The Devil’s Playground

by Kenneth Nesselrodt

            In my home town, the intricate hand-painted signs convey the message “Welcome to Franklin, Est. 1793: a great place to raise a family.” Perhaps I’m wrong, but to me, this seems completely untrue and illogical. A small town in the mountains may seem harmless to the untrained eye, but if I’m given the chance to explain, I’m sure I can give details as to why I am of the firm belief that this assumption is most certainly untrue.

            Franklin is a relatively small community – considered a retirement community to be exact. Many attempts have been made to lead our town out of the rut of boredom that it has become, but it seems most administrative actions are performed by a group of wealthy senior citizens. Despite their attempts to ward off change, we have been blessed, and I say blessed with infinite sarcasm, with the Potomac Valley Youth Center. Inside this youth center is a bowling alley, where I have been assaulted by a 45 year old man, a billiards room where I have had to defend myself with nothing more than the heavy end of my pool cue, and a bathroom, where I have been assaulted by a 23 year old “hometown football hero.” Of course I have reported some of these incidences, but I have always been found at fault; though never asked to leave, it just seems those who run this lovely youth escape favor some over others.

            Outside of this youth center stands a hoard of young people, many under the age of 18, but almost all under the influence of some mind altering substance. Behind the building set bottles of whiskey and vodka, the hemlock tea of the mind, with portions missing most likely in the stomachs of the loiterers. One character that always gains my inspection is my age. The stale aromas of marijuana, cigarettes, and whiskey occupy his woven hemp pullover jacket, more commonly defined as a “drug rug.” Smoke rolls from his nostrils as he brings his right hand back up to his mouth for another drag off of his cigarette. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, pupils are dilated and hands are shaking, which concludes the use of methamphetamines and hallucinogens. Around the parking lot stumble many more intoxicated loiterers looking for the same fix.

            The high school’s appearance seems to ring a prison theme. Double pain glass and metal doors keep intruders out. The athletic facility houses locker rooms for many sports including varsity football, the same locker room where I was sexually assaulted four years ago. The office holds a small cold room, the same room I was held in as I awaited the police when I was accused of possessing bomb making materials in my locker (these supposed materials were 9 volt battery clips for my science project, which was the same project that another student won the science fair with the next year, and AA batteries, which were the same that are used in my CD player).

            Near the elementary school, next to the same playground I frequented as a child, is a wooded hill where many youths go to get high, the same hill where many of my female friends have been raped.

            Perhaps I have been a victim of circumstance in this small town, as have many of my friends. Speaking from my experiences and belief that idle hands are the devil’s playground, it seems that a sign that reads “Welcome to The Devil’s Playground, Est. 1793: A great place to raise a prison ready family,” would be much more appropriate for this mountain paradise.

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