later evening that then became night. Before the earliest parts of morning, the first dog walkers and commuters would attribute the littered landscape and toppled garbage bins to some savage desert squalls that briefly invaded their neighborhood while they slept, never recognizing the mayhem as a creative force performed on the large canvas of the community by one of its own.

A right turn onto Primrose took LUVCARL past Westside Unitarian Church with its large and prominent sanctuary surrounded by modest low-lying structures and a botanical garden that served as both a site of reflection and tourist attraction. This place of community gatherings and Sunday services fit snugly into the surrounding community with Ben Franklin Lower School on one side and Miss Montego’s Let’s Learn childcare center on the other. The education facilities rested quietly in the dark with an ambient glow from the eight powerful spotlights that illuminated the church complex and the dozens of smaller lights along the pathways of its expansive garden. The interior of LUVCARL was momentarily revealed by reflections of the spotlights’ bright beams off the sanctuary’s stained-glass windows. Low-level flashes of departing light bounced off of LUVCARL’s side mirrors as he reentered darkness passing by barely visible homes and traveling through a careworn corridor further down Primrose. LUVCARL’s wheels sprayed water accumulated in pockets of poorly restored road and a slow rhythmic whisk closely followed his steady course. Far removed from the sanctuary’s reach, LUVCARL crossed over 27^th street on his way to a main traffic artery of this residential grid.

Province Boulevard stretched five lanes wide, including a middle turn lane marked by double yellow lines. The road served as a vital thoroughfare through the community. Province Boulevard was among a small number of old routes that connected the county’s largest municipality to three suburbs and ultimately reached a coastal beach town. Most local commuters recognized it as one of the area’s primary east-west corridors.

The road underwent several name changes along its course. Starting as South 30th Street in the south-east corner of the county, it passed below the major metropolis before reaching Carl’s municipality. At Fillmore Boulevard, the road widened significantly and the street signs changed both in color and name to Province Boulevard. After running through three miles of Carl’s mixed industrial-residential community, it narrowed again at Lincoln Boulevard, becoming simply 30th Street until reaching the beach.

The name Province preserved the colonial history of this important passageway. Spanish colonizers had used this route to travel between missions, ranches, and farms across their former land grant. This historical significance was marked by the distinctive road signs in Carl’s neighborhood, though few modern residents knew of its origins.

LUVCARL turned onto Province from Primrose and approached Scarlet Avenue a block later. Scarlet marked the beginning of Dickinson Park, which locals knew as Poet’s Park. It was three city blocks long by two city blocks wide. Dating back to the earliest parts of the 20^th century, the park preceded the community and was the direct result of a land donation. Along with the broader educational reform of the time and the establishment of four new primary schools, it transformed the area to become diverse in culture and densely populated.

Poet’s Park was originally named after the son of a railroad tycoon who died in childbirth. Later, during the post-World War II era, a non-profit took control of the park. The non-profit wanted to rejuvenate the region and capitalize on the rising interest in the popular Confessional Poetry of the day. Board members were uncomfortable with the exploration of mental illness and unhappy marriages in the actual works of avant-garde poetry, but they liked the general idea of renaming the park to inspire a vision of the arts over the underlying industries that were the backbone of the community. Although no one on the board of the non-profit organization actually read her writings, they chose Emily Dickinson. New collections of her previously unknown work were being brought to light, and the popularity of the reclusive 19^th century poet was growing.

As LUVCARL advanced towards Poet’s Park and then crossed over Scarlet Avenue, scenic views of the once glorious green space were eclipsed by bumper-to-bumper RV homeless encampments. Residents referred to this stretch as the Dickinson Dumps. Generations of motorhomes and travel trailers were intermingled with popup campers and converted vans. Filling in the gaps between larger RVs were utility trailers and fifth-wheel trailers awkwardly resting on landing gear atop cinder blocks. A patchwork of dark brown and royal blue camping tarps of every size were draped over windows and covered rusted-out sections of the distressed shelters. The hollows of every undercarriage were jammed with storage containers and piles of personal belongings. City sanitation turned a blind eye to this patch of humanity. The department ignored the discarded solid waste and flowing street trash temporarily caught in the spokes of this endless tragedy.

The permanence of the situation was embodied in the condition of the wheels. There were missing wheels, flattened wheels, and deteriorating wheels attached to mechanical innards that stopped functioning long before the occupants took hold. Many were salvaged from motorhome graveyards. A few drove up years ago and parked in their coveted space. Many paid rent to vanlords on a dead vehicle hauled into place. Everyone there struggled with the daily anxiety of law enforcement orders to vacate. They’ve adjusted to the darkness, and the diminishing stars within; and still it gets dimmer for those living at the caravan inn.