M. Kleinfeld – Week One – Block Map

Feelings of excitement and joy are filled in me. The dashboard of my Jeep Liberty says it is 4:03 PM. This is the first time I have drove to my new crush’s house. He lives out in Crump, which is 35 minutes away from here I live. The GPS says I have seven minutes until I reach my destination. I creep up to a stop sign and see a gigantic green tractor, with four large wheels, easily bigger than my jeep, has broken down in the middle of the intersection. There are four large men walking around the tractor in circles and there is one smaller man in the driving portion of the tractor, with the window open yelling at the men down below. The anger in their voices and faces is too revealing. It is obvious that I am going to have to wait in my spot for a couple minutes for this to be resolved. I take this opportunity to take a second and look around my new crush’s little town. The road signs on my left say Anderson and Garfield. They are covered in rust and a kind of turf green; seems like they have probably been there since the late 70’s. To my right, oddly enough, there is a tractor dealership. Big green letters encompass the name Bader & Sons on the sign above the door of the massive building. Dozens of green tractors with big plows on the front, much smaller than the one broken down in the middle of the intersection, are perfectly lined up in a metal wire fence in the front of the lot. Probably because they do not want them stolen. There is a tall man with brown work boots and a plaid shirt on, just getting out of his shiny, white Chevrolet pick-up. The body style of the pick-up is new, but not the newest one I’ve seen. He seems to be in a rush and before I can catch a glimpse of his face, he is inside the dark tinted doors of Bader & Sons. On the other side of the street lays an old brick building. Something I would see out of an old movie. No windows and a cliché old sign hangs on the side of the building with neon letters that are not lit. The letters read “The Crump Pump”. I passed the building off as a biker bar. The three motorcycles in the parking lot and the rented sign that says “Bike Night Tonite!” pretty much gave that idea away. I wonder to myself if the bar has good food and I wonder how many times my crush has ate there. Across from the Crump Pump is a gas station. Two trucks are filling up their gas tanks and one older model sedan is parked on the side of the building. The one truck is black with a lift and the owner looks to be perfectly content with life. The sun is shining and the breeze is blowing the air just right and this man is soaking in every second of it. The owner to the other truck, an old green dodge with rust lining the bottom of the entire frame, on the other hand, seems to be deeply annoyed. His facial expressions are alarming and the way he is stomping around slamming his doors makes me wonder what is going on in his life. A middle aged woman walks out of the gas station building with a six pack of beer in one hand and her pink wallet in the other. She quickly climbs in the sedan and speeds down Garfield in the same direction I am facing. The gas station reminds me of the gas station in my small town. It is red and blue with chipped paint down the side of the building and the four gas pumps are identical to mine. I capture the thought that my crush and I use the same kind of gas pumps. Butterflies fill my stomach as I realize how close I am to seeing him again. The door of the building next to me slams and my head can’t help but jerk to the left. The building has the same brick as the Crump Pump, kitty-corner to it. It has a blue and white awning reading “Ron’s Party Store” with four somewhat large steps and a rusty old railing running up those steps into the building. The man walking out of the store has a brown paper bag he is holding up against his chest and he is fumbling with his keys. He walks differently. His steps are staggered and he is relaxed. He quickly unlocks the doors of his Chevy Impala and climbs in, starting the engine. He backs up, over the cracked concrete and his car bustles down the road behind me. The large wheeled tractor finally starts moving and soon enough, I take a left on Anderson and wonder to myself how many times I am going to be passing the Garfield/Anderson intersection. Hopefully at least a few more times, I think to myself as I purse my lips and turn the country radio station up.ANP1

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