The crack/meth/fentanyl dealership across the street is a thriving business and a great testament to the endurance of the American Entrepreneur. It has been in business for almost five years. To date, two dead bodies have been hauled out — young women with little children right by their sides when they keeled over. There is also a substantial junk pile in the backyard. Somebody somewhere is missing a lot of copper pipe and electrical wire. So far, only one bullet has been shot through my house. I was on a job at the time.
About once a year, the city, sometimes joined by county police, will creep in before sun up, bash the doors down with battering rams, charge in and haul six to eight people out in handcuffs. It is an exciting thing to watch as I pack my lunchbox and fill my thermos. Doors flying off the hinges, dogs barking and snarling, people yelling and flashlight beams darting every which way. Everybody on the block turns out to watch the show.
Then all is quiet for about four days. Really peaceful. But before the week is out, the endless stream of cars begin to come and go. No mufflers. Plastic bags where the glass used to be. Riding on a donut tire. Never, ever a license plate. Speaking before the city officials is less productive than speaking before an old oak tree. Those elected officials don't live on this block or anywhere near it. Neither do the police officers. It's just the retired pensioners and the blue-collar working people that live here.
I'm just a dumb welder, but the solution is so simple, I don't understand why somebody of importance and brains hasn't figured it out yet.
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