Things I just don't understand

The journey
We drove through my hometown today. No real reason, other than to just get out of the house. We started off by getting gas at the station right off the bridge.

“Gas is $2.15 here. Is that good?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. For a second there, I thought you said $2.50. $2.15 is definitely good.”

I nod. I never really pay attention to gas prices until I’m at the gas station and it’s staring directly in the face. We pay for our gas, grab something to snack on and leave. On the way in, I take in the sights of Maumelle boulevard. Nothing to it really. Trees on all sides once you pass the McDonalds.

“I was one of the first crew members there. Back when they opened up.” I say kind of off-handedly.
“Cool.”

I think I see somebody I know in the window, but there really isn’t enough time to be absolutely sure. We’ve already passed it at a steady 40 mph.

As we get into town, we take a left at the light that sits across from the Police Station. It’s been about a year or two since the Police Chief returned from Iraq. He was on some kind of mission to train the police over there. They had recently put up a sign that flashed messages to the passing public. I didn’t bother reading it – I didn’t live in this town anymore. It made no difference to me what the damn thing said.

We turned into the Animal Clinic parking lot and drove next door to the Tobacco Shop. After getting some weird vibes from the place and a few packs of cigarettes, we were off on our tour through the town.

Growing up in Maumelle
This was my hometown. No matter where I moved to, or where I went, this would always be a part of who I was. I couldn’t go five minutes without seeing a place, or building, or street, that didn’t hold some kind of memory for me. Places that used to be there, but are no somewhere else. Or nowhere at all. Buildings for sale, buildings for rent, and buildings that are just plain there. Grocery stores, movie stores, non-store buildings. All of these things, whether they mattered or not, were engraved into my psyche and bookmarked for easy reference.

We drove past a house at the top of the neighborhood I used to live in. It was for sale.

“I knew a kid who lived there once.” I say. “Phillip, I think.”

None of it really truly matters, though. It’s nothing more than ghosts, coming back to life only when I’m in this place. This town of memory rot and hallucinations. Dead people with stories unheard, and the living unwilling to listen.

And no matter how much I tell myself I want to go back, if only for a minute, an hour, or a day, I can never seem to get out of there quick enough.

Big houses
We take a drive through one of the developing neighborhoods.

“Why?”
“Why not?” I shrug.

We are greeted with ten bedroom houses, four cars to every two garages, and a clean that only comes with the fresh smell of dead presidents. And as I’m looking at all of these wonderful houses with all of their wonderful amenities, and their shiny cars and loving families, I can’t help but wonder what they think of me, looking at all of their stuff.

Do they wonder whether or not I’m going to be the person to break into their house when they are asleep, to bind and gag their children, to steal everything in sight and then end their lives? Do they wonder why I’m in their neighborhood?

“Gee,” they would think to themselves. “I’ve never seen them before. Are they lost? They don’t look nearly rich enough to be in this part of town.”

Or do they think nothing at all, merely give me a glance and then go on with their routine? I realize that none of this really matters only moments after the thoughts have already done their lap through my brain. But still, I wonder.

A move up
We had been planning on moving back to Maumelle in May.

“I think our price range for apartments is about $400.”
“Then I don’t think Maumelle is for us.”

Which is true. The cheapest apartment was over $500 for 700 square feet, one room, one bathroom. The apartments in Maumelle weren’t exactly luxury (except for The Parc, which is the new set of apartments overlooking Lake Willostein that tags itself as actually being luxury), and yet you couldn’t find a one bedroom for under $500, $600 in some cases. And the houses, townhouses, and lakehouses? Forget about it. Maumelle is a career driven city – no room you other people here. It’s only a matter of time before they wall the whole thing up and kick everyone that doesn’t fit into a certain demographic out on their asses.

“Whoops.” they would say. “You just don’t make enough to live with the rest of us. Try somewhere else.”

Perception
Thinking about Maumelle isn’t exactly the high point to my evening. But it does give me a little bit of perception on certain aspects of life every now and then. And these perceptions lead to questions as to why I would even want to live there again, apart from my family living there.

• They don’t have a Starbucks.
• They don’t have a music store.
• The night life is non-existent.
• The only thing that stays open 24 hours is a gas station and a Kroger’s.
• The cost of living does not reflect on your ability to live.

I’ve heard that something like 90% of the population wind up settling down and living in a location that is no less than 10 miles from where they were born. I’m actually living in the city I was born in.

And no matter how much I tell myself I hate this city, it’s problems, it’s crackheads, it’s crime, it’s inability to promote growth and self awareness and anything else that might make a life worth living here, I can’t exactly get away from it. Because like Maumelle, this is a part of who I am.

For better or for worse, I’m an Arkansan, native to Little Rock, raised in Maumelle. And no matter how much I hate it, it is a part of who I am.