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Destination

After the city fell to earthquake and alligators, and the government lost enthusiasm for building atop a major fault line (and alligator fissure), they left reconstruction up to us. We were just shanties, more than half starved and living on skin, with no knowledge of architecture or urban planning, with only flat rocks to drive in the nails, but we took to it.

We didn't bother with street names. And no house numbers for us. North and South and East and West hadn't meant much to us before, and even less so now. Instead, we had River, Hill, Other Hill, and Down.

There was always a car parked on what used to be Pebble Avenue. Now, the street was called Yellow Ford Pinto. A few blocks away there was another one. That place was called Yellow Ford Pinto with the Missing Hubcap.

There was a lady always on her porch, drinking beer from a can and waving at the cars going by. That used to be 934 Shell Street. Now, it was Lady on the Porch with the Busch Can. The city fathers didn't know about her, but we all did. It was fine.

I write to you asking for money with which to continue our reconstruction project. We could do with some timber. We could do with some real hammers. You can put the money in an envelope. Send it to Green House with the Sloping Roof Across from the Eucalyptus with the Missing Branch and Sap that Runs Down in Five Streaks, Three Blocks Other Hill from Yellow Ford Pinto with the Missing Hubcap.

You can mail it to me. It will get here. Your money will find its destination. The government will never find me. It can't find any of us. And that is how we beat them.