In the Ghetto

Philadelphia is a huge city made up of hundreds of unique neighborhoods. Some of the neighborhoods, like mine, are lovely. Many leave much to be desired. Earlier this evening, I had to return to school for Parent Teacher Conferences. Knowing that traffic would work against me, I left half an hour earlier than I would have under normal circumstances. I would have been early had it not been for the ghetto.

I usually take scenic Kelly Drive, home of the boat houses, to work without incident. Tonight, traffic was worse than usual. Halfway down the drive, on my way to the Roosevelt Boulevard, traffic stopped. For what seemed like miles ahead I could see nothing but brake lights, so I made a quick right onto Fountain Green Drive. It felt like smooth sailing as I wound my way through Fairmount Park. Driving through the park is slow, but at least traffic was moving, and I felt confident I'd make it on time.

As I drove down Ridge Avenue I saw that the exit ramp leading from the Schuylkill to the Boulevard Extension was just barely crawling. It was too late for me to take an alternate route, so I took a deep breath and accelerated up the ramp. I merged without incident and traffic soon picked up to about 25 miles an hour. When I got to the point on the Boulevard where it ceases to be an expressway and turns into a local road with traffic lights I looked at the clock and decided to turn off early and drive through the surrounding neighborhood rather than sit in traffic for twenty minutes.

I first realized my mistake when I turned left to cross the Boulevard. That turn was the official start of my drive through the ghetto. I was immediately cut off by an Escalade on my right, who decided at the last minute to turn left as well, narrowly missing my car. The light changed and I proceeded through the intersection, I slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting three dark skinned teenage boys dressed in black crossing on red. Who the hell crosses a four lane road, notorious for accidents, without looking both ways?

My goal was to go a a block or two north then turn right to get to 2nd street. My Corolla bouncing through the ill-maintained street, I passed Wyoming, a street that was fire-bombed a few years ago. Slaloming(is that a word?) with all my might, I was unable to avoid the cavernous potholes on 9th street. I turned right, a few blocks sooner than I intended, onto a road inhabitated by several men drinking out of brown paper bags and cursing. I had no intention of providing the winos with the settlement they so desperately wanted, so I turned left onto 7th St.

I had gone about a block when I saw a car pulling out of a parking spot. Typical of ghetto folk, the driver chose to leave his spot by the curb for a more spacious spot in the middle of the street. No one entered or exited the vehicle. I waited. Two minutes passed. I flashed my lights. Nothing. In addition to the spot the car had recently vacated, I saw great expanses of parking on both sides of the street. I began to maneuver my way around the car parked in the middle of the street, to pass him in the parking lane when the driver graciously decided it would be a good time to continue his journey.

My next obstacle took the form of children playing basketball in the dark. Unlike normal children, ghetto children have no fear of moving vehicles. Rather than moving to the sidewalk, these fine young men chose to stand their ground, glaring at me as I passed. One threw the ball over my car, missing the milk crate basket as his charming friend spat at my car.

For the next ten minutes until I reached my destination I was plagued by the ghetto and its inhabitants. Drivers ignored stop signs. Mothers with small children chose to cross the street, emerging in the dark between parked cars-without looking both ways. I exhaled a huge sigh of relief as I crossed the street that separates the city from its suburbs, knowing that except for the soul sucking energy sapping parent teacher conferences ahead of me, I was out of danger.