The rusty entrance gate does not do what it is suppose to do, the tarnished steel and peeling white paint does anything but welcome you. ‘Bare City’ barely seen printed at the top of the gate, both vowels missing. What is this place? Some describe it as garbage, some call it home, I do not want to call it. As I step further through the gate I notice a large oak tree with names, hearts and curse words carved into it. I shake my head and purse my lips in disapproval. What is this place? Surely, it has to get better than this. It doesn’t. The dry, crisp un-watered grass is a deep-seated tainted brown color and the flowers are lifeless. I can tell that in earlier years Bare City was beautiful, what ruined it? A hurricane? A tornado? I can see now that it is a lack of interest and care. The smog and air are compressed with toxins, foul. I cannot breathe. What is this place? The trash cans pile over and the oasis of garbage decorates the bottom of the bins, the streets, the ‘houses’. I think momentarily how, by some misfortunate fate, I ended up at this dirty, despicable ‘City’. As I stand at the entrance I could see miles and miles of trailers a few yards away. They too have been rusted and what’s left of the paint barely maintains posture. How could someone live here and not be disgusted? I wince at the thought. But where were the shops, the businesses, the playground? Where were the people? Hesitant, I take a step further. I creep through the ghost town and find the main ‘city’. The shops are shut down, cobwebs garnish the exterior. Has anyone lived here? Yes, obviously. But has anyone lived here recently? I hope not. The ‘businesses’ are miniature, as though midgets rule the town. I stoop a little and peek inside a window and dust off the wall of dirt. Surprisingly, the interior looks newly furnished, bright, cheerful. I laugh to myself. What is this place?
Suddenly a bell rings and I jump, alarmed. Did I do something? I laugh again at myself. This ‘city’ has an alarm? And as if I’m standing in a school yard, the doors of the trailers creek and open one by one like an army. The soldiers walk out and greet one another with salutes. They walk toward me like zombies. What should I do? Run? Scream? I cannot move; no words escape my lips. I’m hypnotized and observant. They march toward me, straight faced showing no emotion and suddenly they halt, in sync with one another. I notice that they are dressed in uniform, grey, bland and contoured. They each stare at me, unmoved, except for a small girl. She wears a pink dress, wide-eyed as she looks at me and her lips twitch into a smile. I feel compelled to smile back at her porcelain face. What is this place?