This may surprise you to hear: a lot of those wagon trains to the West lost their children. Not just to attacks, accidents, cholera, or smallpox. They left their children behind, or, the buckboard bounced a child out and nobody noticed. They had the prairie version of road hypnotism. Or driving oxen under the influence. Or exhaustion and anxiety.
--
Now that you know about my store's no-babysitting policy . . . . previous post . . .
A clerk in the children's department came to find me one evening. "I've got this kid who's been reading for hours," she told me. "Nobody comes to check on him."
"Is he causing trouble?" I ask.
"No no, he's just read a whole bunch of books," she said. "I've been watching him and sometimes he goes outside. Then he comes back in to read another book." She was totally worried. "He was here at three when I got here."
It's now nine-thirty p.m.
We go into the children's department. The clerk was really good. She'd already learned his name and so she introduced me. Rather than stand up over him, I sat down at the kid's table. He's about ten years old, a serious boy.
"So, Travis, do you know where your parents are?"
He shrugs. "No."
"Okay. What have you had to eat today?"
He shrugs again. He's not moving from the chair, I can see that. I can see he's pretty much holding onto books and his composure, and that's a lot. I turn to the clerk.
"Get a chicken sandwich from the cafe and tell them I'll stop by there later." We don't have a lot of nutritious stuff. "What do you want to drink?"
A soda. Okay. She leaves and I turn back to Travis.
"Tell me about it."
He tells me, not in so many words, but his parents are on the lam from Florida. The whole car of family were stopped in our parking lot to sleep for awhile. Travis woke up, he went into the store because he wanted to read and not disturb anyone asleep. They took off without him.
"But I think they'll be back," he says.
I nod. "When did you notice they had left?"
He doesn't want to say. Early afternoon. Oh shit, they're not coming back.
I think about taking him home, brief fantasy, but no. All I can give him is the level.
"Travis, the store closes at eleven. There's no place for you to go after that if they don't make it back by then." I clear my throat. "I'm going to call the police. That way, your parents will be able to find you if they come back."
Neither of us say the police are the last people his parents want to talk to.
The clerk returns with the food. She agrees to watch over him a little more. My department head on duty is good, she's already got the crew rocking and rolling on clean-up. I go call the police. I pay for the sandwich. The entire cafe staff is now worried about this boy. They want to do something, do more. I kill their brief fantasy just as I squashed mine.
The police come: one male, one female. They get a description of the car, maybe even a license plate, names, circumstances. They tell Travis he has to go to juvie now. The clerk comes to get me. They need me to unlock the door.
He's leaving. I'm lost somehow. I say, "Good luck, Travis."
He doesn't know how to take it, any better than I knew how to offer it.
The police woman says, "Say thank you." She made it right for me.
Travis says, "Thank you," right before he heads to his fate.
I lock up behind them.
Showing posts with label RiverTown. Show all posts
Showing posts with label RiverTown. Show all posts
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Hansel and Gretel, the Forest of Monsters, and the Evil Witch
The bookstore I worked at in Rivertown had a large, roomy children's book department. Well-to-do people would drop their children off in this big-box store and go to the mall or to the grocery store, blocks and many minutes of traffic away. A store is not a day-care center. It's not a babysitting service. It's also not enclosed.
Where the Wild Things Are
One time we called the police for a man who took off all his clothes in the children's department. He was full grown and prancing around while he finally picked out Goodbye, Moon to read. I kid you not.
Another time in the one ladies bathroom, we had a couple getting their game on in one of the stalls. This is not the kind of thing that distresses me. Much. So much normal stuff goes on, the abnormal is just a chance to strut your stuff. I went in on the report, saying loudly, "Now this I've got to see!!" Coitus got interruptus. I didn't see a thing. But it was close. And I'm not a little girl who's in a bathroom unprotected.
We had a homeless woman come in and scream at everyone about how hungry she was while she sucked mayonnaise out of the little packets at the food bar. It was very difficult to get rid of her. If the unattended kid went over for the water fountain or a cookie, there she would be. A crazy, mean woman, hungry and I thought dangerous. Then the dolts--the three elderly strange men whom I wouldn't trust with a kid for five minutes. They didn't know what toilet paper was for. They were there for every open hour, wandering around and looking at people. It took awhile for us to notice them properly, and then to document enough to throw them out. In the meantime, they were there.
We had stalkers, shoplifters, people that left gang sign in the elevator, a kleptomaniac. And in the employees, we had one congenital liar and thief, a couple drug addicts, and a gambling addict, and a way-repressed guy who someday will go postal. They were weeded out, of course, but not immediately. Before they were completely desperate.
Cars and Trucks and Things That Go!
We had two staircases that led outside for fire escapes, accessible from upstairs and downstairs. They have the flange arms that punch an alarm when you leave, so people don't have to wait for someone with a key. We also had a back door with the same flange arm, right in the children's department, leading directly to the parking lot. Good, the kids won't burn. But if somebody grabbed a kid and went out, chances are he or she could get that child in a car faster than milk steams at a coffee bar.
We are trying to get customers in. They can look through books, read to each other, have a family experience. We make money that way, in a civilized fashion that gives something first. But all the children's department personnel and managers were briefed on noticing when they had unexpected babysitting detail. We had the code figured out for lost or abducted kids. The managers had the parental advisory memorized for when babysitting duty was over. Invariably we were considered rude and baseless.
None of our precautions would have saved a kid if we were turned the wrong way. Or had lunch hour, or a rush at the cash register. Or had to watch a shoplifter. I don't know what these parents were thinking.
Hansel and Gretel
In the children's department, we have books that re-write the old fairy tales. Everyone is kind now in the stories, and the illustrations are beautiful. But in the old tales, such as Grimm's, you find things more like the real world. Hansel and Gretel were left in the woods to starve. They saved themselves by making a path of pebbles back home. Each time, their parents took them back to the woods to die. The third time, they could not go home. They were finally Lost.
They ended up in a candy house. Gretel was a slave and Hansel was a fatted calf. The witch planned to roast him and eat him for dinner, only Gretel murdered her instead.
That's what you call a happy ending: making the best of crappy events. Overcoming evil with guile and force.
If parents are not going to teach their children to be careful of witches and forests, to use trickery and force together, then they cannot turn their back, not even for a moment. They certainly cannot leave for four or five hours to get their shopping done or their golf game on. But I think whole parts of the upper middle class think they live in a candy house, instead of the jungle that the world really is. With no lessons and no experience, a small body and smaller muscles, these pampered children don't have a chance in hell against the Monsters, the Witches, and the misleading Candy House/Trap in the Forest.
We gave these parents a wake-up call. They got mad, and they got even. Some of them stopped shopping here forever. Some of them left their kid again. After a few months of this, we started calling the police for that too. The parents were charged with child abandonment. I wonder if they learned anything.
--
Illustrations by three great Book Artists: Maurice Sendak, Richard Scarry, and Arthur Rackham.
Where the Wild Things Are
One time we called the police for a man who took off all his clothes in the children's department. He was full grown and prancing around while he finally picked out Goodbye, Moon to read. I kid you not.
Another time in the one ladies bathroom, we had a couple getting their game on in one of the stalls. This is not the kind of thing that distresses me. Much. So much normal stuff goes on, the abnormal is just a chance to strut your stuff. I went in on the report, saying loudly, "Now this I've got to see!!" Coitus got interruptus. I didn't see a thing. But it was close. And I'm not a little girl who's in a bathroom unprotected.
We had a homeless woman come in and scream at everyone about how hungry she was while she sucked mayonnaise out of the little packets at the food bar. It was very difficult to get rid of her. If the unattended kid went over for the water fountain or a cookie, there she would be. A crazy, mean woman, hungry and I thought dangerous. Then the dolts--the three elderly strange men whom I wouldn't trust with a kid for five minutes. They didn't know what toilet paper was for. They were there for every open hour, wandering around and looking at people. It took awhile for us to notice them properly, and then to document enough to throw them out. In the meantime, they were there.
We had stalkers, shoplifters, people that left gang sign in the elevator, a kleptomaniac. And in the employees, we had one congenital liar and thief, a couple drug addicts, and a gambling addict, and a way-repressed guy who someday will go postal. They were weeded out, of course, but not immediately. Before they were completely desperate.
Cars and Trucks and Things That Go!
We had two staircases that led outside for fire escapes, accessible from upstairs and downstairs. They have the flange arms that punch an alarm when you leave, so people don't have to wait for someone with a key. We also had a back door with the same flange arm, right in the children's department, leading directly to the parking lot. Good, the kids won't burn. But if somebody grabbed a kid and went out, chances are he or she could get that child in a car faster than milk steams at a coffee bar.
We are trying to get customers in. They can look through books, read to each other, have a family experience. We make money that way, in a civilized fashion that gives something first. But all the children's department personnel and managers were briefed on noticing when they had unexpected babysitting detail. We had the code figured out for lost or abducted kids. The managers had the parental advisory memorized for when babysitting duty was over. Invariably we were considered rude and baseless.
None of our precautions would have saved a kid if we were turned the wrong way. Or had lunch hour, or a rush at the cash register. Or had to watch a shoplifter. I don't know what these parents were thinking.
Hansel and Gretel
In the children's department, we have books that re-write the old fairy tales. Everyone is kind now in the stories, and the illustrations are beautiful. But in the old tales, such as Grimm's, you find things more like the real world. Hansel and Gretel were left in the woods to starve. They saved themselves by making a path of pebbles back home. Each time, their parents took them back to the woods to die. The third time, they could not go home. They were finally Lost.
They ended up in a candy house. Gretel was a slave and Hansel was a fatted calf. The witch planned to roast him and eat him for dinner, only Gretel murdered her instead.
That's what you call a happy ending: making the best of crappy events. Overcoming evil with guile and force.
If parents are not going to teach their children to be careful of witches and forests, to use trickery and force together, then they cannot turn their back, not even for a moment. They certainly cannot leave for four or five hours to get their shopping done or their golf game on. But I think whole parts of the upper middle class think they live in a candy house, instead of the jungle that the world really is. With no lessons and no experience, a small body and smaller muscles, these pampered children don't have a chance in hell against the Monsters, the Witches, and the misleading Candy House/Trap in the Forest.
We gave these parents a wake-up call. They got mad, and they got even. Some of them stopped shopping here forever. Some of them left their kid again. After a few months of this, we started calling the police for that too. The parents were charged with child abandonment. I wonder if they learned anything.
--
Illustrations by three great Book Artists: Maurice Sendak, Richard Scarry, and Arthur Rackham.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Deepwater Horizon, Update 2: Photos
Over at the Big Picture Blog, they have outdone themselves again.
This time with a collection of 40 pictures on the oil in troubled Gulf waters. Here is one, where the Mississippi River meets the Gulf of Mexico. It looks like a weather front, but unfortunately, it will never end that fast.
This time with a collection of 40 pictures on the oil in troubled Gulf waters. Here is one, where the Mississippi River meets the Gulf of Mexico. It looks like a weather front, but unfortunately, it will never end that fast.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
We Value Your Business
I was a Doctor's Wife, and a Doctor's Daughter-in-Law, but for forty hours a week I was also a servant to a random public. I worked retail, but there are other professions who will recognize this story.
I will tell you a secret about Doctor's Wives. They have a high rate of alcoholism, just as Doctors do. They are frequently lonely. I will tell you another secret: they always want a discount. A woman with a three-hundred dollar hair-do, getting snippy about $2.00 off of a $10.00 brass candlestick? I bet you that two bucks she is a D.W.
So, I did meet the ones in my husband's neuro/psych squad in RiverTown. We went to a couple poolside picnics, a couple dinner-dance affairs. One day I was at the information desk at my store and one of the D.W.s stumped in with her cane. Somehow everybody cleared out of her way.
"I'm looking for a book on heart disease," she told me, looking down her nose. "The name of it is X."
I looked it up. "Yes, we do have it," I said. "It's upstairs--"
"Well, you just march right on up those stairs and get that book for me." This is exactly what she said.
"Yes, of course." I marched right up those stairs and retrieved that book for her. The book was right where it was supposed to be, so I only got a quick laugh. I brought it right back down to Info and handed it to her. No thank you, no smile, not even a look. I am Beneath her.
"I know you," I said. "Your husband is Dr. Baldy, a neurologist. My husband is his colleague in Psych. We talked for a good long time at Pietro's last month."
"Oh, my gosh, how are you?" The lights in her face suddenly came on, and she was as effusive as a girl. "I had no idea you worked here. Isn't this wonderful to see you?"
"I'm glad to see you too," I promised. "Tell your Dr. Baldy I said hello."
--
Now maybe you think I am irritated. I just think it is funny. But I lived on both sides of that particular class divide. Not every clerk is that lucky.
I will tell you a secret about Doctor's Wives. They have a high rate of alcoholism, just as Doctors do. They are frequently lonely. I will tell you another secret: they always want a discount. A woman with a three-hundred dollar hair-do, getting snippy about $2.00 off of a $10.00 brass candlestick? I bet you that two bucks she is a D.W.
So, I did meet the ones in my husband's neuro/psych squad in RiverTown. We went to a couple poolside picnics, a couple dinner-dance affairs. One day I was at the information desk at my store and one of the D.W.s stumped in with her cane. Somehow everybody cleared out of her way.
"I'm looking for a book on heart disease," she told me, looking down her nose. "The name of it is X."
I looked it up. "Yes, we do have it," I said. "It's upstairs--"
"Well, you just march right on up those stairs and get that book for me." This is exactly what she said.
"Yes, of course." I marched right up those stairs and retrieved that book for her. The book was right where it was supposed to be, so I only got a quick laugh. I brought it right back down to Info and handed it to her. No thank you, no smile, not even a look. I am Beneath her.
"I know you," I said. "Your husband is Dr. Baldy, a neurologist. My husband is his colleague in Psych. We talked for a good long time at Pietro's last month."
"Oh, my gosh, how are you?" The lights in her face suddenly came on, and she was as effusive as a girl. "I had no idea you worked here. Isn't this wonderful to see you?"
"I'm glad to see you too," I promised. "Tell your Dr. Baldy I said hello."
--
Now maybe you think I am irritated. I just think it is funny. But I lived on both sides of that particular class divide. Not every clerk is that lucky.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
The Self-Improvement Aisle
In Self-Improvement--one of the top five categories for books in the nation--I am alphabetizing by the last name of the author. I never get past M for mountebank.
Wonderful Concern
Top purchaser of Laura S's 10 things women do to ruin their futures is Daddies who respect that their daughters are grown, but think they are screwing up royally. They can't actually talk sex and bad boyfriends face-to-face, so they get the book and hand it over. Maybe they highlight the relevant passages first. I'm guessing not, in case things are more comprehensively bad than they know.
Petty Concern
A mom comes in for a book on grief for step-granddaughters. We only have two books for grieving granddaughters. The woman won't buy one, because she wasn't a real grandma but a step-grandma. I know you think I am making this up.
Cheerfully Low
A pretty young woman asks for a book for raising self-esteem. I give her two to look at. She asks me to pick it out, since her low self-esteem means she won’t know what to pick.
I show her how to check for credentials of the author and show her how to compare passages. “You should find the one that Speaks to You,” I tell her. "Listen to your Inner Voice, it will Empower you."
Okay, it gets tough now.
Distressing Open-ness
An overweight and sweaty man asks for books on overcoming child sexual abuse. He is, underneath the ick, a desperate (didn’t get the pervert vibe) man. He tells me all the books we have are about girl victims, but he was a victim and he wants a book with help for male victims. I explain that
a. I have not read all these books, and
b. compassion means extrapolating feelings of others to oneself.
This does not fly. It never does.
Then to prove to me he’s not gay or a pedophile, he loudly examines books on adult sex. Yeah, it was the ick, but not compared to some ick I have encountered (all clothes intact, thank you). I felt bad for him. I wanted him to go away and never come back.
Distressing Silence
A very lady-like grandmother comes in. She wants a book that will teach her granddaughter to not be mad. Okay, anger management. I got a bunch of them out. They won't quite suit.
Finally she admits the anger is due to the girl's mom going to prison. I look for some books about prison-related separation and grief. Those won't do either. Besides, they are all special orders.
So now grandma admits that she wants a book to teach her granddaughter not to be mad about the fact that mom and her boyfriend were sexually abusing her over a number of years and that is why mom is going to prison.
At this point, I lose patience. "I'm sorry, ma'am," I tell her. "It sounds to me like your granddaughter should be very angry. And there are some situations a $14.95 book just won't cover. I advise you to seek professional help for your granddaughter right away."
In case you are wondering, these examples cover two afternoons, with the exception of the concerned Dads above, which happened over and over. On days like this, I used to pick up the A.A. 'twelve steps & twelve traditions' book on my way to a well-deserved fifteen-minute break. I would read the steps over and over again. I am not in a Twelve-Step program, but I still think it is the sanest book on the aisle.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Krewe of Everybody--Tout 'Semblage and a Ma Lai Lah
Since I lived in RiverTown, I could go to New Orleans' Mardi Gras with little or no trouble. It was an amazing human drama, and I went every year. The best place to stay was Uptown. You could walk to the French Quarter, but there was more variety and less drunkenness if you stayed near the Garden District. I won't say you'll go anyplace completely tasteful--but--
History
For those of you who might not know the history, Mardi Gras means Fat Tuesday. In the French Rococo period, when the King and other spendthrifts held glorious sway over France, Carnival Season started after Christmas, a time of revelry. Parties, balls, hunts, operas, masquerades, bed-hopping--think Dangerous Liaisons, the movie. (Note: Noble folk are not gentle folk--a gentleman thinks of others. A nobleman has others to tie his shoes.) Revelry ended at midnight when Ash Wednesday began.
Carne vale means 'farewell meat'. During the Forty Days of Lent, all those swinging courtiers became vegetarians. They also forswore sex and grand living. For those that don't believe that--and why should you--at least the parties became fish dinners for one hundred instead of rotisserie beef with flowers around its neck (boeuf gras) for five hundred.
The French influence came to Louisiana early, and became part of its culture. This year, Ash Wednesday is on February 17, the Saints won the Super Bowl, and Carnival has already geared up for the first of two weeks of parade, ending at 11:59 p.m. on February 16th. After the influence of the Louisiana Purchase (Yankees and Kentuckians), the influx of slaves with very distinct cultures, and the French Revolution for that matter, it has become a party for the entire city. That means the Entire city--four year old girls, boys of seven, crooks, janitors, accountants, visiting movie stars, satirists and costumers of all types.
This is one of the Indians--slaves frequently ran to Native American communities--the beadwork and feather work is all hand done, usually by the wearer. It takes all year and significant bucks to make a costume like this. Opposing tribes meet and conduct ceremonies of truce or engagement. Music is involved.
The Good, the Bad and the Strange is below the jump--
I have seen fathers run after floats holding their small children, so that someone on the float could make sure the toddlers got the premium beads. In fact, the earlier parades are sometimes more fun than the glittery ones, because they are all about family and connecting with others.
I was not there when John Larroquette of Night Court TV fame switched from waving on his float for the Krewe of Bacchus in gilded white and crystal finery to on his hands and knees as two thugs duked it out in the crowd with Glocks. Later, both jerks were arrested. Even thug life must respect the canons of Mardi Gras. There were probably sixty informants for that one. However, post-Katrina, it's not quite that good. Six shootings last year.
The NOPD is the crowd-control expert. They have meal trucks set up--with full kitchens--otherwise, they would never get a break. One morning, prior to the Street's closure, a woman so distracted from parade prep ran her car straight into the back of a meal truck on St. Charles Avenue. Since that's a parade route, it was the only vehicle possible to hit. Twenty police officers cursed over their eggs and bacon. They also laughed--the idiocy was starting early, it seemed. The pecking order was instantaneous--low cop on the totem pole put her eggs down, cursing the most, and wrote the ticket.
I've seen Pete Fountain and his crew step out in jockey silks and play jazz from Commander's Palace to the Quarter. The rumor is they stay up drinking at Commander's all night. Pete F. said, "You're kidding. We're old guys. we couldn't walk down the street after a night like that." But you know he did when he was younger.
I love the slightly shabby Krewe of Zulu parade with its black-face parodies. You want to see satire? Zulu takes that stereotype of shuck and jive and gives it back with an extra serving of gilded coconuts. The Witch Doctor. Mr. Big Shot. The Province Prince. They are movers and shakers in real life, too.
I will never forget the couple in glasses, both of them looking like staid librarians, except they were costumed in pink fabric and stuffing from head to toe that imitated anatomically correct male and female parts. The horn-rimmed librarian would bend over and charge at his lady librarian companion, whose arms flapped helplessly at the onslaught. They had their skit down. It wasn't even noon. I'm not even sure they'd had anything to drink.
After Zulu, after Rex, there's the Elks' truck parade. They take mentally retarded and otherwise handicapped children out to throw beads to the crowd and have a grand time.
On Fat Tuesday, St. Charles Avenue is one long family picnic. People grilling, one fire hazard after the next. People bring their couches so grandma and grandpa have a place to rest. The families also dress up. In one, all the men from grandpa to little tyke dressed as Mickey Mouse, all the women from Grandma to baby Lily dressed as Minnie Mouse, all eating hot dogs in the middle of the street. A parade of costumers hobnob up and down the family love fest after the last parade is done. And that's not the half of it.
What they show on TV is the drunken college students on Bourbon Street. It's simultaneously more risque, and more family, than that. Drunken college students are not interesting--they only show the decline of elegance (but same attitude) as the days of the Sun King. Everything else about it transforms your view of people and society. What holds communities together. What we are in secret. What we love: our families, neighborhoods, and scoring more free beads than the next guy. And, we make a lot of trash.
Photos: Mardi Gras Indian 2007, City Pages; John L, Krewe of Bacchus; NOPD, noladishu; Pete F. at Amazon; Stephen Rue, Mr. Big Shot 2009 at nola.com, and trash from the LA Times.
History
For those of you who might not know the history, Mardi Gras means Fat Tuesday. In the French Rococo period, when the King and other spendthrifts held glorious sway over France, Carnival Season started after Christmas, a time of revelry. Parties, balls, hunts, operas, masquerades, bed-hopping--think Dangerous Liaisons, the movie. (Note: Noble folk are not gentle folk--a gentleman thinks of others. A nobleman has others to tie his shoes.) Revelry ended at midnight when Ash Wednesday began.
Carne vale means 'farewell meat'. During the Forty Days of Lent, all those swinging courtiers became vegetarians. They also forswore sex and grand living. For those that don't believe that--and why should you--at least the parties became fish dinners for one hundred instead of rotisserie beef with flowers around its neck (boeuf gras) for five hundred.
The French influence came to Louisiana early, and became part of its culture. This year, Ash Wednesday is on February 17, the Saints won the Super Bowl, and Carnival has already geared up for the first of two weeks of parade, ending at 11:59 p.m. on February 16th. After the influence of the Louisiana Purchase (Yankees and Kentuckians), the influx of slaves with very distinct cultures, and the French Revolution for that matter, it has become a party for the entire city. That means the Entire city--four year old girls, boys of seven, crooks, janitors, accountants, visiting movie stars, satirists and costumers of all types.
This is one of the Indians--slaves frequently ran to Native American communities--the beadwork and feather work is all hand done, usually by the wearer. It takes all year and significant bucks to make a costume like this. Opposing tribes meet and conduct ceremonies of truce or engagement. Music is involved.
The Good, the Bad and the Strange is below the jump--
I've seen Pete Fountain and his crew step out in jockey silks and play jazz from Commander's Palace to the Quarter. The rumor is they stay up drinking at Commander's all night. Pete F. said, "You're kidding. We're old guys. we couldn't walk down the street after a night like that." But you know he did when he was younger.I love the slightly shabby Krewe of Zulu parade with its black-face parodies. You want to see satire? Zulu takes that stereotype of shuck and jive and gives it back with an extra serving of gilded coconuts. The Witch Doctor. Mr. Big Shot. The Province Prince. They are movers and shakers in real life, too.
I will never forget the couple in glasses, both of them looking like staid librarians, except they were costumed in pink fabric and stuffing from head to toe that imitated anatomically correct male and female parts. The horn-rimmed librarian would bend over and charge at his lady librarian companion, whose arms flapped helplessly at the onslaught. They had their skit down. It wasn't even noon. I'm not even sure they'd had anything to drink.After Zulu, after Rex, there's the Elks' truck parade. They take mentally retarded and otherwise handicapped children out to throw beads to the crowd and have a grand time.
On Fat Tuesday, St. Charles Avenue is one long family picnic. People grilling, one fire hazard after the next. People bring their couches so grandma and grandpa have a place to rest. The families also dress up. In one, all the men from grandpa to little tyke dressed as Mickey Mouse, all the women from Grandma to baby Lily dressed as Minnie Mouse, all eating hot dogs in the middle of the street. A parade of costumers hobnob up and down the family love fest after the last parade is done. And that's not the half of it.
What they show on TV is the drunken college students on Bourbon Street. It's simultaneously more risque, and more family, than that. Drunken college students are not interesting--they only show the decline of elegance (but same attitude) as the days of the Sun King. Everything else about it transforms your view of people and society. What holds communities together. What we are in secret. What we love: our families, neighborhoods, and scoring more free beads than the next guy. And, we make a lot of trash.
Photos: Mardi Gras Indian 2007, City Pages; John L, Krewe of Bacchus; NOPD, noladishu; Pete F. at Amazon; Stephen Rue, Mr. Big Shot 2009 at nola.com, and trash from the LA Times.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The Back of the Red Crown Vic
How I Found The Apartment in RiverTown
My husband was meeting the people that would run his residency. I met a cab driver from a previous try in the city. Louis was the bomb. He had a bright red Crown Vic with yellow letters on the side, a ready smile great stories, and sensible advice.
He served in Europe during World War II. When it was his turn to do guard duty, he and his partner would go out, into the freezing mountain night, taking turns carrying the blanket. They'd sit out in the frozen mud, perfectly silent, waiting for Nazis or looters, back to back and swathed in blanket. When he got back home, he got a good job, got married, raised five kids. Every one of those kids became a professional. When he retired, he bought the Crown Vic and the cab affiliation for a hobby and extra money.
Louis (that's Loo-EE, y'all) met me with an identical want-ads page and his own circled places. We had coffee and went over our two lists. His was more knowledgeable, because he was from the City. Then we drove all day, trying to hit houses by neigborhood. Eventually, we got to Dr. Anna's properties. Stanley Anna was a dentist, a dried-up old stick of a man who was glad to show the properties. We all sailed off, me and Dr. Anna in the back of the Red Crown Vic.
So, have I mentioned Louis was black? Or, let me be more accurate about causation: have I mentioned that Dr. Anna was a rude, complaining, dictatorial white supremacist? And he started being rude as soon as we were all in the Vic.
Louis picked up an old broom--dried out, bristles worn, handle peeling--out of the driveway of the first property. Dr. Anna said,
"I know you don't have one of these in your house" or some such thing. Louis replied smartly.
"I know you don't think I do. Just making sure you don't trip on the trash somebody left you."
It kept going like that. The two of them were enacting the entire civil rights movement right in front of me. Louis had it down--not giving an inch, in either the argument or the politeness.
"Louis got us here," I tried. "Can you unlock the front door?"
I was at once completely irrelevant and the cause of their meeting. I had trained myself to speak up and not allow this kind of stuff, but I couldn't get it together.
'Louis, we don't have to do this," I said.
Louis shook his head. "You need a place to live."
"Well, I don't think he's the landlord I want."
Dr. Anna called me. Maurice pointed down the hall. "He's got one more property," he said. "Look all you want at this one, we'll look at the next one, and then we'll take him back to his office."
"It's going to be a damn quick trip," I muttered.
At the second house, Dr. Anna called me outside to look at the storage shed. In it was a clean white toilet, surrounded by dirt and grime of the shed variety, along with hedge clippers and a lawn mower.
"Why is this toilet out here?" I asked. It was hooked up. I couldn't believe it. A working toilet in a shed. No partitions. The shed had only a garage-sized door and it only latched from the outside. How stupid was that?
'That's when people knew their proper place in society," Dr. Anna told me. Oh, wait a minute--
"That's where the maid had to use the bathroom," Louis told me. "After she cleaned the toilets inside."
Snap.
"Okay, we're leaving now," I said. "I think I've seen everything I needed to see." I looked at Dr. Anna. "Do you want Louis to take you back?"
"Of course we're taking him back," Louis said.
I passed Louis out of the shed and went back through the house. "I'm not sitting in the back with him."
There was no reason I deserved to sit in the front. But Dr. Anna rode in lonely state in the back of a Red Crown Vic. They were still trading repartee when Dr. Anna got out.
"I'm sorry, Louis," I said. "I've never seen that before." I meant the toilet, kind of.
Two hours later we found the place in IrishTown. The park was across the street. The landlord was right next door, and he was nice to Louis. That was the place.
Now the apartment-hunting might be done, but the story isn't. It has two other endings.
Sweeping up Loose Dirt
After Louis picked up the broom, there was no place for it to go. Failing to complete the clean-up operation was not on Louis' list, so the broom went into the trunk of the Red Crown Vic until we could find a trash can. By the time Dr. Anna was safely back in his office, the broom was completely forgotten. Then Louis remembered it.
"Damn it, I forgot I still have his broom. I have to go take it to him."
"It's just trash," I said.
"I won't have him thinking I kept that broom. I'm going to return it to him before I go home."
It was another kind of witness. Louis would make his point that he didn't need it, didn't steal, and had better manners. So you see, I was still slow.
There was no way for me to make up my poor response to Dr. Anna's insults. I should have spoken up sooner. I should never have "thought" I didn't want to rent from this ass. We should have done a quick U-turn and dropped Dr. Anna right back where he started at the first insulting phrase. My fault.
However, I did try to keep up with Louis. Years later, I learned he had a heart attack. I drove across town with homemade chicken soup. His wife couldn't believe it. Then I saw him a few months later. He'd lost weight and he looked great. But it was never the closer relationship I wanted.
The other thing I learned was that a certain generation of the civil rights movement had a certain kind of pride. In Louis' case, he would suffer, but he would teach.
The Lesson
Throughout, Louis was the one behind the wheel of the Red Crown Vic. He could guess my sentiments. He'd known a million Dr. Annas. RiverTown was a place where principles needed a kind of action I'd never seen before. He let Dr. Anna spin his string out because he wanted me to choose for real.
I have always been ashamed of my poor start and continued ambivalence. But Louis didn't need me to protect him; he'd been taking care of that shit for a lifetime. He wanted me to learn. I was never able to pay him back. I hope that I have paid it forward.
My husband was meeting the people that would run his residency. I met a cab driver from a previous try in the city. Louis was the bomb. He had a bright red Crown Vic with yellow letters on the side, a ready smile great stories, and sensible advice.
He served in Europe during World War II. When it was his turn to do guard duty, he and his partner would go out, into the freezing mountain night, taking turns carrying the blanket. They'd sit out in the frozen mud, perfectly silent, waiting for Nazis or looters, back to back and swathed in blanket. When he got back home, he got a good job, got married, raised five kids. Every one of those kids became a professional. When he retired, he bought the Crown Vic and the cab affiliation for a hobby and extra money.
Louis (that's Loo-EE, y'all) met me with an identical want-ads page and his own circled places. We had coffee and went over our two lists. His was more knowledgeable, because he was from the City. Then we drove all day, trying to hit houses by neigborhood. Eventually, we got to Dr. Anna's properties. Stanley Anna was a dentist, a dried-up old stick of a man who was glad to show the properties. We all sailed off, me and Dr. Anna in the back of the Red Crown Vic.
So, have I mentioned Louis was black? Or, let me be more accurate about causation: have I mentioned that Dr. Anna was a rude, complaining, dictatorial white supremacist? And he started being rude as soon as we were all in the Vic.
Louis picked up an old broom--dried out, bristles worn, handle peeling--out of the driveway of the first property. Dr. Anna said,
"I know you don't have one of these in your house" or some such thing. Louis replied smartly.
"I know you don't think I do. Just making sure you don't trip on the trash somebody left you."
It kept going like that. The two of them were enacting the entire civil rights movement right in front of me. Louis had it down--not giving an inch, in either the argument or the politeness.
"Louis got us here," I tried. "Can you unlock the front door?"
I was at once completely irrelevant and the cause of their meeting. I had trained myself to speak up and not allow this kind of stuff, but I couldn't get it together.
'Louis, we don't have to do this," I said.
Louis shook his head. "You need a place to live."
"Well, I don't think he's the landlord I want."
Dr. Anna called me. Maurice pointed down the hall. "He's got one more property," he said. "Look all you want at this one, we'll look at the next one, and then we'll take him back to his office."
"It's going to be a damn quick trip," I muttered.
At the second house, Dr. Anna called me outside to look at the storage shed. In it was a clean white toilet, surrounded by dirt and grime of the shed variety, along with hedge clippers and a lawn mower.
"Why is this toilet out here?" I asked. It was hooked up. I couldn't believe it. A working toilet in a shed. No partitions. The shed had only a garage-sized door and it only latched from the outside. How stupid was that?
'That's when people knew their proper place in society," Dr. Anna told me. Oh, wait a minute--
"That's where the maid had to use the bathroom," Louis told me. "After she cleaned the toilets inside."
Snap.
"Okay, we're leaving now," I said. "I think I've seen everything I needed to see." I looked at Dr. Anna. "Do you want Louis to take you back?"
"Of course we're taking him back," Louis said.
I passed Louis out of the shed and went back through the house. "I'm not sitting in the back with him."
There was no reason I deserved to sit in the front. But Dr. Anna rode in lonely state in the back of a Red Crown Vic. They were still trading repartee when Dr. Anna got out.
"I'm sorry, Louis," I said. "I've never seen that before." I meant the toilet, kind of.
Two hours later we found the place in IrishTown. The park was across the street. The landlord was right next door, and he was nice to Louis. That was the place.
Now the apartment-hunting might be done, but the story isn't. It has two other endings.
Sweeping up Loose Dirt
After Louis picked up the broom, there was no place for it to go. Failing to complete the clean-up operation was not on Louis' list, so the broom went into the trunk of the Red Crown Vic until we could find a trash can. By the time Dr. Anna was safely back in his office, the broom was completely forgotten. Then Louis remembered it.
"Damn it, I forgot I still have his broom. I have to go take it to him."
"It's just trash," I said.
"I won't have him thinking I kept that broom. I'm going to return it to him before I go home."
It was another kind of witness. Louis would make his point that he didn't need it, didn't steal, and had better manners. So you see, I was still slow.
There was no way for me to make up my poor response to Dr. Anna's insults. I should have spoken up sooner. I should never have "thought" I didn't want to rent from this ass. We should have done a quick U-turn and dropped Dr. Anna right back where he started at the first insulting phrase. My fault.
However, I did try to keep up with Louis. Years later, I learned he had a heart attack. I drove across town with homemade chicken soup. His wife couldn't believe it. Then I saw him a few months later. He'd lost weight and he looked great. But it was never the closer relationship I wanted.
The other thing I learned was that a certain generation of the civil rights movement had a certain kind of pride. In Louis' case, he would suffer, but he would teach.
The Lesson
Throughout, Louis was the one behind the wheel of the Red Crown Vic. He could guess my sentiments. He'd known a million Dr. Annas. RiverTown was a place where principles needed a kind of action I'd never seen before. He let Dr. Anna spin his string out because he wanted me to choose for real.
I have always been ashamed of my poor start and continued ambivalence. But Louis didn't need me to protect him; he'd been taking care of that shit for a lifetime. He wanted me to learn. I was never able to pay him back. I hope that I have paid it forward.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Crazy Landlord Story No. 8: A Dog's Life
When we first moved to RiverTown, we had to find a place in advance. I went everywhere with a cab driver we met, getting advice and help. He was the best cab driver ever. I still have a horror story about that apartment hunt, but I'm saving it for later. Meanwhile, my husband was busy meeting his future bosses and touring the hospital where he would serve as a resident.
Eventually Leon the cabbie and I found the perfect place, which was the scene of so many of my street conflicts. With the park across, and the landlord working next door, it seemed perfect. Second floor, and very secure. There was just one problem: No dogs allowed.
The American Success Story
The potential landlord was a carpenter, and I'm talking A-mazing furniture construction. His father had fled an economically-stagnant Europe to come to America during the Depression. Craftsman there learned in the old apprenticeship-to-wandering journeyman system until they either married the boss's daughter or founded their own shop. Germany in the 1930's had not much market for European crafted end tables, so he hopped on a ship to America with his rucksack of tools.
"Ha, I was so stupid," the old guy laughed. "It was the wrong America. North America, South America, what do I know?"
He worked again until he could get back on a ship, I think from Brazil, and started making furniture in a RiverTown furniture store during the Depression. The store bargain was, if you bought a dining table, they threw in eight chairs for free. He made a lot of chairs. And eventually he found his own wife and started his own shop, making Federalist/English Regency/French Rococo style furniture. They had marquetry. They had veneer. They had carved arms. All old-World style craftsmanship. And he brought his son up into the business. Decades later, he handed over the leadership to his son, but still showed up every day for work.
Oh, yeah, that'll work.
"I don't see why they can't have an itty bitty dog, son," the old guy complained. 'What's wrong with you?"
"Papa, we agreed a long time ago this was the policy," his son complained. 'And this is not a little dog."
I kept my mouth shut for another five sentences.
"You've got an apartment with a slob living in it on a month-to-month lease, she hasn't even paid the rent! And I don't like her boyfriend!! He doesn't work!!"
'We'd be here June 1," I said. ''Really, June 10, but we'd pay from the 1st.'
"Charge 'em a pet deposit," the old guy said. "It's just a cute little dog."
"Rosie's obedience trained," I volunteered. "And of course we'll pay a pet deposit."
Score, one apartment, thanks to the old guy.
It was a theme down there in the workshop, with the abdicated king allowing the prince of carpenters to make all the tough decisions, but stepping in with a heavy foot whenever he wanted to. The son was constantly nervous, and you see why.
Years Later
The old guy stopped at a suburban Kentucky Fried Chicken. Somehow, the car engaged in drive not reverse and slammed right through the restaurant. Thank God, nobody was hurt. He came back to work a few days later, his face covered in contusions and tiny cuts. He was also riding hell on everybody in the shop.
"I was really worried. I'm so glad you're better," I told him, and he scowled at me. "What was the matter, Mr. Carpenter? Did they run out of extra crispy?"
His son howled with laughter. "Get out of here," he told me. "Go now." And he started laughing again.
Eventually Leon the cabbie and I found the perfect place, which was the scene of so many of my street conflicts. With the park across, and the landlord working next door, it seemed perfect. Second floor, and very secure. There was just one problem: No dogs allowed.
The American Success Story
The potential landlord was a carpenter, and I'm talking A-mazing furniture construction. His father had fled an economically-stagnant Europe to come to America during the Depression. Craftsman there learned in the old apprenticeship-to-wandering journeyman system until they either married the boss's daughter or founded their own shop. Germany in the 1930's had not much market for European crafted end tables, so he hopped on a ship to America with his rucksack of tools.
"Ha, I was so stupid," the old guy laughed. "It was the wrong America. North America, South America, what do I know?"
He worked again until he could get back on a ship, I think from Brazil, and started making furniture in a RiverTown furniture store during the Depression. The store bargain was, if you bought a dining table, they threw in eight chairs for free. He made a lot of chairs. And eventually he found his own wife and started his own shop, making Federalist/English Regency/French Rococo style furniture. They had marquetry. They had veneer. They had carved arms. All old-World style craftsmanship. And he brought his son up into the business. Decades later, he handed over the leadership to his son, but still showed up every day for work.
Oh, yeah, that'll work.
"I don't see why they can't have an itty bitty dog, son," the old guy complained. 'What's wrong with you?"
"Papa, we agreed a long time ago this was the policy," his son complained. 'And this is not a little dog."
I kept my mouth shut for another five sentences.
"You've got an apartment with a slob living in it on a month-to-month lease, she hasn't even paid the rent! And I don't like her boyfriend!! He doesn't work!!"
'We'd be here June 1," I said. ''Really, June 10, but we'd pay from the 1st.'
"Charge 'em a pet deposit," the old guy said. "It's just a cute little dog."
"Rosie's obedience trained," I volunteered. "And of course we'll pay a pet deposit."
Score, one apartment, thanks to the old guy.
It was a theme down there in the workshop, with the abdicated king allowing the prince of carpenters to make all the tough decisions, but stepping in with a heavy foot whenever he wanted to. The son was constantly nervous, and you see why.
Years Later
The old guy stopped at a suburban Kentucky Fried Chicken. Somehow, the car engaged in drive not reverse and slammed right through the restaurant. Thank God, nobody was hurt. He came back to work a few days later, his face covered in contusions and tiny cuts. He was also riding hell on everybody in the shop.
"I was really worried. I'm so glad you're better," I told him, and he scowled at me. "What was the matter, Mr. Carpenter? Did they run out of extra crispy?"
His son howled with laughter. "Get out of here," he told me. "Go now." And he started laughing again.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Super Charged Flashlight Cracker / Hellfire and You-Know-What
Last night, in IrishTown, on this New Years' Eve and many others, children had dollars upon dollars of "Black Cats." I figure they spent $50.00 per family on something that was gone in one night, (with periodic leftover explosions over the next few days).
They are noisy. They will ruin your hearing. They will take your eye out or burn down your house.
We could forget about sleeping. We just set in to endure. And poor Rosie, who was good about almost everything, would tremble for the three days it took to stop hearing them in the street. Not even holding her brought her any comfort.
The first year, I stood on the awning outside our window and watched dollars blow up and increase risk of harm and fire for about an hour. And I was angry--how many baseballs, math lessons, and house paint would this pay for?
By the next year, I knew indignation was only adding to my misery. This is how it goes:
1. It was a family and neighborhood tradition. Traditions, however [insert adjective here] are part of the fabric of a family and a community.
2. It was looked forward to, like all traditions, including the massacre of evergreens for Christmas and the massacre of turkeys for Thanksgiving. (BTW, I gladly eat turkey and enjoy Christmas trees. But still. If turkey is so wonderful, how come we only eat it one day a year? Explain that, for instance.)
3. It was cultural, in that it was unexplainable to someone who was unfamiliar with the tradition. Try to explain Christmas to a hmmm, Martian. They might get the religious history, but will they get the rest? I'm guessing not.
4. There is some joy in being able to make that much noise. Oh, yeah.
5. So, again turning to the ancient Greeks--there are two traditions, the Apollonian and the Dionysian.
a. The Apollonian gives you scholarship, order, proportion, rational building upon previous steps. (That's how we believe the poor will get rich, but we may be wrong about that.)
b. The Dionysian is the 'kick back and let loose' in life. It is revelry, Easter eggs, and Miller Time. And of the two impulses, the Dionysian one is the "Transforming" impulse. It is what causes leaps of faith and the Eureka of discovery. It is also the destruction of what is--and sometimes, self-destruction.
According to the Greeks, both are present in a balanced life. To live only in Apollo means to cut out emotions and transcendence. To live only in Dionysos means to wreck everything in the here and now.
Sometimes you need to wreck the old to begin the new: crack that preconception and grow, make the leap.
Nevertheless, to this day I wish my neighbors in IrishTown would have spent that fifty dollars on math lessons for their kid instead of those damned Black Cats.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
IrishTown: Kids
I've got multiple sacks of groceries:
"I could carry those in for you," B-- said. "Then you could pay me fifty cents."
"Need help with those?" An eight-year-old this time.
"Hey, your dog." (Rosie on a sit-stay, guarding my car, my stuff, my open door.) "Is he friendly?"
"Yeah, she's very nice. Her name is Rosie."
"I could watch your stuff," the kid said. "Then the dog could go in. That's worth a quarter, isn't it?"
"I think I'm all done, but thanks," I said. "I might have a quarter, let me check."
They buy Christmas presents for their grandma at the resale shop, formerly the abandoned furniture shop. Dirty china figurines, someone's discarded craft project.
"That is very nice of you," I say. "Your grandma, she's special, huh?"
They shuffle their feet. That means yes, grandma is special--but they also feel guilty because they bought a candy bar too, for themselves. All over the mall, shoppers are buying one for Uncle Jones and one for themselves. But the either-or shows up more starkly around here.
Something happens to these kids at around age ten or twelve, and I know what it is. They get tired of looking for work. They get tired of trying to carry the load for a quarter. They learn a dirty china figurine is something to be laughed at. They get a little hard, and it doesn't go away.
"I could carry those in for you," B-- said. "Then you could pay me fifty cents."
"Need help with those?" An eight-year-old this time.
"Hey, your dog." (Rosie on a sit-stay, guarding my car, my stuff, my open door.) "Is he friendly?"
"Yeah, she's very nice. Her name is Rosie."
"I could watch your stuff," the kid said. "Then the dog could go in. That's worth a quarter, isn't it?"
"I think I'm all done, but thanks," I said. "I might have a quarter, let me check."
They buy Christmas presents for their grandma at the resale shop, formerly the abandoned furniture shop. Dirty china figurines, someone's discarded craft project.
"That is very nice of you," I say. "Your grandma, she's special, huh?"
They shuffle their feet. That means yes, grandma is special--but they also feel guilty because they bought a candy bar too, for themselves. All over the mall, shoppers are buying one for Uncle Jones and one for themselves. But the either-or shows up more starkly around here.
Something happens to these kids at around age ten or twelve, and I know what it is. They get tired of looking for work. They get tired of trying to carry the load for a quarter. They learn a dirty china figurine is something to be laughed at. They get a little hard, and it doesn't go away.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Glad To Be Here, Part Two
Part II: Spiking the Guns (part I is here)
Drug deal, less than twenty feet away, after ten at night, one way street:
--I either have to back into Zoo traffic or drive past them. That’s if I can find the anti-theft device key and then the ignition key on my key ring before they see me.
--I can cower in the seat. But they can also walk by and see me, hunched on the floorboard or lying down on the seat, acting like a cornered witness. Blam.
--I can run, but then they know I’ve seen them doing the wrong. I also have to find the key to the front door (metal) and front door (wood) before I’m safely inside. Not enough time. Possible shot in the back. There is no other place to run, no other refuge.
--I don’t have a cell phone. This was before everybody had a cell phone. Anyway, there’s no time to explain: it’s happening Now.
--I can sit and watch: no, no, I don’t want to do that. They haven’t exchanged yet--
The flowers.
I pick up my purse, my bookbag, the vase of gladiolas. I unlock the car door and I get out. I slam my car door, hard.
“Guess what happened to me?” I call out to them, loudly. I walk right up to them. They’re surprised by this. “I got these flowers at my work, absolutely free, but there’s way too many. I want you to have some.”
Oh, my god, this is my stupidest trick yet.
They stare at me. Years of neighborhood interaction are possibly in my favor, but they don’t necessarily count this minute. I grab a bunch of gladiolas. “Here,” I say. I hold them out, and one of the guys’ hands reaches out to accept. Then he puts his hand back down.
“No, baby,” he says. “My girlfriend’s in the shelter, and it’s closed right now.”
“No, please,” I insisted. “They were free to me, and they’re free to you. If you can’t give them to your girl, then give them to a different stranger. Just—spread the happiness.”
He takes them. We look at them in the glow of a far-off street light, although, I’m really looking past the blooms and at his face. The park’s trees hide most of the light, but the flowers glow with goodwill or perhaps divine intervention. If this doesn’t work—
“I know,” he bursts out. “I’ll take them to my Mama’s house.”
“Yeah, she’ll love them.” I hand them over. “Have a great night!”
The other guy is not part of the deal at all. He doesn’t want any flowers, waves them away.
All I know is that one hand out of a possible four is not aiming a firearm at me, and I believe they are both distracted. I turn my back on them because I have to, in order to go to my front door. I walk as naturally as possible.
I unlock the metal door, the wood door. I step inside and lock the metal door, the wooden door. I run down the hall, unlock the door to my apartment and slam it shut. I run upstairs. My husband is asleep.
If I had failed, I would have been in the RiverTown newspaper. People all over the city would say what a dumb cluck I was. Fortunately for me, I was the only one who had to know it.
You know, I would say that the Club on either my truck's or the Caliente's steering wheel have nearly been the death of me at least twice--
or you could say an entire spectrum of substance abuse ruined my day--
or, you could say, ah, that was my stupidest trick yet.
Image: Watercolor by Cecilia Price.
Drug deal, less than twenty feet away, after ten at night, one way street:
--I either have to back into Zoo traffic or drive past them. That’s if I can find the anti-theft device key and then the ignition key on my key ring before they see me.
--I can cower in the seat. But they can also walk by and see me, hunched on the floorboard or lying down on the seat, acting like a cornered witness. Blam.
--I can run, but then they know I’ve seen them doing the wrong. I also have to find the key to the front door (metal) and front door (wood) before I’m safely inside. Not enough time. Possible shot in the back. There is no other place to run, no other refuge.
--I don’t have a cell phone. This was before everybody had a cell phone. Anyway, there’s no time to explain: it’s happening Now.
--I can sit and watch: no, no, I don’t want to do that. They haven’t exchanged yet--
The flowers.
I pick up my purse, my bookbag, the vase of gladiolas. I unlock the car door and I get out. I slam my car door, hard.
“Guess what happened to me?” I call out to them, loudly. I walk right up to them. They’re surprised by this. “I got these flowers at my work, absolutely free, but there’s way too many. I want you to have some.”
Oh, my god, this is my stupidest trick yet.
They stare at me. Years of neighborhood interaction are possibly in my favor, but they don’t necessarily count this minute. I grab a bunch of gladiolas. “Here,” I say. I hold them out, and one of the guys’ hands reaches out to accept. Then he puts his hand back down.
“No, baby,” he says. “My girlfriend’s in the shelter, and it’s closed right now.”
“No, please,” I insisted. “They were free to me, and they’re free to you. If you can’t give them to your girl, then give them to a different stranger. Just—spread the happiness.”He takes them. We look at them in the glow of a far-off street light, although, I’m really looking past the blooms and at his face. The park’s trees hide most of the light, but the flowers glow with goodwill or perhaps divine intervention. If this doesn’t work—
“I know,” he bursts out. “I’ll take them to my Mama’s house.”
“Yeah, she’ll love them.” I hand them over. “Have a great night!”
The other guy is not part of the deal at all. He doesn’t want any flowers, waves them away.
All I know is that one hand out of a possible four is not aiming a firearm at me, and I believe they are both distracted. I turn my back on them because I have to, in order to go to my front door. I walk as naturally as possible.
I unlock the metal door, the wood door. I step inside and lock the metal door, the wooden door. I run down the hall, unlock the door to my apartment and slam it shut. I run upstairs. My husband is asleep.
If I had failed, I would have been in the RiverTown newspaper. People all over the city would say what a dumb cluck I was. Fortunately for me, I was the only one who had to know it.
You know, I would say that the Club on either my truck's or the Caliente's steering wheel have nearly been the death of me at least twice--
or you could say an entire spectrum of substance abuse ruined my day--
or, you could say, ah, that was my stupidest trick yet.
Image: Watercolor by Cecilia Price.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Glad To Be Here, Part One
Scene I: The Gettysburg Address, or, why I ended up where I was--
My bookstore hosted a Southern Writer’s night. Each author’s table had a vase of white gladiolas, one or more stacks of books. Any of twenty Southern Writers will gladly autograph a book. They take turns reading aloud from their works on the balcony into the store. The audience is appreciative, social, friendly.
Really they’re all waiting for the Twenty-First Author.
A Southern Gentleman of the Old School sits in the office. He is known as a very intelligent, compassionate historian. He has huge charisma. I’ve been at other events where this man sat on a panel. People were too awed to address him directly.
But he lives in a charcoal-filtered, aged-to-perfection world. He won’t autograph books unless you know him already and he finds you worthy. He will not “mingle”. Tonight he will read from one of his novels, but not into a microphone. The office door stays closed for Old Granddad.
When it is his turn to read, he stands on the balcony, completely incomprehensible. We are standing below. He’s probably coherent, but we can’t hear a word he says.
The friendly crowd turns angry in two minutes. A fantastic event goes South.
Afterwards, we stack rented tables, cloths, and chairs. Twenty glass vases of white gladiolas have nowhere to go. The Events Manager gives me one to take home. She shoves extra stems into it. She’s grateful for my support, my fourteen-hour shift, my crowd control.
After nine p.m., I’m out the door. I make good time until I hit the end of the annual Zoo family event. Now RiverTown Road is the zoo. It takes me an hour to get home. Four to five miles: forty-five minutes for one mile of it.
Once home, I put the anti-theft device on my car, twisting the lock shut. Then I drop my keys. As I pick them up, I look out my windshield. Two guys have walked up; they’re starting a drug deal right in front of me on the street. Not twenty feet away oh shit.
Just one world to the next. But it’s all the same world.
Part II of II, tomorrow--
My bookstore hosted a Southern Writer’s night. Each author’s table had a vase of white gladiolas, one or more stacks of books. Any of twenty Southern Writers will gladly autograph a book. They take turns reading aloud from their works on the balcony into the store. The audience is appreciative, social, friendly.
Really they’re all waiting for the Twenty-First Author.
A Southern Gentleman of the Old School sits in the office. He is known as a very intelligent, compassionate historian. He has huge charisma. I’ve been at other events where this man sat on a panel. People were too awed to address him directly.
But he lives in a charcoal-filtered, aged-to-perfection world. He won’t autograph books unless you know him already and he finds you worthy. He will not “mingle”. Tonight he will read from one of his novels, but not into a microphone. The office door stays closed for Old Granddad.
When it is his turn to read, he stands on the balcony, completely incomprehensible. We are standing below. He’s probably coherent, but we can’t hear a word he says.
The friendly crowd turns angry in two minutes. A fantastic event goes South.
Afterwards, we stack rented tables, cloths, and chairs. Twenty glass vases of white gladiolas have nowhere to go. The Events Manager gives me one to take home. She shoves extra stems into it. She’s grateful for my support, my fourteen-hour shift, my crowd control.
After nine p.m., I’m out the door. I make good time until I hit the end of the annual Zoo family event. Now RiverTown Road is the zoo. It takes me an hour to get home. Four to five miles: forty-five minutes for one mile of it.
Once home, I put the anti-theft device on my car, twisting the lock shut. Then I drop my keys. As I pick them up, I look out my windshield. Two guys have walked up; they’re starting a drug deal right in front of me on the street. Not twenty feet away oh shit.
Just one world to the next. But it’s all the same world.
Part II of II, tomorrow--
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
bump bump bump: Knocking on the door of the Trust
After I was nearly car-jacked, I told everyone in the neighborhood.
I had several reasons/excuses for doing this.
1. Conversational topic. More chances to talk to the neighbors.
2. Maybe I could retrieve my sorry performance by getting more information on my attackers. Like the make of the car. I didn’t expect anything more than that.
3. Warn my neighbors that violence levels might be escalating.
4. Let people know I was on the lookout for the crap, and,
5. I wouldn’t react like a normal person when faced with it. As events already proved.
Two houses face the park from the other side. I don’t knock on doors in the neighborhood. I might not like what’s inside. Or, they might not want me to see it: good, bad, or indifferent.
One house has no windows and scabrous white paint. I am always curious about this house. People go and come every once in awhile. You can hear the game through the shoddy wooden door on weekend afternoons. The burly guy that lives there appears to fix heavy machinery in the front room or cars in the street. Sometimes he sits in the sun and I say hello. Why not now?
“Did you hear me screaming last night?” I ask him. “Wow, you would not believe.” And so on. “They were parked right there.” I point. “Did you happen to notice any strange cars?”
He gives me this look: assessing the most stupid person still breathing his air. I already know this about myself, so I smile at him. “Well, just be careful. I guess things are going nuts again.”
He acknowledges that with eyebrows. No words.
The lady next door has a house with an automatic gate, a small yard, the only house set back from the street for blocks. She has parking AND grass. Hey, here’s a winner: middle aged, prosperous, a property owner.
I have to wait a couple of days before I see her, going to her car.
“And they were parked right in front of your gate, blocking you in,” I say.
“I don’t know nothing about it,” she informs me. “I didn’t have nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, no, I know that.” I was surprised by this. “I was just hoping you maybe saw something, or that you’d be careful.”
“I didn’t see nothing.”
So I accomplished 1 and 5: Attention! Dumbass lives here! That still may have worked in my favor.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The Forgotten Outpost in the Outpost
Not too long after the arson, I met an elderly white woman who lived in IrishTown. She was a nun, like a Poor Clare, one of the orders dedicated to serving the poor. She invited me to tea.
“What are you doing, living in this outpost of the devil?” she chided me, as we walked to her house. “This is a place full of sin.”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just chatted about the arson, and told me about her order, and about St. Francis. She did not ask my religious affiliation. She said hello to a couple of people on the street, then switched to the evils of drugs.
Her house was not that far away, but on a tougher street. The space of the front room was, like most of the 100-year-old plus houses in RiverTown, beautifully proportioned. Like most of the old houses in RiverTown, there were few inner doors, a wood floor. The wallpaper was a faded rose, the original stuff. I could see it was stretched onto tacked linen and not the walls themselves: durable work. The only decoration left, and it was not clean anymore, the dust of ages.
She told me the house was donated to her use a long time ago.
“I let homeless people sleep in here,” she said. “God bless the poor.”
She fixed tea. She was wearing a tan habit, a cross knotted around her waist. We stood in the kitchen—bare, uncluttered—and sipped from our mugs. I asked her why she was alone. Shouldn’t she have a convent, or a community?
“I’m the last of my order here,” she said comfortably. “We used to have quite a few, you know, but they went on.” Went on where, I wondered. With some other poor people? New orders from the chapter house? Heaven? She did not elaborate.
“Anyway, the bishop forgot about me,” she said. “But I’m doing God’s work.”
Maybe I gave her five dollars. As soon as I write that, I think I remember she refused money, or gave me no opportunity to give it. I don’t remember for sure.
Maybe she was a volunteer nun as opposed to an official one. Maybe stuck in some private fantasy. But not a scam artist.
I would see her from time to time. She wore the same clean habit every time I saw her. She was always walking alone to somewhere, cheerfully. It always seemed odd that the bishop would forget her. Maybe she was also a ghost.
“What are you doing, living in this outpost of the devil?” she chided me, as we walked to her house. “This is a place full of sin.”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just chatted about the arson, and told me about her order, and about St. Francis. She did not ask my religious affiliation. She said hello to a couple of people on the street, then switched to the evils of drugs.
Her house was not that far away, but on a tougher street. The space of the front room was, like most of the 100-year-old plus houses in RiverTown, beautifully proportioned. Like most of the old houses in RiverTown, there were few inner doors, a wood floor. The wallpaper was a faded rose, the original stuff. I could see it was stretched onto tacked linen and not the walls themselves: durable work. The only decoration left, and it was not clean anymore, the dust of ages.
She told me the house was donated to her use a long time ago.
“I let homeless people sleep in here,” she said. “God bless the poor.”
She fixed tea. She was wearing a tan habit, a cross knotted around her waist. We stood in the kitchen—bare, uncluttered—and sipped from our mugs. I asked her why she was alone. Shouldn’t she have a convent, or a community?
“I’m the last of my order here,” she said comfortably. “We used to have quite a few, you know, but they went on.” Went on where, I wondered. With some other poor people? New orders from the chapter house? Heaven? She did not elaborate.
“Anyway, the bishop forgot about me,” she said. “But I’m doing God’s work.”
Maybe I gave her five dollars. As soon as I write that, I think I remember she refused money, or gave me no opportunity to give it. I don’t remember for sure.
Maybe she was a volunteer nun as opposed to an official one. Maybe stuck in some private fantasy. But not a scam artist.
I would see her from time to time. She wore the same clean habit every time I saw her. She was always walking alone to somewhere, cheerfully. It always seemed odd that the bishop would forget her. Maybe she was also a ghost.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Don't Cry Wolf-Part 3-Complex Interactions, Dead Dogs
More for those in the transition from a good neighborhood to a tough one. There's a Part 1 and Part 2. But this can also stand alone.
The first summer we lived in IrishTown: one night all the watch dogs were executed. I think we should have had blanket police coverage then. Not because of the poor dogs, (although that’s bad) but because this person wandered the streets, shooting, far longer than an hour.
The police could have blanketed the neighborhood and possibly caught this person. If they had, they would have deterred numerous future crimes. Seeking intervention here, in other words, wasn't crying wolf. Considering how that series of shots freed up the streets at night for drug traffic, it was not small beans.
Not so fast, sweetheart:
Actually, my one-sentence idea (blanket the area) contains one huge step after the next. Each step relies on optimal interaction levels that weren't realistic.
I didn’t have that thought out at the time. But the next day, I could see that my expectations were outsized to everyone else’s. That shut me up, but I didn't know why everyone was so resigned.
Eventually I learned there was some kind of neighborhood stability, or it would have been anarchy all the time. My husband and I were new, interlopers, not part of that order. We still relied on it, every waking and sleeping minute. Further out in neighborhood affairs were the police. These we could access more easily than the neighbors--not because the police wouldn't come for a neighbor's complaint, but because, as outsiders, we would make a complaint.
What I Learned/Did
So this was my policy: see disclaimer. I called (or would have called) the police when I saw a crime in progress, or a condition they could verify (house burglary, drug buy central), big dollars lost (car theft) or assaults, blood, sounds of meaningful distress. Annoyances I tried to fix alone or look the other way.
I like to think the neighbors were grateful for our modest stand. But that is vanity. More likely our block just became a place to avoid, and trouble moved down the street.
Frequently new people demand everyone else adjust to a new social order. The previous residents already have 1. their own problems, plus 2. the ones they could live with but the new person wants changed. Then add 3. the crap that used to go down on the gentry block and is now on theirs.
So I guess this is a kind of warning to be nice. I guess this is also a hope held out: you'll have a constructive place in neighborhood affairs if you want it. You can be good for the neighborhood.
(BTW, if you’re wondering, we did call about “shots fired close” that night. Dutch, a Doberman, died two doors down, in a front pocket yard of a house used for work/storage. Two officers checked the complaint, saw no human with either a gun or a gunshot wound, and went onward, looking. Dutch lay undiscovered until the next morning, when the owner came back to work. The executions occurred in a fan-shaped group of blocks, three blocks wide on the North and eight blocks wide in the south. Many of those blocks (say 40, total) were small or deserted. Most occupied lots did not have yards.)
The first summer we lived in IrishTown: one night all the watch dogs were executed. I think we should have had blanket police coverage then. Not because of the poor dogs, (although that’s bad) but because this person wandered the streets, shooting, far longer than an hour.
The police could have blanketed the neighborhood and possibly caught this person. If they had, they would have deterred numerous future crimes. Seeking intervention here, in other words, wasn't crying wolf. Considering how that series of shots freed up the streets at night for drug traffic, it was not small beans.
Not so fast, sweetheart:
Actually, my one-sentence idea (blanket the area) contains one huge step after the next. Each step relies on optimal interaction levels that weren't realistic.
- 1. First, a household affected has to call it in to say it’s a dog. Shooting in itself was not unusual. Sometimes it was recreational. Or, if it wasn't, my neighbors didn’t want to know.
- 2. Dog-owners were asleep by then. Or, it was dogs. As long as everybody sat tight inside, they’d live.
- 3. More affected people have to call it in. Each person is calling in a single incident, but it sounds maybe like one incident reported over and over. Or a prank.
- 4. Dispatch, or the watch commander, or somebody, has to figure out it’s a pattern, jumping now, and connect it to some conspiracy for after-dark street ownership that minute. Other scenarios were possible.
- 5. The PD must have personnel free to work the incidents or make my “blanket” idea work. The neighborhood was full of abandoned houses, where a shooter could hide, or friends/fellow businessmen could hide him. So a lot of personnel.
I didn’t have that thought out at the time. But the next day, I could see that my expectations were outsized to everyone else’s. That shut me up, but I didn't know why everyone was so resigned.
Eventually I learned there was some kind of neighborhood stability, or it would have been anarchy all the time. My husband and I were new, interlopers, not part of that order. We still relied on it, every waking and sleeping minute. Further out in neighborhood affairs were the police. These we could access more easily than the neighbors--not because the police wouldn't come for a neighbor's complaint, but because, as outsiders, we would make a complaint.
What I Learned/Did
So this was my policy: see disclaimer. I called (or would have called) the police when I saw a crime in progress, or a condition they could verify (house burglary, drug buy central), big dollars lost (car theft) or assaults, blood, sounds of meaningful distress. Annoyances I tried to fix alone or look the other way.
I like to think the neighbors were grateful for our modest stand. But that is vanity. More likely our block just became a place to avoid, and trouble moved down the street.
Frequently new people demand everyone else adjust to a new social order. The previous residents already have 1. their own problems, plus 2. the ones they could live with but the new person wants changed. Then add 3. the crap that used to go down on the gentry block and is now on theirs.
So I guess this is a kind of warning to be nice. I guess this is also a hope held out: you'll have a constructive place in neighborhood affairs if you want it. You can be good for the neighborhood.
(BTW, if you’re wondering, we did call about “shots fired close” that night. Dutch, a Doberman, died two doors down, in a front pocket yard of a house used for work/storage. Two officers checked the complaint, saw no human with either a gun or a gunshot wound, and went onward, looking. Dutch lay undiscovered until the next morning, when the owner came back to work. The executions occurred in a fan-shaped group of blocks, three blocks wide on the North and eight blocks wide in the south. Many of those blocks (say 40, total) were small or deserted. Most occupied lots did not have yards.)
Don't Cry Wolf-Part 2-Annoyances
Like I said in part 1, maybe this will help someone if they ever move from the 'burbs to a tougher neighborhood. (See disclaimer.) I guess this post is how a neophyte turns their high expectations of crime fighting into something rational. The point where you rely on prevention over remedy, a plan/policy over being completely floored every minute something happens and you aren't ready.
Some of the record of diminished expectations is actually a loss. Others build character--
Annoyances
Most of the things I confronted were on the annoyance category, like public urinating in front of kids or drug dealers scoping out the front hall. Any one of the confrontations I undertook could have been dangerous, if you added a gun. But I didn’t call the police for annoyances because:
1. Inbetween noting the annoyance and calling it in, the annoyance was over.
2. Inbetween calling it in and police response, the “annoyancer” was long gone.
3. Trust: It’s just my word to say the annoyance occurred. Small beans, a lot of hours from everybody for no result. In behavioral terms, I think the immediate response was best.
4. Diplomacy: Calling the police for annoyance-level stuff would have changed the tone of my more pleasant interactions in the neighborhood. Though my level of tolerance was very low compared to my neighbors, you know I still compromised. Often.
Take my Husband's Bike, For Instance: oh.
5. Institutional overload: Take bicycle theft. My husband lost three. All of them were locked to a structure behind a tall gate. The thief was strong, limber, and had tools. He also had one or two partners. Otherwise, it couldn’t have occurred. Scary, but we don’t call 911.
You called in, M-F 8-5, to get your stolen bike on a list by license and bicycle serial number. You received a theft report by mail in return. The bike license was a sticker, reasonably easy to remove. I am sure the stolen bike list was never consulted by anyone.
6. Secondary economy: Most bike stores in town sold hot bikes. Ah, used bikes.
a. Trust: I’m the one who says it’s missing. Maybe I really sold it yesterday.
b. Deniability: The bike changed hands any number of times, and the person with the bike (if, by some miracle, found) can say they bought it from someone in good faith.
c. Discretionary judgment: My husband could afford a bike. A kid in the next neighborhood over, not so much. Think long-term, wide-range, big picture.
d. A lot of work for a low-value item that may be ruined when it’s found. Small beans.
Everyone had given up on this one. Except the city administrators. See, if you didn't buy the license, you couldn't report the theft . . . . .
So far, so good in the Neighbor-Hood . . . & some serenity achieved.
Some of the record of diminished expectations is actually a loss. Others build character--
Annoyances
Most of the things I confronted were on the annoyance category, like public urinating in front of kids or drug dealers scoping out the front hall. Any one of the confrontations I undertook could have been dangerous, if you added a gun. But I didn’t call the police for annoyances because:
1. Inbetween noting the annoyance and calling it in, the annoyance was over.
2. Inbetween calling it in and police response, the “annoyancer” was long gone.
3. Trust: It’s just my word to say the annoyance occurred. Small beans, a lot of hours from everybody for no result. In behavioral terms, I think the immediate response was best.
4. Diplomacy: Calling the police for annoyance-level stuff would have changed the tone of my more pleasant interactions in the neighborhood. Though my level of tolerance was very low compared to my neighbors, you know I still compromised. Often.
Take my Husband's Bike, For Instance: oh.
5. Institutional overload: Take bicycle theft. My husband lost three. All of them were locked to a structure behind a tall gate. The thief was strong, limber, and had tools. He also had one or two partners. Otherwise, it couldn’t have occurred. Scary, but we don’t call 911.
You called in, M-F 8-5, to get your stolen bike on a list by license and bicycle serial number. You received a theft report by mail in return. The bike license was a sticker, reasonably easy to remove. I am sure the stolen bike list was never consulted by anyone.
6. Secondary economy: Most bike stores in town sold hot bikes. Ah, used bikes.
a. Trust: I’m the one who says it’s missing. Maybe I really sold it yesterday.
b. Deniability: The bike changed hands any number of times, and the person with the bike (if, by some miracle, found) can say they bought it from someone in good faith.
c. Discretionary judgment: My husband could afford a bike. A kid in the next neighborhood over, not so much. Think long-term, wide-range, big picture.
d. A lot of work for a low-value item that may be ruined when it’s found. Small beans.
Everyone had given up on this one. Except the city administrators. See, if you didn't buy the license, you couldn't report the theft . . . . .
So far, so good in the Neighbor-Hood . . . & some serenity achieved.
Don't Cry Wolf-Part 1-Limits
Maybe this post will be useful to future gentrifiers. I don't know.
I said in a previous post that calling the police was my remedy of second-to-last resort. The last resort is, to me, agreeing to be a victim. But there were a lot of things I tried first, or victim situations we accepted. To operate under suburban expectations would have been impossible. To call for help that often would be like crying wolf. Like one false alarm after another. My reasoning for this came from more than one set of observations.
Priority:
We were not the high crime neighborhood. Homicides occurred mainly in the projects, about ten blocks down and a half-world away, plus, ten blocks north and a half-world away (not to mention other high-crime sites even further away).
.
Resource:
The police had little. The cars didn’t have their headlights, their hub caps, their motors tuned up. I didn’t see the interiors, so who knows what else was wrong—communication equipment, steering, whatever. It implied they were short elsewhere too, like personnel, for example.
Maybe the city administration thought a hubcap or ding is small beans if the car still runs. I don’t. This doesn't mean I know about police work. I know about management.
a. Respect. It looks like city gov doesn’t respect its police, so why should anyone else?
b. Trust. It looks like the police can’t take care of themselves, let alone you.
c. Morale. Institutional slop eventually becomes personal slop. Example: A police officer is supposed to spiff up, but his unit’s not spiffed up, so the effect is lost. Or, after a day of one annoyance after another, some that feel like betrayals, that last hour is just spent on anger management. You don't have to think policeman to find an example of this. Just check out your own experiences.
Anyway, the final piece of this part of the equation was on the ground. The problems seemed huge. The beat police weren't there--even after a newsworthy double-arson/drug war incident down the street. I knew I'd stepped into a new world, and I was going to have to revise my expectations of the institution and of myself.
So far, so good . . .
I said in a previous post that calling the police was my remedy of second-to-last resort. The last resort is, to me, agreeing to be a victim. But there were a lot of things I tried first, or victim situations we accepted. To operate under suburban expectations would have been impossible. To call for help that often would be like crying wolf. Like one false alarm after another. My reasoning for this came from more than one set of observations.
Priority:
We were not the high crime neighborhood. Homicides occurred mainly in the projects, about ten blocks down and a half-world away, plus, ten blocks north and a half-world away (not to mention other high-crime sites even further away).
.
Resource:
The police had little. The cars didn’t have their headlights, their hub caps, their motors tuned up. I didn’t see the interiors, so who knows what else was wrong—communication equipment, steering, whatever. It implied they were short elsewhere too, like personnel, for example.
Maybe the city administration thought a hubcap or ding is small beans if the car still runs. I don’t. This doesn't mean I know about police work. I know about management.
a. Respect. It looks like city gov doesn’t respect its police, so why should anyone else?
b. Trust. It looks like the police can’t take care of themselves, let alone you.
c. Morale. Institutional slop eventually becomes personal slop. Example: A police officer is supposed to spiff up, but his unit’s not spiffed up, so the effect is lost. Or, after a day of one annoyance after another, some that feel like betrayals, that last hour is just spent on anger management. You don't have to think policeman to find an example of this. Just check out your own experiences.
Anyway, the final piece of this part of the equation was on the ground. The problems seemed huge. The beat police weren't there--even after a newsworthy double-arson/drug war incident down the street. I knew I'd stepped into a new world, and I was going to have to revise my expectations of the institution and of myself.
So far, so good . . .
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Bump Bump Bump (Point)
I have a paper due tomorrow. The computer’s acting up. I have to go to Bizmo’s to finish up. It’s dark outside, about ten-thirty. My husband is asleep.
I pack everything I need into a tote bag. I don’t juggle things on the street anymore—I want a quick in and out, especially at night.
Downstairs, I open the door to the entrance hallway. I don’t turn on the light to walk the long hall. I open the wooden door first, but leave the metal one locked. I scan for trouble automatically now. It’s not a wide-angle view, but you can also hear people.
I slip into my husband’s huge car with power everything. I lock up after myself and take the club off the car. The dome light stays on, longer than usual, I don’t know why.
There’s two of them. One’s knocking on the window, pointing at the lock.
bump bump bump (point)
That’s why the dome light is on: they’ve pressed the handle, trying to get in. Both of them have guns. Both guns are pointed at me. (I start screaming no, no, no)
both of them are young-they look fourteen-that doesn’t matter-young people have less impulse control -they will shoot-both of them are short-just a little taller than the car-the one behind is shorter and stockier than the one in front-both have Afros-the one in front has a longer one, unkempt-he is light brown-his gun is really tiny-almost like a toy-that doesn’t matter-Mom has one that fits onto a belt buckle-it’s still real-this one’s real too
bump, bump, bump (point)
they have point-blank range for a head shot-my keys aren’t in the ignition-I can’t drive off
I move to the passenger side.
they still can’t miss but maybe they will-this screaming is worthless nobody can hear me outside the car-if I get out then people will hear me-no, I’m not getting out-they’ll shoot me on the street or take me with them and I don't want to go
They run off. They don’t shoot. (I stop screaming no, no, no)
Nowadays, I think I was their first try, and they weren’t ready to kill anybody for a car yet. Of course I have no way of knowing for sure.
I open the passenger door. My purse spills into the muddy gutter in front of my house, spilling everything.
roaches down there and broken glass that you can’t see in the dark-if you lock the car your keys will be inside but there’s another set upstairs
I fall out and grab the billfold, throwing it into the car at the same moment, slam the car door shut. I scream at the top of my lungs, where at last someone can hear me, as I jump up.
this is my neighborhood I don’t know them they’re not from here they don’t belong here
I take off in screaming pursuit across the park. And I almost catch up, but I don’t want to: they still have the guns. They pile into the back of a car on the next street over. It peels off. Now I am chasing the car until they turn right onto News Street. I don’t get the fucking license plate number. I’m furious.
I march back across the park. The window slowly goes up on the second floor.
“Hello,” my husband calls out. “Is something wrong out there?”
I’m standing in the street, legs apart, fists on my hip. Gary Cooper is nothing compared to me. I don’t even need a six-shooter to take it on. Adrenaline is great stuff. If you know what you're doing.
I give useless descriptions of the perpetrators, escape vehicle, and guns to the RiverTown police officer who takes my complaint. She keeps a poker face through the whole thing. Maybe every once in awhile her mouth twitches closed a little harder.
“So then I chased the car,” I tell her.
“Do you know what kind of car it was?”
“No, a sedan. American. Four-door. Not new. Ah, maybe light brown, but there’s not much light over there. And I didn’t get the plate, I’m sorry. I did try, but I couldn’t keep up.”
She nods and makes another notation on her clipboard—probably a big fat zero.
“So, I guess that more or less completes my story of one stupid move after the next. They headed downtown.”
“Hmm-hmm-mmm.” That’s a sound that covers a wealth of possible statements. “Not everything you did was stupid. You did one thing right.”
Even though I knew better, I had hoped it was more than one.
“What was that?”
“You didn’t unlock the car when they wanted you to,” she says. “Go inside now. I’ll make sure you’re all in before I go. Thanks for giving us a call.”
So: I was thinking fast--bump bump bumped up to hyperdrive--but not getting to the (point). I resolved to do better next time.
See disclaimer
I pack everything I need into a tote bag. I don’t juggle things on the street anymore—I want a quick in and out, especially at night.
Downstairs, I open the door to the entrance hallway. I don’t turn on the light to walk the long hall. I open the wooden door first, but leave the metal one locked. I scan for trouble automatically now. It’s not a wide-angle view, but you can also hear people.
I slip into my husband’s huge car with power everything. I lock up after myself and take the club off the car. The dome light stays on, longer than usual, I don’t know why.
There’s two of them. One’s knocking on the window, pointing at the lock.
bump bump bump (point)
That’s why the dome light is on: they’ve pressed the handle, trying to get in. Both of them have guns. Both guns are pointed at me. (I start screaming no, no, no)
both of them are young-they look fourteen-that doesn’t matter-young people have less impulse control -they will shoot-both of them are short-just a little taller than the car-the one behind is shorter and stockier than the one in front-both have Afros-the one in front has a longer one, unkempt-he is light brown-his gun is really tiny-almost like a toy-that doesn’t matter-Mom has one that fits onto a belt buckle-it’s still real-this one’s real too
bump, bump, bump (point)
they have point-blank range for a head shot-my keys aren’t in the ignition-I can’t drive off
I move to the passenger side.
they still can’t miss but maybe they will-this screaming is worthless nobody can hear me outside the car-if I get out then people will hear me-no, I’m not getting out-they’ll shoot me on the street or take me with them and I don't want to go
They run off. They don’t shoot. (I stop screaming no, no, no)
Nowadays, I think I was their first try, and they weren’t ready to kill anybody for a car yet. Of course I have no way of knowing for sure.
I open the passenger door. My purse spills into the muddy gutter in front of my house, spilling everything.
roaches down there and broken glass that you can’t see in the dark-if you lock the car your keys will be inside but there’s another set upstairs
I fall out and grab the billfold, throwing it into the car at the same moment, slam the car door shut. I scream at the top of my lungs, where at last someone can hear me, as I jump up.
this is my neighborhood I don’t know them they’re not from here they don’t belong here
I take off in screaming pursuit across the park. And I almost catch up, but I don’t want to: they still have the guns. They pile into the back of a car on the next street over. It peels off. Now I am chasing the car until they turn right onto News Street. I don’t get the fucking license plate number. I’m furious.
I march back across the park. The window slowly goes up on the second floor.
“Hello,” my husband calls out. “Is something wrong out there?”
I’m standing in the street, legs apart, fists on my hip. Gary Cooper is nothing compared to me. I don’t even need a six-shooter to take it on. Adrenaline is great stuff. If you know what you're doing.
I give useless descriptions of the perpetrators, escape vehicle, and guns to the RiverTown police officer who takes my complaint. She keeps a poker face through the whole thing. Maybe every once in awhile her mouth twitches closed a little harder.
“So then I chased the car,” I tell her.
“Do you know what kind of car it was?”
“No, a sedan. American. Four-door. Not new. Ah, maybe light brown, but there’s not much light over there. And I didn’t get the plate, I’m sorry. I did try, but I couldn’t keep up.”
She nods and makes another notation on her clipboard—probably a big fat zero.
“So, I guess that more or less completes my story of one stupid move after the next. They headed downtown.”
“Hmm-hmm-mmm.” That’s a sound that covers a wealth of possible statements. “Not everything you did was stupid. You did one thing right.”
Even though I knew better, I had hoped it was more than one.
“What was that?”
“You didn’t unlock the car when they wanted you to,” she says. “Go inside now. I’ll make sure you’re all in before I go. Thanks for giving us a call.”
So: I was thinking fast--bump bump bumped up to hyperdrive--but not getting to the (point). I resolved to do better next time.
See disclaimer
Monday, November 9, 2009
RiverTown: Demolition Derby
The nicest car we ever had was a stunner, and it cost us the value of a trade-in. My father-in-law used it on Texas interstates, and it was definitely a Texas kind of car: 1980 something Oldsmobile Toronado Caliente, dark red with a white vinyl (not rag) top. I’m going to describe it in full. I also found pictures of one EXACTLY the same, except beige. So think red.
- Vee-Eight 5.0 liter engine, Automatic transmission, A/C, Cruise Control
- Power steering, brakes, trunk release, locks, and safety dome light feature
- Dual 6-way power seats In Red Leather
The Competitive Sport of Crime Avoidance
The sidewalks of IrishTown were paved in auto glass. I had a Nissan, grey, modest--and like all my cars, sorry--a little dinged. I hated the Caliente. It made me conspicuous on the street.
Part of our initiation into the neighborhood was the search for guns or drugs or sound systems in our cars. And, as at Warrior Poets, if you locked your car doors, a determined prowler was never deterred. Therefore, being prudent was expensive. This is one of the first principles of being poor in America.
The Rules and the Strategies
We rapidly learned that you could not leave anything in your car. Not CDs, a penny on the floorboard, not a 69-cent rubber duck or a take-out bag from fast food. They learned we had no guns or drugs, and there would never be any food left in the bag. So, okay. After the initial flurry of break-ins, things slowed down.
We rapidly learned that you could not leave anything in your car. Not CDs, a penny on the floorboard, not a 69-cent rubber duck or a take-out bag from fast food. They learned we had no guns or drugs, and there would never be any food left in the bag. So, okay. After the initial flurry of break-ins, things slowed down.
Also in the car break-in thing, we were there long enough to get the nuances. There's a big difference between paying for the windshield and paying for a back window, for instance. There's also a big difference between getting your window smashed Sunday night when you have to go to work on Monday, and getting it smashed Friday night when you're not due anywhere on Saturday, and the auto glass place is still open.
Now combine these two. Windshield + Sunday night=pretty hostile.
Side panel window + Friday night=business almost as usual.
Now combine these two. Windshield + Sunday night=pretty hostile.
Side panel window + Friday night=business almost as usual.
Of course the Caliente was the greater magnet. He lost windows all the time. I lost two--in the Nissan, and two later in the truck.
I won on numbers. He won the style points: calm, collected, a man with a plan. He'd call the mobile auto glass. The guys would come out with their truck-mounted vacuum, and take care of everything. He would write a check, and move on. Of course he was moonlighting, for this and other reasons, but remember: we had no car payment.
I won on numbers. He won the style points: calm, collected, a man with a plan. He'd call the mobile auto glass. The guys would come out with their truck-mounted vacuum, and take care of everything. He would write a check, and move on. Of course he was moonlighting, for this and other reasons, but remember: we had no car payment.
Suddenly, the Stakes Go Up
So, I did not have a clear win in the Crime Avoidance Derby until one day, my husband came in, seriously peeved. "There's some kind of crap on my car window," he fumed. "What the hell is that about?" He lost it. Under many instances of cheerful disregard, anger had been biding its time. So we went out to inspect.
So, I did not have a clear win in the Crime Avoidance Derby until one day, my husband came in, seriously peeved. "There's some kind of crap on my car window," he fumed. "What the hell is that about?" He lost it. Under many instances of cheerful disregard, anger had been biding its time. So we went out to inspect.
Yup, it was brown. Eventually, we determined, fortunately, it wasn't crap. It was chewed-up milk chocolate, like a Hershey bar, well soaked in spit, and then blurped all over the windshield.
I was relieved, but for some reason, this upset my husband even more. Since he once contemplated lighting a paper bag of dog-poop on the front porch of a man who refused to make good on several minimum-wage paychecks, maybe this makes sense to you. But chocolate is a kitchen mess to me. We washed his windshield and it was over. For me.
Back inside, he was still ranting. Finally he turned to me. "Why doesn't any of this stuff happen to you?" he demanded, arms waving. "Why does it happen to me?"
Well, there was the trophy aspect--which car would be more defaced when blurped with chocolate--you know. Maybe chocolate-blurping is also a competitive sport.
"You don't say hello to people," I finally said. "The neighbors watch out, or know who belongs, but you're not friendly."
"I say hello to them if they say hello to me," he snapped back. I shook my head.
"They don't go first," I told him. "They've been ground down too long by too much. They don't take risks like that. You're a prosperous white man, you can slam them with a word."
He sat down and thought about it. "Okay," he sighed. "I can do that."
Maybe this sounds prejudiced. I think of it more as a diplomatic issue.
Thanks for buthard.wordpress for the pictures of the Caliente. Their post is here.
Don't Bring Me Down
Every morning I drive by this,
right before I get to the mayonnaise factory,and make a hard right away:
Paid groundsman pick up burger wrappers
in the grass of the projects. The unwrappers watch.
Inside the garage of an automotive repair,
(still prospering) in a strip center across the street:
“Positively no tools LENT!!!”
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