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literature
East Street Road
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Literature Text
I desire this rain in my heart no more than I desire a piano string's vibration against my tongue, but the gray skies remain over East Street Road as my footsteps lead me home. I can't play a note, but when Maribel is alone she makes music from great granddad's old Steinway. I can hear it up the street as I come walking home from work, and she's got the window open to spill out our lost dreams onto the sidewalk where they were supposed to sprout. The sidewalk that should have carried hundreds over eighty years ago now only guide us few still living in the ashes of a Depression-dashed dream.
The music always stops when I put my key in the lock, and she always makes sure it's locked. By the time I have the door open, she's up the back stairs and gone for the day. She won't come down again until night, when she shrugs on an outfit of service and goes to work the graveyard shift somewhere she shouldn't have to work. My own mother's pale beauty, the eyes that adored me and the soft hands that cared for me, now avoid me and the rest of the world as though we would scorch her should we even get close to her.
The first floor had briefly been a haberdashery. Great granddad, Johan Baumgartner II, plunked down his life savings to buy this new three-story building in 1928. By September 1929, all the streets that were to be the veins of this new urban oasis called City East were laid out in cobblestone, and this first block was filled with storefronts with living spaces above for the smart, upcoming shop owners. Great granddad had come from Germany with the dream of providing the finest hats to the all the upper-class folks who would move into this paradise, and to fill this house with more children than just little Johan III.
But there was never a chance to make fine hats here, because the upper-class folks never bought houses on all the empty streets of City East. Once the market crashed, the developer crashed and the chance of the proposed public gardens and subway stop that was supposed to bring life to this ideal little dream was run in to a municiple budgetary wall. The articles that lured great granddad here are still on the wall upstairs, pinned to it as though they should infuse life in this purposeless plaster. "A refreshing combination for the body's constitution – city homes and country fauna, public parks and no motorcars allowed – public transportation to take the man to work and while his family is safe and entertained home in City East!"
They put a freeway through after the war, slicing away half of what should have been our town and cutting off this block from what was left of the cobblestone streets after the highway was done. The other half of what was left kept East Street, and was filled with small brick homes in 1944. The city sent notice that "East Street West" would be an absurd name for this one block of narrow city buildings standing all by itself between the MacCorkle Freeway and Boundary Blvd. To someone, "East Street Road" seemed to make more sense, and by then all the shops had been converted to apartments & first-floors of homes because we'd all given up hope. I was still thirty years away, of course, after Johan II passed, Johan III & wife begat Maribel, and Maribel found someone to create me. And as Johan IV, I can tell you that by 1944 we had all given up hope of those Roaring 20's dreams ever flapping their way back to life.
So I spend the days covering myself with grease and the agonizing looks of budget-conscious customers at the dealership built in the lot to the north of East Street Road. When granddad worked there, they sold Plymouths. Now they sell Kias. Maribel, I call her that for she stopped being a mother, works nights at the Wal-Mart built in the lot to the south of us. Our backyard looks out over a lot of shiny new clearcoats and windshields, while Matty's house across the street has rear windows lit by the glee of retail at its best.
We live in a dream still standing long after the dreamer woke, lived and passed of old age. We are East Street Road.
The music always stops when I put my key in the lock, and she always makes sure it's locked. By the time I have the door open, she's up the back stairs and gone for the day. She won't come down again until night, when she shrugs on an outfit of service and goes to work the graveyard shift somewhere she shouldn't have to work. My own mother's pale beauty, the eyes that adored me and the soft hands that cared for me, now avoid me and the rest of the world as though we would scorch her should we even get close to her.
The first floor had briefly been a haberdashery. Great granddad, Johan Baumgartner II, plunked down his life savings to buy this new three-story building in 1928. By September 1929, all the streets that were to be the veins of this new urban oasis called City East were laid out in cobblestone, and this first block was filled with storefronts with living spaces above for the smart, upcoming shop owners. Great granddad had come from Germany with the dream of providing the finest hats to the all the upper-class folks who would move into this paradise, and to fill this house with more children than just little Johan III.
But there was never a chance to make fine hats here, because the upper-class folks never bought houses on all the empty streets of City East. Once the market crashed, the developer crashed and the chance of the proposed public gardens and subway stop that was supposed to bring life to this ideal little dream was run in to a municiple budgetary wall. The articles that lured great granddad here are still on the wall upstairs, pinned to it as though they should infuse life in this purposeless plaster. "A refreshing combination for the body's constitution – city homes and country fauna, public parks and no motorcars allowed – public transportation to take the man to work and while his family is safe and entertained home in City East!"
They put a freeway through after the war, slicing away half of what should have been our town and cutting off this block from what was left of the cobblestone streets after the highway was done. The other half of what was left kept East Street, and was filled with small brick homes in 1944. The city sent notice that "East Street West" would be an absurd name for this one block of narrow city buildings standing all by itself between the MacCorkle Freeway and Boundary Blvd. To someone, "East Street Road" seemed to make more sense, and by then all the shops had been converted to apartments & first-floors of homes because we'd all given up hope. I was still thirty years away, of course, after Johan II passed, Johan III & wife begat Maribel, and Maribel found someone to create me. And as Johan IV, I can tell you that by 1944 we had all given up hope of those Roaring 20's dreams ever flapping their way back to life.
So I spend the days covering myself with grease and the agonizing looks of budget-conscious customers at the dealership built in the lot to the north of East Street Road. When granddad worked there, they sold Plymouths. Now they sell Kias. Maribel, I call her that for she stopped being a mother, works nights at the Wal-Mart built in the lot to the south of us. Our backyard looks out over a lot of shiny new clearcoats and windshields, while Matty's house across the street has rear windows lit by the glee of retail at its best.
We live in a dream still standing long after the dreamer woke, lived and passed of old age. We are East Street Road.
This is the introductory story for my story "Street Corner Drowning". I plan there to be other stories for these characters, but this is the intro that explains why they are where they are (and a little of why they are who they are).
If you have read "Street Corner Drowning"
, then you know the narrator. Maybe it'll help to read that first, I don't know.
Comments, Feedback and Suggestions welcome
If you have read "Street Corner Drowning"
Street Corner DrowningI drowned her in her own regrets and moved her off my street corner. She didn't belong there, like that little turquoise car Matty once bought used. Yeah, it ran great and had power windows. But it didn't fit. It was an eyesore on the curbed canvas of our street's patina.
That's what she was: an eyesore. She never wore her feelings on her sleeve because they restricted her range of motion, she said. And I wondered what she thought she wouldn't need stiff elbows for on this block.
When the dawn would break in such a fashion that light actually streamed, she should have glittered with the fine sheen of mis
, then you know the narrator. Maybe it'll help to read that first, I don't know.
Comments, Feedback and Suggestions welcome
© 2011 - 2024 enigmaticsmile
Comments22
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What strikes me the most is how detailed and specific this piece is. It's one thing to talk about someone who had a business go under, but it's a whole new level to go into what the plan was, what was projected for the future in the particular area, and how it went wrong, etc. (and and the comical bureaucracy with the street name just seems too convoluted to be made up, and I find it greatly entertaining) The way you told the story captured how enterprising and shrewd the narrator's great grandfather was, and with that the gross unfairness of his failure.
Having worked very hard to get a Bachelor's in physics only to be viewed as "the guy without experience" when I started looking for work, I can certainly relate to his plight, as well as that of Maribel working a graveyard shift job she shouldn't have to do.
One thing though: in the beginning, it says that Maribel stops playing the piano when the narrator gets back home, but it isn't clear if it's because she has to go to her job, or if it's because she didn't want to play for him for some reason.
Overall, this is a good story, but not as good as Street Corner Drowning. This story captures the grittiness, and it makes life on this little street tangible through specifics that seem impossible to fabricate, but it's too negative. Almost everything in this one is about poverty and hardship and plans going to hell.
SCD, on the other hand, includes phrases that cast some aspects of life in the small community in a positive light. The first paragraph ended with "curbed canvas of our street's patina," which emphasizes that they have some pride in their way of life. The third paragraph includes several images poetic images that make the town sound beautiful, and for a moment the reader forgets that it's a low-income neighborhood, just like its inhabitants would(because they're used to it and it's all they know). Also, the characters in SCD work together to help a citizen they don't even like, which shows how close-knit they are. And what really made that story great was unexpected emotion at the end, when the female lead, who was portrayed as self-centered and stoical, broke down into tears when faced with her past transgressions. It really made me think abot a lot of things, including how people can surprise you, and I doubt I was the only one.
Even if you take this into consideration, you still might not be able to produce another story like SCD, because that takes a special kind of inspiration. But knowing what all you did right could certainly help.
Having worked very hard to get a Bachelor's in physics only to be viewed as "the guy without experience" when I started looking for work, I can certainly relate to his plight, as well as that of Maribel working a graveyard shift job she shouldn't have to do.
One thing though: in the beginning, it says that Maribel stops playing the piano when the narrator gets back home, but it isn't clear if it's because she has to go to her job, or if it's because she didn't want to play for him for some reason.
Overall, this is a good story, but not as good as Street Corner Drowning. This story captures the grittiness, and it makes life on this little street tangible through specifics that seem impossible to fabricate, but it's too negative. Almost everything in this one is about poverty and hardship and plans going to hell.
SCD, on the other hand, includes phrases that cast some aspects of life in the small community in a positive light. The first paragraph ended with "curbed canvas of our street's patina," which emphasizes that they have some pride in their way of life. The third paragraph includes several images poetic images that make the town sound beautiful, and for a moment the reader forgets that it's a low-income neighborhood, just like its inhabitants would(because they're used to it and it's all they know). Also, the characters in SCD work together to help a citizen they don't even like, which shows how close-knit they are. And what really made that story great was unexpected emotion at the end, when the female lead, who was portrayed as self-centered and stoical, broke down into tears when faced with her past transgressions. It really made me think abot a lot of things, including how people can surprise you, and I doubt I was the only one.
Even if you take this into consideration, you still might not be able to produce another story like SCD, because that takes a special kind of inspiration. But knowing what all you did right could certainly help.