The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

The night the lights went out in Georgia, I learned something about myself. Everything must be taken away in order for me to sit still. I am used to running every day of the week and each day of the weekend. When the lights went out I had to stop.

I used to feel guilty for missing work. I used to believe one missed day of work meant no promotion or raise. I used to believe one missed day meant I would be fired. I would work through illness and snow storms and sick kids. I don’t feel guilty anymore.

The night the lights went out, it was actually day time. We tried to avoid the news. My youngest is six. She had seen pictures of floods and hurricane. At school they practice for tornados and active shooters. My kid is like me. She likes to worry.

We watched the winds, and I told her how Dorothy made it through the storm to get to Oz. We opened the blinds so we could watch the trees bending dangerously back and forth. I didn’t know if it was better to watch the storm or close our eyes.

We played games like Battleship and Monopoly. My kids says these are “bored” games, but they did not seem bored playing. They made do by fighting each other. We were crammed in a small space on the lower level of our house. Pillows and blankets and sofa cushions surrounded us, and yet the kids still found a way to run around. For hours. They ran and smacked each other. They would only stop when the wind got unusually loud. Then they would peek outside at the trees struggling to hold their ground.

Someone sent me a message and told me I should have been at work. They were four states away looking at blue skies.

“No,” I said. “I need to be with my kids. The lights are out. I don’t fool with nature, water, or trees.” I felt my anger rising like the storm. It took a hurricane to get me to stop.

I picked up a book, but couldn’t read even though I sat by the light of the window. The window meant watching the trees bending and branches flying by in the wind.

The night the lights went out we got a knock at the door after midnight. It is a scary sound. A knock after midnight in a storm.

“It’s the Fire Chief,” the voice said. We opened the door, but he stopped us, “Don’t come out,” he said like we would do such a thing.

Live electrical wires surrounded our house. The tree nearly missed crushing our neighbor’s car. “Your tree came down.”

But when we looked, it was a piece of a tree. Our tree had broken and a limb as big as a tree blocked the road. The branch took out two electrical poles. When the lights go out in Georgia, you forget how big the trees are until they start sway over your house in the rain.

We slept in the living room. The wind usually makes a comforting hushing sound. But that wind was not with us. The storm made strange sounds all night. The wind tried to get into our house through all the small spaces. It was like the hand of a ghost trying to force open the doors. We did not sleep well.

We closed our eyes to the noisy darkness.

The night the lights went out I slept a little and did not dream.

The morning the lights went out we realized how dark the bathrooms are with no electricity. Even if you shower and brush your teeth, you don’t really feel clean. You open all the curtains to let the light in, but the sight of broken branches everywhere is unsettling. You settle into another day in the darkness anyway.

I don’t buy milk and bread before the storm. I like nuts, dried fruit, hard cheeses, and cured meats. Charcuterie is comforting.  I don’t want to open a can of soup in the darkness. I like citrus fruit like oranges and grapefruit and I like the sturdiness of an apple. I bought a variety of kimchi. Pickled cabbage needs no refrigeration.

When the lights go out, so does your food if you haven’t planned carefully. There will be ice cream to throw away, but who knows when they will collect our garbage. We don’t open the fridge or freezer if we can help it.

I hope the people who have to get to work can get there safely. Losing three days of a paycheck is a big deal. We all can’t work from home. Some of us have to go into the storm. Never in my life have I heard of MARTA being canceled.

I sat at home watching the wind in trees and wondering what would happen to a train on elevated track in 65 mile per hour winds. I’m glad we didn’t find out.

When the lights go out in Georgia, the lights go out in our homes and at our offices. Our street lights and electrical lines cannot withstand the weight of branches, bigger than most trees.

Atlanta has low places for floods and woodland places for the rest. The trees that shade us so nicely in the summer become vengeful in rain and ice. I tried to explain this to people who think we are silly for staying home. I’m not sorry for being cautious.

I’m not sorry for holding a book as I watched the storm.

I’m not sorry for camping out with my kids to stay safe from the storm.

I’m not sorry for sitting still, while the world around me raged with storm.

I am sorry about that tree, even though it was dangerous and deadly. When the lights came back on, I remembered how much I loved it.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

I hate the idea of earthquakes. The first year I lived in the Bay Area, I avoided the bridges. The act of driving over one meant I would certainly beckon The Big One. A Big Bang started it all, and another kind of Big Bang will one day wipe us away.

I love the idea of an apocalypse. But not disaster.

I know what to do for a tornado. You stay low in room without windows. You get into a bathtub. This assumes you have a good iron claw foot tub and not a pre-fabricated bath, light plastic that might get lifted into the wind. This assumes you will remember what to do when the disaster comes. Will I remember what to do? Will I notice doom coming my way? I have a lot of questions about survival.

I know what to do for an ice storm. Open the cupboards under the sink, and let the faucets drip. Don’t let the pipes freeze. Ice clings to tree branches and shadowy places. Ice forms when snow lands on warm ground. I know what to do for an ice storm. Tread lightly, better yet don’t tread or drive on ice. Make fun all you want, but I’m no fool. At least not about ice.

I bristle when they say we have snow storms in Atlanta. We don’t get snow. We get ice. I can only remember a few times in my life when we had actual snow. You know snow. That light and fluffy stuff that can be rolled up and tossed and shaped into a man. A man of strange proportions. Balls balance on balls. Of course that’s a man. For the women, we become angels. If we have real snow, not ice, I can show you my wings.

Inuit and Yupik people have all the words for snow. We have one. It is a beautiful, quiet kind of disaster.

Last year, smoke filled the city. Wildfires burned far away, but the wind brought the smell of burning to Atlanta. We are a city that has burned before. Firefighters went to contain the blaze. It is a special type of fighting the storm. Can you prepare for fire? Can you prepare for lightning? I think of all the ways the planet reminds us of our place.

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

— “Fire and Ice” by Robert Frost

Lightning is random. Earthquakes unpredictable. A tsunami is a disaster that follows another disaster. How high should we climb? How far can we run? Can we outrun a flood? I don’t know. What are we to do when the end comes on a Tuesday during the daylight, and I am the only one to perish?

I’d like to think it’s why we look to space. Silent and organized in its rhythm. We forget solar flares and meteor showers await us. A comet hurled an asteroid toward the dinosaurs, and this is how the sunny sky looks to me on the happiest of days.

Until I attended a survival class years ago, I was afraid of earthquakes. The first lesson was how to pick up another person. They asked the women to pick up a male student who was on the ground.

I remember my surprise.

“Put him over your shoulder,” they said. “You are stronger than you think.” I pulled on the prone person. I squatted to the ground. I slipped under the heavy body and was able to stand up. I could carry him. A strange exercise in saving, if not the world, then one human. It seemed like enough. It seemed like something important.

It was an earthquake preparedness class. They told us to keep a bag ready with supplies. Water, flashlight, blanket. They told us to find a doorway or stay under a desk or table. Stay away from falling debris. Protect your head. I thought of my years hunkered in hallways for tornadoes in Georgia. There would be no tornadoes in California.

During those California summers all those years ago, we watched the hillsides blaze in the night. The fields of gold turned to burning embers. Wildfire looks like something alive.

I try to be prepared for the things we can’t prepare for. Be prepared for the unexpected. I want to tell my kids this about floods and riots and their grandfather’s name who is becoming foreign to them. There are disasters ahead. Bangs and whimpers.

I don’t know why we ought to survive, but I remember that class on earthquakes and how my fear went away. I can find someone in the debris of a damaged building. I can fill sandbags. I can move rumble. I can pick up another human being who cannot help themselves. I could be shelter. That’s enough of a reason to be ready. To try to survive.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

Many years ago, I realized that one of my strengths is my willingness to talk about sex in a frank, non-judgmental manner. This surprised me for many reasons.

I don’t want to talk about sex.

If I do talk about sex, I find these conversations to be hysterically funny.

I haven’t had sex yet.

I know. You are wondering about the years of marriage and four kids. Marriage is holding hands and sharing a warm glass of milk with two straws. Kids come from under the mulberry bush. I say things like this and you want to know why anyone in their right mind would talk to me about sex. But they do. All. The. Time. Here’s the reason.

I read romance novels. Tons of them.

I read romance novels out in the open where people can see me. I’ve read sexy books on the soccer field. I’ve read sweet books on the airplane. I’ve read a book where a cowboy steals the heart of a city girl while I’m waiting to get my oil changed. I’ve read books with shapeshifters and billionaires and women who time travel to Scotland.

In case you are curious, Scotland is the only place where time travel works. And it only works when love is involved.

I think I know a lot about romance and happily ever after and love. You think that I know a lot about sex.

Maybe I know a little about both. I have learned about love and sex from reading romance novels.

You have the right to be happy. We currently live in a world that is fueled by conflict, anger, hate, and animosity. You know the opposite of all that? Romance. Do you know how to find romance? Read romance novels.

You deserve to have an adventure. Romance novels aren’t really about falling in love. They are usually about some other adventure and falling in love is the accidental by-product in the story. Give yourself an escape from the real world.

Love will recognize love. Reading about love in a book helps you better recognize love in real life. I see people in love at the grocery store. I can tell a love gesture from across the crowded coffee shop. It is never a private plane or a dozen roses. If you read romance novels, love looks different in real life.

Part of love is sex. Part of some romance novels is sex.

Sex in romance novels is good. I’m not going to lie. They never have laundry to do or a six-year-old standing outside the door or a cat who likes to stroll across the bed for feline coitus interruptus.

Before you start connecting the dots. Yes. I read “those” books. I don’t hide them on my electronic device while proclaiming I’m reading the Wall Street Journal. I read romance novels, because sometimes the world is $hitty and I’m tired and sad and I want to go to a world where the world promises me one thing. Happily ever after.

I take no offense at those who judge me. I feel sorry for them. People who read romance novels are more likely to have happy sex lives. People who write romance novels have even better sex. People who aren’t afraid to talk about sex are even happier than the happiest people. Or so I’ve heard.

I find it fascinating that some people find the pursuit of love and romance and healthy sex distasteful.

I read books with people who fall in love. Sometimes those people have sex.

I also love horror novels and thrillers. In those books, people kill each other. The central theme is crime and murder. No one worries about this for a moment.

What’s worse in a book? Sex or murder? I rather enjoy both. What’s better in your life? Sex or murder? In real life, let’s choose sex. Please.

What kind of escape from reality do you like when you pick up a book?

I’m getting ready for the AJC Decatur Book Festival. Labor Day is my favorite weekend to see Klingons on MARTA heading to DragonCon and book lovers heading to Decatur to break the spines of some new books. There is football and happiness all over Atlanta. I think we need more happiness. How about you?

I’ll be moderating two panels at the book festival this year. “Thrilling Police Procedurals” at Historic DeKalb Courthouse Saturday, 10:00-10:45 am and “Love Long Ago” at Decatur Recreation Center Studio Saturday, 3:00-3:45 pm. If you want to quiz me on why I wrote a book that is both a thriller and a romance, you can come see me at 11:15 am on Saturday with Sisters In Crime.

I hope you find a good book to read this weekend. Find goodness somewhere. If you’ve never read one, try a romance novel. It won’t kill you.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

On the news, images of men carrying flames flash on the screen.

I am hated again. They want me to die. They want to hurt and kill me. Again. I am not hiding in an attic. We haven’t been moved to internment camps. Yet. I wait to hear the sounds of dogs barking as they chase me. I haven’t been hunted. Yet. Still they sniff for my blood.

I think of my grandmother. Is this what she wanted for my life? Was the land of opportunity all that she hoped for?

I think of your grandfather. Were the trenches cold? Did he fight for our freedom?

I think of Moses, our teacher, the Egyptian prince. Did he fight against brutality and slavery? Did he escape oppression and stand at the edge of the Red Sea?

My grandmother, she leads me back to the man they call president. She cared for his children. She was a nanny, domestic help. She cradled his babies. I’ve been thinking about all my grandmother did for us. Those babies she held are not her legacy. I am.

Your grandfather fought in World War II. He fought and killed. Killing was the thing that made him a hero, but he came home shell-shocked and scared. He kept his battle scars secret until he died. Even then he knew that hatred had a price and killing killed a part of you. Your grandfather fought against tyranny. He killed and he died. It was for me and for all of us. It was a different kind of fighting and different flames.

He did not die so I could be hated.

Your daughter fought in Afghanistan. Your son in Vietnam. Your uncle in Korea. Your great-great-grandfather held a musket. They told him to fight. He didn’t completely understand the reasons. Neither do we. We don’t understand. No one told him both sides could be wrong in a way. I’m not liberal, I’m not conservative. But hatred is not right. What makes us rage? What make us fight?

I want to look away from the news. Instead I watch men carry flames in the night.

Your grandmother picked cotton. She was white. You know from oral history, not school, that white people picked cotton. You know that Koreans came to Georgia a long time ago. You know that Jewish people help build Atlanta. We have all been on our knees. Every one of us.

We all know lack and wanting. Fighting and flames. We don’t understand hatred.

They want me to die. I am hated again. You are also hated. Your skin, your religion, your love is so dangerous. Again. They want to destroy us. We ought to die.

I ought to die.

I’ve been thinking about it.

Maybe I shouldn’t be here. My grandmother sacrificed her whole life, so I could have more and do better and still be hated.

They want me dead. They want my friend Christian dead. He teaches kids math. They want my friend Dina dead. Her God has a different name.

It’s not just hate. They want to kill us. Free speech is important. I don’t mind angry words. They want to be free to hurt and free to kill. You need to know this. They won’t be happy until the attics are empty, the fields and factories silent, and the whole world is underground.

Maybe I should die. You bristle at words like abortion and suicide, but accept the kind of hate that leads to murder. They are coming for us all. You forget, if given the chance they will kill you, too.

If they killed me would you say it was wrong? I am asking for a friend. The friends who are silent.

I am asking those eyes filled with rage, hate, anger. What do they want? I would give it to them. I would listen to them if they said anything other than rage. If they had a request other than me beaten and dying, I would help them. I would take their hurt away, even though they hate me. Even though their eyes are already dead. All those dead eyes, silver mirrors for the flame.

Who decides who should live and who should die? The soldier, the mother, or the men in firelight. Who decides to carry the flame?

I want you to say, “This is wrong.” I am asking the ones who’ve never said it. The ones who feel safe and distant from both the rage and the fear. The raging ones will always rage, the protesting ones will always protest. I need help from the ones who have never raged and never protested.

Sometimes the protest happens in the boardroom and across the dinner table. You don’t have to go out into the night with fists held high to fight. I want you to say, “This is wrong” in the face of those who say it is right.

Silence is also contagious. It has an echo that cannot be ignored.

I will end up dying.

Some days I don’t mind the thought. Don’t tell me this is wrong when you won’t denounce the hate that causes it.

I am guilty of many things. I long for death. I long for change. I long for peace. I am not more worthy of this life than any other person. I know the privilege of happiness. Every day I go on my knees and pray. I give thanks to this God and those ancestors who sacrificed everything so that I can suffer less. I am guilty of optimism. I am guilty of hope. I am guilty of having a voice of ink on paper. I don’t apologize for the things I am.

On Sunday I should have been in church, but I sat in bed thinking about Moses and fighting and flames. Those men holding torches are blocking the Red Sea.

Maybe I should be forced to leave this country, put back into slavery, I should be whipped and killed.

I think of Moses. They would have hated him, too.

They can’t take my flag, my worth, my life. It is my flag. I want it back. It is my fire. I know how to blaze.

Hate me. There are so many reasons to despise me. I enjoy picking apples and making homemade apple pie. I like to dance. I hold the door for strangers. I can catch a firefly, but would never put one in a jar. I have tasted honeysuckle and tears. I have stood through storms and not blinked for lightning. I have worked and worked and worked to make this city better, this country better, this planet better.

Now I think about flames. And Moses. And fighting. I think about all our grandparents did for us. Optimism and hope are not enough. I need your voice in the quiet hallways of your church and during lunch with your friends and at family reunions. I need every kind of warrior and every kind of fight.

I want our hearts to be healed. But maybe I am wrong. If everything catches fire, maybe everything should burn.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

I saw a woman with a baby strapped to her chest walking through the DeKalb’s Farmers Market. My first thought was, “Look at that baby carrying a human on its back.” But then I took a second look and wondered where the woman was from. Clearly not Atlanta. Come on, lady! Put a hat and some socks on your baby before you go into the Farmers Market.

The coldest winter I’ve ever spent was a summer inside in Atlanta.

There are rules in this town. Please follow them.

Walk through the Farmers Market like it’s Thunderdome. Grab some animal skin and war paint and push your way past old people to get to the hummus. It’s cold. Dress your kids accordingly.

Use nice manners and proper maneuvering skills in Kroger and Publix. People forget that Kroger was Tinder before Tinder was Tinder. When you get to the end of the aisle, yield the right of way. You can’t swing out of the aisle without stopping. Follow the proper flow of traffic. You’re a salmon swimming upstream in the grocery store. That means start with produce and end at frozen goods. I wonder where some of you grew up not knowing these rules.

Stroll through Ponce City Market very slowly. Like you don’t have a job. Like you don’t have credit card debt accruing interest. Protest every bureaucratic thing in the world, but revel in your days at PCM. Don’t question your purchases and why all your food and makeup items are sold in apothecary jars.

How do you say Atlanta? Atlanna. That’s right, the last “t” is silent. You know how Jamaican’s don’t sweat? Well, Atlantans don’t pronounce the last “t.”

Speaking of pronunciation. Ponce de Leon. After Peachtree (see below), Ponce de Leon is the most important street to know when you come to Atlanta. Don’t pronounce Leon “Lay-un” the way a Spaniard would. Say “Lee-on” like your daddy’s barber. Better yet, don’t say Ponce de Leon at all. Real Atlantans just call it Ponce.

Peachtree. Forget all the books that say Atlanta has a gazillion streets name Peachtree. Like Neo in the Matrix, there is only one. In downtown, it is Peachtree Street, but a few miles up near Buckhead it’s Peachtree Road. Like Ponce, just call this street Peachtree. The so-called other “Peachtree Streets” are named “Peachtree Battle,” “Peachtree Corner Circle.” You wouldn’t confuse these with good old Peachtree now, would you?

Downtown. Peachtree Street from Five Points to Ponce. Center of Atlanta. But I’m really not sure what is south of Downtown.

South of Downtown. Oh, yeah. I remember. The airport. Hartsfield-Jackson. The Spaceport. The true Zero Mile and best intersection in the world.

Midtown. Business district north of Downtown. Ponce de Leon to Amtrak. Y’all forgot we had Amtrak didn’t you? You spend all of your time South of Downtown, aka at the airport.

Buckhead. Shopping. There used to be other stuff, but now it’s just $10,000 pairs of shoes. Makes PCM seem not so bad.

ITP. Inside the perimeter. Technically, inside highway I-285 which circles Atlanta. Philosophically, this is New York South or San Francisco East or Miami North. Nobody really has to say ITP when they live ITP. Outside of ITP it is just flat Earthers.

OTP. Outside the Perimeter. Everyone who lives OTP says this. “I live WAY OTP,” as an excuse for even living half a mile OTP. We aren’t judging you OTPers because you stole the Braves, you bastards. We are judging you because you complain about the traffic and congestion in the city, forgetting you are the reason for the traffic and congestion. Don’t knock OTP, though. You can get a very big house out there. On a golf course, even.

75, 85, 285, 400, 675, 575, 985, 20, and 78. These aren’t the numbers from Lost. These are the highways that get you either ITP or OTP. 285 will just get you ATP (around the perimeter). Do not say “THE” in front of any of these roadways. There is no such thing as “The 85.” This isn’t Lodi, California (That’s on The 5).

Perimeter. You would think this means around Atlanta, but it specifically refers to 285 due north. Near Perimeter Mall, businesses, and Northside Hospital.

MARTA. Public Transportation. In the old racist days of Atlanta, people used to joke that MARTA stood for Moving Africans Rapidly Through Atlanta. Those bad mean racist people are all dead OTP now and would be happy to know that MARTA now accepts Africans, African-Americans, Latinos, Asians, and white people. Still rapidly, too. Be cautious in Atlanta as you would in any big city taking the public transportation. I love Marta, not only is it Smarta, but it is the easiest way to get to and from the airport and other central locations in the city.

Smile. If you can’t smile, make eye contact. This is the South. Pretend to be courteous while you’re here.

You cannot say “Bless her heart” unless you’re Southern or Sally Kilpatrick. Otherwise you just sound like a b*tch.

Don’t judge. So, a guy you pass on Peachtree has gold teeth, dreadlocks, and smells like weed. This doesn’t make him a drug dealer. No matter what you heard about that movie ATL. He might be: 1) an entertainment professional 2) an athlete 3) a local politician or 4) a high school lit teacher. Pay him some respect. He might be able to buy and sell your podunk hometown.

Oh, this goes for rednecks and country boys, too. Don’t assume that nice Southern boys are dumb or racist just because they talk with a twang. It’s really offensive to tell them that you want them to join your zombie apocalypse team. White boys in Georgia are not Daryl Dixon from “The Walking Dead.” Stop thinking this: “You’re white and Southern, so you must own a crossbow.” Don’t profile people.

Pick up your discarded chicken bones, Atlanta. You know the gas station next to the wing place has really big trash cans.

Real Southerners aren’t afraid of rain. We will still go to a soccer game or music festival or fish fry regardless of rain. We all have a coat with a hood and an umbrella that collapses into our back pocket. A Southern lady is never embarrassed to wear a shower cap in public or a grocery store bag on her head. Rain can’t stop us.

We are an ever evolving city. Hollywood might visit, but some of us plan to stay for a while. You need to know how to shop, what to say, and when to be nice. This is Georgia, y’all. The nice thing is every day.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

Parents get grumbly around back-to-school time when the supply list is not posted. By goodness, there’s only a week to scavenge for Little Johnny’s needed supplies. Hurry. Run. The anticipation. The agony.

I’ve had all sorts of experiences over the years. I hate school shopping. I love the preassembled box of school supplies that I can purchase without having to enter a retail store. It’s delivered by magic, by stork, by all things holy straight to my kid’s school. Why can’t every school system do this?

One year during a dramatic thunderstorm, we were in the checkout line at Target. The cashier had rung up almost $400 worth of school supplies when the power went out. We stood in darkness, learned the actual reboot time of Target registers (it is a long time), and had to rescan every item in our cart. The universe was trying to warn us of something. Resistance is futile.

This year, I’m trying to be calm and prepared. I’ve compiled all four of my kids’ school supply lists into one giant spreadsheet for fun. One hundred and ninety-eight line items later I have my shopping list.

If your child is old enough to have their own phone, they’re old enough to do their own shopping for the school supply list. You can sit in the Target Starbucks, and they can do the dirty work. Have them flag you over when it’s time to check out.

Little Janie is more than smart enough to figure out the list. After all, she knows what a “folder with brads” means. She’s closer to the ground and will be using this crap all year. I say crap affectionately, as well as f*ck and sh*t. I f*cking love summer. I f*cking love back to school, but not school supply shopping.

It’s Elementary, Dear Ms. Watson.

Expo Dry Erase Markers. Crayola Crayons, Crayola Colored Pencils, Crayola Standard Markers (not neon). Do not deviate from the brand. I regularly buy Kroger brand cereal, but this is not a drill. Buy Crayola. The other brands don’t work and aren’t up to the industrial strength exerted by a kindergartener.

You don’t need the crayon box with the sharpener. Crayons are sharpened once, at purchase, then worn down to a stubby nub by day two of school. Crayons can continue to be used in this fashion including stripped of label and broken in half. I promise you the color composition has not changed. The crayons called Apricot and Dandelion will continue satisfy the artistic endeavors of your kid as they draw a picture of you with an extra-large head and a torso shape like a lower case “i.” Trust Crayola. Don’t fool with the other on crayon brands.

Ticonderoga pencils (12 pack). Pre-sharpened. The other brands don’t sharpen. At. All. Unlike crayons, the #2 pencils get sharpened regularly. I know you don’t believe this, because you’ve only seen your child writing with a broken lead and trying to peel back the wood with her fingernails, but trust me, these things can be sharpened. Keep a sharpener at home. One day a week, go to school and sharpen the pencils in the elementary school. You don’t even have to ask. Just walk into any class room and start sharpening. The teacher will look at you, shed a single tear, and go back to teaching.

Wide-ruled composition notebooks. This one is a bit controversial. Buy it, but don’t be upset at the end of the year when these notebooks only have 3 pages used out of 100. This year, I’m determined to repurpose the old ones. Jane won’t even notice that her writing notebook has two pages of math at the front of it. Tell her she it’s time she reduced her carbon footprint.

Glue Sticks. The teachers ask for two packs. The truth is that they really need 200 packs, but there isn’t room to store 4,000 glue sticks in every classroom. Buy the other 198 packs and drop them off at school 5 sticks per week when you go to sharpen pencils. (This is a math puzzle, but it works out.) I’ve seen a kid use an entire glue stick to attach a single googly eye to a piece of construction paper.

Clorox wipes. Tissues. Hand-sanitizer. Paper towels. Guess who gets to clean up vomit, pee, and wet sneezes? Your child’s lucky teacher. Every teacher is a part-time member of the custodial staff.

Band-aids. I once asked a teacher if the kids got scrapped enough to warrant 30 boxes of band-aids in a school year. The honest reply was, “Yes.” But what I saw in her eyes was, “We give the band-aids so they shut up and go back to work.” Noted. Adhesive bandages. Check.

Big Kids Don’t Cry

Graph paper also known as grid paper. Copy paper. Notebook paper. Binders. Spiral Notebooks. Plastic three-pronged folders also known as folders with brads. What the hell are brads?! He was the kid who didn’t graduate from my high school. Index cards. Post-It notes. These kids will be writing. There will be paper and paper holders and binders to bind papers. Oh, the papers they will tote.

Earbuds for tablets and laptops, but not the fancy ones. The $2 ones from the airplane are fine. Get the cheapest ones you can find. The ones where only the left side works. These will be lost or stolen at some point. Keep them safe and close, but don’t cry for me Argentina when they disappear. Buy a stylus to poke at the technology without grubby finger prints and germs on everything. See Clorox wipes.

De-f*cking-odorant. Buy this for home. Buy this for the backpack. Tell them to use it. No matter how smart you think your kids are, they stink to high heaven.

While you are torturing them with bodily changes, buy some sanitary napkins. Even if you have a son. Kids who carry around maxi-pads will think about teen sex differently. Tell them that you are not afraid to talk about deodorant, menstrual cycles, hormones, sex, and condoms. Tell them the less school work they do, the more you will talk about sex. Suddenly those composition notebooks with be filled with algebraic equations.

Scientific Calculator. Scissors. Pencil Pouch. Metric Ruler. Protractors. Compass. Let these kids get their STEAM on.

Colored Sharpies. This is on our list! What the hell? Why don’t you just ask them to carry a switchblade? I know this is for older kids, but by God, Sharpies are permanent.

Magic Erasers for the walls. White Erasers for math. Eraser tops. Red erasers. You know what paper needs? Erasing. Giant holes made by obsessive kids who don’t want to waste a new sheet of paper. If your kid needs to erase more that the width of their pinky finger, get a new sheet of paper. I once watched a kid erase an entire 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper. Which leads me to the optional items.

Optional That is Required.

Buy the stuff that you can. Sandwich bags, batteries, crickets for the classroom pet. Every kid and every family cannot do this. Do not complain. Some kids would love to go school shopping and get a new pack of pencils and cannot afford to do so. That’s right, kids your same neighborhood struggle financially. Even kids in middle class homes might not be able to afford to buy everything. If you can buy, do buy. Don’t put your name on anything except the earbud and stylus. Don’t make a big show it. Drop the supplies at Meet and Greet and run away.

At the Meet and Greet, greet your teacher with a beginning of the year gift. Gift cards to coffee shops will make your teacher smile. By teacher appreciation week, that same teacher will not appreciate your appreciation. By then, they hate your child and you. Do it now. During the honeymoon period. Do it often. Don’t wait for a special holiday to thank your teacher. Whisper in your teacher’s ear that you want to buy them whiskey, but cannot do so morally. Don’t wonder if your teacher drinks coffee. One, coffee shops have all manner of beverages and snack treats. Two, all teachers drink coffee.

I like gift cards to Target and Walmart, but a coffee gift card is a gift that can’t be spent on the class. Your teacher is a human no matter how many band-aids they dole out. Take a breath you are almost done.

The end of the supply list is like a hand reaching from the grave. In italics it reads, “Additional items may be requested by teacher at the Meet and Greet.” Add one more item to the list. For you. A flask. For coffee, of course.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

I didn’t know the movie “Baby Driver” was set in Atlanta until Baby, the main character, walked out of Octane Coffee Bar holding a to-go carrier with four brown cups. I guess I could’ve looked at the movie poster, with the gigantic Atlanta skyline in the background, but I hadn’t.

“Baby Driver” is a heist movie. You’ve seen this kind of film before. Big guns, wads of money, car chases, fast women who like the rush of breaking the law, men who don’t give a damn about consequences, brooding men, sinister men, and sweet women who see the hero for who he really is.

What you haven’t seen is a movie like this set in Atlanta. Baby Hollywood.

Most movies filmed in Atlanta aren’t set in Atlanta. Most movies about Atlanta aren’t really about Atlanta. “Baby Driver” was a fast-paced tour of Atlanta without having to hop on a Segway.

Someone in New York will watch “Baby Driver” and think, “Octane is a funny name for a coffee shop in a heist movie.” They won’t realize that it’s real coffee shop. I’ve been stone-cold drunk on coffee from Octane at 11 o’clock in the morning while straddling the barista’s motorcycle in the parking lot. I probably could’ve robbed a bank that day.

If Hollywood is a town of failed actors turned waiters, Atlanta is a town of aspiring poets turned coffee baristas. The best places to drink coffee across the city don’t have coffee in the name. Dancing Goats, Java Monkey, Karvana, Ebrik, and Octane. That part of the movie was 100 percent realistic. The rest was ridiculous fun.

The audience did a collective gasp at the sight of our local coffee place. Then someone whispered, “That’s not where Octane is!” They stuck a fake Octane in place of a regular pizza place. They interspersed quite a few real Atlanta places with fake places. That was my signal that we were entering Hollywood Atlanta.

If L.A. is a town of fast and furious car chases, ala O.J., then Atlanta can be a city of silly and speedy car chases. Everyone knows you can’t be a getaway driver in this city unless you ride in the HOV lane and have a Peach Pass. Even then, only rob banks on the outer rim of Gwinnett County while heading north on I-85. Do not rob a bank on college football game days. Or any other day with a sporting or concert event. This includes the University of Georgia. Tailgating 60 miles away in Athens, Ga still causes a traffic jam in Atlanta.

Better yet use a helicopter for your heist. Better yet, set your heist movie in Moline, Illinois. I should know. I once raced from Dubuque, Iowa to the airport in Moline, Illinois. No other cars. No potholes. No delays. I drove like the cops were chasing me, and I made my flight with time to spare.

I don’t need accuracy in a heist movie. I need a predictable storyline, a look at my favorite places around town, some music, and a few laughs.

In Atlanta, the real reason you need a getaway driver is not for the fast getaway, but so the A/C is already running when you get into the car.

No diner in Atlanta is empty at 2 a.m. Even in the suburbs. The night clubs might be closed, but someone in this city is always hungry. Waffle House would’ve been packed.

The chef at the diner is both white and without gold teeth? Y’all, please. If you’re cooking my food at a diner, please have at least one gold tooth. This is Atlanta not Poughkeepsie.

A cheerful woman who works at the post office? For a second, I thought it was “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” I actually shouted, “Run, Baby! It’s a set up!” before I realized they wanted us to believe that a happy person worked for the United States Postal Service.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the Postal Service. I’ve got a great post office in Decatur. They are really nice to me and provide exceptional service. They’re also across the street from the good coffee shop. I’m not saying the two are related, but it’s something to think about.

The movie got a few things right.

Baby’s foster dad.

Doc’s nephew, the observant indifferent savant.

The soundtrack. Atlanta is a city with different melodies. We aren’t a one-trick Trap town. We like all kinds of music.

It was the first movie set in Atlanta that didn’t have an ensemble of bad Southern accents. Thank you for giving me us even 15 minutes of Jon Bernthal. Every time he sets foot in Atlanta an angel gets his wings. Thank you to all the actors for showing the range of accents that you will find in Atlanta. It’s the city. We speak mostly neutral with a hint of twang.

Even Baby’s love interest Debora did all right for a British actor. Hollywood, please remember two things about our accent:

One, don’t use “Gone with the Wind” as your accent tutor any more. Women in the South aren’t that out of breath. The breathy Scarlett O’Hara voice is so 1860. I’ve sat at Margaret Mitchell’s desk. I’ve touched her typewriter. I know these things.

Two, the true accent isn’t about the breath, it’s in the extra syllable. Southerners speak like slightly pissed off teenagers. Mom is Ma-um. You’ve seen the movie “Arrival.” If Amy Adams can talk to aliens, Hollywood can figure out a way to talk to ATLiens.

Bacchanalia is not the best wining and dining in the city, but it is the most expensive. I can thank that restaurant for once serving me the thymus gland of an animal under the guise of fine dining. But their cold cucumber soup is good if you can’t get to Waffle House.

“Baby Driver” was about as much Atlanta as I could handle. Then I saw “Spider-Man: Homecoming.” Atlanta overload. There is so much ATL in Hollywood right now. I can’t complain. It is fun. It is a thrill. We should enjoy the ride while it lasts.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

We were scared the first time we went to Lake Allatoona. Rightly so. Wrongly so.

We were immigrants, legally documented, and naturalized citizens. In those days it didn’t matter. Immigrant was immigrant. I guess it doesn’t matter today. Immigrant is immigrant. I arrived in the U.S. at the age of two. Despite my Southern ways, I have almost always felt foreign.

My father had a degree from Rutgers University. My mother thought he was very American when she met him. Anyone who ever knew my dad will have a good laugh about that. Then again he was very American. What is American anyway?

Being American is going to see fireworks at Stone Mountain Park. Being American is going to the lake in the middle of July.

My mother would say, “I’m not American. You are. I’m doing these things for you.”

American things are strange. We gave out the best Halloween candy on our street. The good candy. Name brand chocolate. Snickers and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Kit Kats. Newly bought. Nothing strange. That’s American.

My mother would make a big Thanksgiving turkey. “You know I don’t eat turkey,” she’d say. But we needed it to be American. The turkey would sit in the middle of the table surround by Jamaican rice and peas. Some guests would bypass the turkey and eat my mother’s curry chicken.

We had a lot of people in our house on Thanksgiving. Often times real red-blooded Americans.

Our lawn was perfect. Our American flag never flew at night or in the rain. We were trained right in the ways of a strange country and strange region.

Being American meant a week at the lake every summer. Lake Allatoona. Cherokee County, Ga. A place named by the people who came before all of us. It made me feel less alien to remember that.

The lake was made by man and not nature. The lake did not always exist. It was strange. It was foreign.

Back then, we would leave the Atlanta suburbs for unlit highways and gravel roads. We were excited and American and immigrants and scared.

My mom would pack a cooler full of food. Eggs, bacon, milk, cereal, and meat for the grill. She would bring bleach and Pine Sol and rubber gloves and sponges. The cabin in the woods, by the lake, had to be cleaned when we got there. She could abide rustic, but not dirt. At the end of each week, the cabin was always cleaner than we found it.

My dad would tune up the car. Having a breakdown on desolate roads was unimaginable. He would check the oil, water, wiper fluid, and tire pressure. He would fill the gas tank past full. That’s how he always filled it until died. He never let the car get close to empty. That was being American, for us.

We spent a week in an A-framed cabin next to Lake Allatoona. Because of all the trees I don’t have many memories of the sky. When we saw it, the universe seemed dark and beautiful and deep like the ocean. Like us. We traveled with Scrabble and chess and books of poetry and Shakespeare. There was no TV. There were decks of cards when the rain came.

We weren’t afraid of the rain. We knew to expect rivers of red clay when the sky opened up. It was summer. It was America. I loved every minute of our time at the lake including the rain. If you ask me, I will tell you I had a perfect childhood with perfect summers. But something always bothered me. It was the lake. It was always having to be a little bit scared.

The lake water is murky. There is no natural shoreline. When a drought comes, trees begin to grow in the lake. If the water dried up, the lake would return to being a forest.

I grew up cautious. That little bit of fear followed us down deserted roads.

I grew up longing. Longing is wanting to be something and not knowing that you are already that thing. That’s part of the American dream.

I sent my children off to the lake. Same lake as my childhood. Their experience will not be mine. I don’t think they are afraid of anything except missing me. Even that they won’t do too much. The gravel roads have been paved. Neighborhood have turned those desolate highways into a regular town.

I am American.

Red flags and fireworks.

I am proud. Then I am disappointed.

I like the sound of gravel under my feet and rain on unsure roofs.

I am American, I think. I am the whole Earth.

I am all of other places I’ve never seen, but am from.

I am all the unseen place I still want blessed.

I am the water that glistens in the night.

I am the earth that muddies the water.

I am trying to be American.

I am tired of being American.

I am trying to be human when I don’t know what else to be.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.