As a child, I grew up on a dead end road in the Kennydale neighborhood of Renton, Washington. It was the ideal place for a kid to grow up. The street was merely an extension of our yard, playing host to go-carts, ramps to jump our bikes off of, street hockey, games of catch and 4th of July fireworks. I can’t imagine having to grow up even one street over, which was a very busy thoroughfare.
Little did I know that dead ends would play a big role in my life, and not for all the right reasons. This only occurred to me a few days ago and after double checking my facts on Google Maps, I found that my fears were were indeed true.
You see, dead ends also seem to be a dead end for me.
After high school, my wife and I lived in the back of my parent’s house for a time. It was a sweet deal. I was just starting out in my career and we had what amounted to a three room apartment there rent free. But my wife couldn’t stand it, largely because she did not like my mother. I can’t say I blame her, looking back. If we got into a tiff, my mother would always take her son’s side. What a good mom.
My wife eventually forced my hand. I received an ultimatum to either move “or else”. In retrospect, I should have either taken the “or else” or what Jay had in the box. But I gave in and we moved to Mill Avenue, to a little $255 a month apartment with a nice view of downtown Renton and the freeway. It was a funky little place with just five apartments. To make a really long story short (it’s in my upcoming memoirs), the marriage came to a crashing end not soon after.
I should have known this was going to happen. Mill Avenue was a dead end. And so was the marriage.
It didn’t get much better a few years later. I was dating someone I had met at work. I ended up moving out of my apartment in West Seattle to her house in Bellevue. Only one problem. She lived on a dead end. Well, you can only imagine where that went. Two years later we were through.
When I met the next ex-whatever, I was on California Avenue in West Seattle, a road that stretches on for miles and while it eventually turns into a dead end, it’s more like a T since it connects to Thistle, which provided a way out.
Yes, there are rules with dead ends. To be a true dead end you have to live on the part of the street that actually terminates and has no other outlets. It actually has to have a sign such as “No Outlet” or “Dead End.” Otherwise, technically, almost all roads are dead ends in this country.
Things were good on California Avenue. Eventually, we decided to move to Kendall Street in Port Orchard, which bordered Givens Playfield. But renting had its downsides and eventually we longed for the joys (?) of home ownership. We finally found what has come to be known as the Blue House, because it was a bright blue among a sea of beige homes. You didn’t have to even give the pizza man the house number. All you had to say was that it was the Blue House. Things went well until one day a friend of mine came to visit. We were shooting the breeze when he suddenly blurted out, “So, another dead end for you, eh?” I replied, “No, it’s a cul-de-sac,” pointing to the big loop of concrete at the bottom of the road. “It’s a still a dead end, man. You just don’t have to put your car into reverse.”
Damn, I was screwed again. Without even being aware of it, I had another dead end in my life. The relationship went south soon after, though the cul-de-sac did come in handy when I had to jockey the moving van around.
When I moved to Florida, I thought it would be smooth sailing. I lived on Jamestown Blvd. Definitely not a dead end. It wasn’t even a street. It was a freaking boulevard. I was safe. We lived there for two years. Then one day my ex-whatever came home and told me the exciting news. Her parents were giving us land to build on in Melbourne.
Land. That sounds fun. So we head out one day to the property. As we’re making the one hour drive, we’re talking about the house we wanted to put there and plans we had for the yard. Then, as we’re driving, she says, “I am so happy that we don’t have many neighbors either.”
“Really?” I replied. “How many?”
“Three,” she says. “Only three. Thank god we’re on a dead end.”
I could see the writing on the wall. While I thought I could beat the odds, the dead end got me once again after two years. Damned dead ends.
I really think that my stars could have changed if I had just stayed on major thoroughfares. If I had, I could conceivably still been in one of these relationships. Hell, I may not have even made it to Florida.
I certainly know that I’ve learned my lesson. No more dead end streets for me. Right now, I live on Hwy A1a, which runs from Callahan, Florida, just below the Georgia Border, all the way to Key West where it ends. Now, I know what you’re thinking, but Hwy A1a doesn’t dead end. It turns into South Roosevelt Blvd at Bertha Street, so it’s not a real dead end. Finally, I can have a lasting relationship. At least until I move again. God, please don’t let it be another dead end.
Out on the Treasure Coast, paving the way to a happy future,
– Robb