Fifteenth Avenue

Everyone in the western suburbs knows of Fifteenth Avenue.

The suburbs and the project homes end where Fifteenth Avenue begins. From here on, there is only endless stretches of farmland dotted here and there with skinny eucalyptus trees, their patchy branches hanging like the knarled bony knuckles of an old man.

You don’t drive down Fifteenth Avenue at night. If you do, keep your backseat full. If you can’t do that, then try not to look in your rearview mirror.

But if you do – you’ll see a little Asian toddler, with black bangs and thick legs. He’s sitting in the middle of your back seat.

Sometimes, it’s a white girl, about seven, with dirty blonde hair and green eyes brighter than they should be in the moonlight.

The little boy, he doesn’t look at you. He sits in complete faith, waiting for that crash that will squash his body into broken bone and bloody jelly.

Better him than the girl. She locks her eyes on you through the rearview. Those evil emerald eyes, so accusing. You know you deserve it when your car runs into the waiting tree.