SURVEYING THE DAMAGE

We haven’t been getting our mail regularly, and it isn’t until a pine tree falls on our neighbor’s house that we learn why. He’s an old southern gentleman, a retiree; he stays pretty much to himself, tending his garden. Today though, with a limb stabbing into his roof and a few neighbors milling about admiring the damage, he asks, “You keeping an eye on Mrs. D across the street?”

My wife and I look at each other, as if to acknowledge a loaded question.

“She’s been stealing everyone’s mail,” he says.

We’re quite familiar with Mrs. D’s condition, her Alzheimer’s; she gets a little confused.

He tells us how she walked into Pete’s house the other day. Luckily, Pete’s biker tenant didn’t panic; he simply informed her that her house was across the street and waited for her to process the information, to form a logical conclusion as to her whereabouts.

Mrs. D continues to wander our neighborhood. Her 92-year-old husband comes over to the downed tree, surveys the damage, and apologizes for his wife’s illness. He’s a bit rough around the edges. He says, “Just kick her in the ass and send her on her way.”

Of course we know he doesn’t mean it. Afterall, it is he who sprung her from a brief stint in the nursing home, after having heart surgery himself.

I take a deep breath and listen to the numerous conversations; the smell of pine, for whatever reason, has me thinking about how fragile we truly are.

DETROIT DREAM CRUISE 2009

Review of Ocean of Pearls at Motor City Burning Press.

BRIDGES

A homeless man—not that I actually have the scoop on his situation (it’s much nicer than calling him a bum)—asks me, “Would you like to buy my Ugly Stick? I’ll sell it to you real cheap.”

“No thanks,” I reply. “I don’t have my wallet on me.”

I’ve heard about break-ins at the nearby marinas. As I continue along my journey, I imagine tackle-boxes and other expensive fishing equipment stolen by homeless bums leaving their shrink-wrapped lodging for shelter under the freeway. They do this while Michigan’s boaters revel in the morning sun, peeling off plastic, filling their tanks, and leaving the canals for a day of Coppertone, beer, and windburn.

But I get ahead of myself. As I walk my dog past the undercover cop reading the newspaper from a parked vehicle on our street, I remind myself that no matter how safe we try to be, we are all potential victims of crime. My wife refuses to take my favorite route under the bridges, so today, like most days, I walk alone. In no time at all I see the latest graffiti, the prophylactics, a few articles of clothing, the empty bottles of Robitussin, and one overturned plastic worm container.

This place has tremendous appeal. For the homeless searching for a place to rest. For teens experimenting with sex and drugs. For anglers dreaming of that record fish. I take this route as often as I can. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because it’s filled with hope and despair. I sit down. I let the man snap my picture. He smiles more than I. His teeth need work. So do mine. He hands my camera back.

COWBOY ETHICS

Before I went on vacation with a viral infection brewing in my body, a young African-American man in my morning classes along with his posse (for lack of a better word) discussed how they would rob a party store. Although somewhat rushed and loud—How else do you get a word in?—their talk seemed natural and unforced, as if they were planning what to pack for lunch that day.

But they weren’t arguing over making sandwiches or picking soda.

“Pop-pop-pop!” this youngster said. The others laughed hysterically.

I wasn’t amused. A week earlier he had told me how he robbed a Walgreen’s on the south side of Chicago and got away with it.

I reminded the group to quiet down, and as usual, the discussion grew to an excitable level. I threatened a seating chart, knowing damn well they would just shout across the room to one another. I also mentioned bad evaluations and tickets.

“So what,” one of them said, singling himself out, “what you gonna do, have us locked up? We’re already in prison.”

Running out of options, I made myself a mental note to get rid of the ringleader after my vacation … but not before administering him the TABE (Test of Adult Basic Education). You never know, his grade level equivalency may have improved meaning more federal dollars toward our educational program. No inmate left behind. At least on paper.

I CAN EXPLAIN

The evening my wife opened our front door and a drunken Puerto Rican woman asked to see me, I knew I had some more explaining to do. The day started out innocently enough, my wife toiling away at work while I stayed home hanging a drop ceiling in our soon-to-be finished basement. At around noonish, this Puerto Rican lady rang the doorbell.

“What do you want?” I had asked.

She smiled and pointed to Mrs. Anderson’s house, our bed-ridden arthritic neighbor. I heard three forced words in broken English, “Milk, bread, ride.” That’s when I thought I understood; Our Catholic Church (the one I hadn’t gone back to since the day I got married) arranged to have affordable caretakers looking after Mrs. Anderson—this must be one of them, a heavier set, freckled J Lo.

“Just a sec,” I said, before grabbing my car keys. I offered to drive her to Farmer Jacks, the nearest grocery store, but she insisted on the party store across the street. At first I waited in the car; then I decided a six pack of beer might help me get through my project. As I stepped into the store, the clerk was placing J Lo’s items in a bag—a fifth of cheap vodka and a pack of cigarettes.

I guess because of my purchase, she thought it would be fine to come back later in the day and see if I’d make another liquor run for her. “Husband here?” she asked my wife.

“No he’s not, nor do I expect him home any time soon.”

The Puerto Rican woman looked at my parked car in the driveway and staggered across our lawn. I set my beverage on the kitchen table, approached my wife and said, “I can explain.”

SOME THINGS SHOULDN'T MATTER

I don't know if it's because I work in a prison, but I've always been cautious around folks that are being extra extra nice to me. It doesn't matter one way or the other whether you get along with them, there's usually something behind their gestures. When I get a compliment at work my typical response is: "What do you want?" My next door neighbor, the guy who thought it would be okay to store his boat and trailer on my property (until my wife informed him otherwise), started waving to us every chance he could get--not the kind of wave that would draw you into a conversation along the fence line, instead, the kind of wave and forced smile that said "Good riddance to you." As proof of this, whenever we simultaneously walked out to our mailboxes and pulled down the latches, he'd act so engrossed in his junk mail that any acknowledgment would have been sacrilegious. Waving came mostly in the form of passing us on the street, his Toyota going one way, our Safari Mini-Van going the other way.

I've mentioned before how his live-in girlfriend sent us one of those obnoxious musical cards with a note of apology regarding his boat--the words written in her hand with his name scribbled off to the side and a transistor distorted “Sweet Home Alabama” assaulting our ears. You would've thought this meant returning to our old neighborly ways. I'll admit, the waving and friendly gesturing multiplied two-fold and even three-fold once a POD (portable on demand storage) box was delivered to his driveway. For about a month they hauled their miscellaneous items into that box. It wasn't long after that and they and their POD were gone.

Our neighbors across the street informed us that they had moved to Arizona. I truly wish them well and hope their new neighbors aren’t so territorial. Hey, it's been three months now and their house is still on the market. I know they wouldn't mind my using their hot tub because, after all, I did wave back from time to time.