Free Almost Home by Damien Echols Page B

told me it’s changed quite a bit, that it’s no longer the same place. Now it’s clean, the people plant flowers in their yards, and they wash their cars. People are neighborly and friendly, and even cops live there. Old people live there after they’ve retired. I suppose it is now be considered lower middle class. That’s a big difference from the days when I knew it. To hear of these changes saddens me, because I feel that the last vestiges of what I knew as home are now gone. The world has moved on while I’ve been behind these walls. I no longer feel as if I have any roots. It seems that there’s a whole new world out there, and I’ve become an old man in body and mind if not in years.
    Lakeshore was a pretty big place, as far as trailer parks go. It consisted of about 200 trailers, give or take a few. They were nearly all run down and beat up, having put their best days long behind them. Nearly every one of them had a small 40
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    yard surrounded by a metal chain link fence. The majority of those fences held dogs, which were the only form of “home security” we knew. Without a dog and a fence it was only a matter of time before everything in your yard was stolen and the gas was sucked right out of the tank of your car. The latter was accomplished with nothing more than a piece of hose and a bucket.
    The heart of Lakeshore was indeed a lake. A lake so green and scummy that most fish no longer inhabited it, and you were strongly advised against swimming in it, because it wasn’t wise to swallow any of the water. The bottom of the lake was an old boneyard of newspaper machines, wheelbarrows, box springs and mat-tresses, rusted bicycles, tangled fishing line, busted tackle boxes, broken fishing poles, and anything else your mind could conceive of. Before we went on trial the cops claimed they found a knife there. I don’t doubt that at all, and I would not be completely surprised if they found a dozen more. My attorneys thought it was most likely planted there to make me look bad, which could very well be true. I also believe it’s just as likely to have been dumped there by one of the many people who used the lake as their own personal garbage dumpster. That lake was a monster. I miss it terribly now. I now think of it as being beautiful in its own green, scummy way, although I can understand why those who lack my nostalgia would not. In my mind that lake has become like the Ganges, capable of washing away the pain, fear, suffering and misery caused by eleven years of incarceration for something I didn’t even do. That lake has become a magickal thing to me now, and has come to represent “home” more than the Mississippi itself.
    The streets around this trailer-lined lake bore the weight of a constant parade of stray dogs, shifty teenagers, and shady characters. It was what one might picture upon hearing the words “bad neighborhood.” It wasn’t safe to be caught alone, day or night. Roaming packs of hooligans tended to congregate around the small store at the entrance of Lakeshore, which contained two pool tables, and couple of video games, and a jukebox. You could purchase beer in cans or bottles, soft drinks (ditto), boxes of cereal, or the makings of a fine bologna sandwich. On the counter was a fishbowl filled with loose, stale cigarettes of every brand, all to be had for ten cents each. There were also several coin-operated washing machines and dryers, in which to do your laundry, but you had to have a sharp eye or else your unmentionables fell prey to theft. Jason and I spent a few idle hours there, along with his younger brother Matt and a few other neighborhood characters. After several years of seeing nothing but empty fields and crop dusters, this place seemed like a pretty happening spot. As long as you kept your eyes to yourself and didn’t try to mind anyone else’s business, you were fine. Anything else was asking for a fight. Some unknown marketing genius had given