Two

 

                                                                            Two

 

    So, I live in El Barrio.

    The Brown people and me.

Actually, there are other White people. The Fringe Folks. The screwed, blued, and tattooed.

They dress strange and you wonder where the hell it is they work. In my old life I used to think I

was better off than these people. Not anymore. Now they are my peers. I run into them at the

laundromat next door or in the courtyard of my complex. They are okay, but one of the things I

can’t get used to is the trash that’s everywhere. I don’t understand why all the streets are littered

with every object imaginable: Used condoms, syringes, cereal boxes, newspapers. And dog crap.

I have to watch where I’m walking so I don’t step in dog crap. I do like my neighbors. It’s almost a sin

in their religion to get divorced. The roles are still very traditional. Dad works and Mom raises the kids

 and keeps house. I don’t get it when white people say they are taking our jobs. What jobs? Day labor?

 Bussing tables and washing dishes? Laying tar roofs?

     I know there are Brown people who own businesses and who are in politics and who are rich.

But not around me.

                                                                      #

     AMERIKKA!

     The above is written in mustard on the inside of a bus shelter and as I’m reading it a homeless

 man staggers by singing a Christmas carol. You would think if you wanted your message to last

you would write with something other than mustard. Oh well, I guess you use what you have.

     I’ve been doing a lot of walking the last year. Sometimes late at night I walk by the area near

my complex where the prostitutes are.

     The prostitutes near me are in pretty bad shape. They are older. They look like they’ve been

beat up many times. They look like the homeless women you see sometimes sitting on the

sidewalk with a dirty child and a sign in their laps.

     The prostitutes near me stand on the corner and sway and mumble to themselves. The tricks

they turn are usually in doorways or behind parked cars. Their pimps are young Brown men. You

can see them on the other side of the street with their hands deep in the pockets of their football

parkas.

     There is a place near this area that I think is a home for the prostitutes. Either that or a drug

 house. It’s basically a garage that’s been converted. I’ve seen people go up and knock on the

door. A woman’s voice answers, and the conversation is done through the mail slot. When I walk

by late at night it sounds like there are many people inside. There is always music playing so you

can’t really tell what is going on. The police must know about this place. My guess is that this

place is no big deal to them. Either that or somebody is paying somebody off.

     Not like that ever happens.

     The New Rich Kids are moving in, and I can’t figure out why.

     I personally know people who come from families with millions. I really do. And the weird

thing is they aren’t pretentious at all. When they are hanging out with the friends of friends I

know them through they adapt to their surroundings and will kick off their shoes and sit down on

the floor right next to the cat box. The problem with the New Rich Kids is that they don’t adapt.

They stand out. They drive around the neighborhood in their convertibles with the top down

talking on their cell phones oblivious to the fact that no one wants them here. I guess their

motive is to buy low and sell high.

     There is also a lot of building going on here. Live/Workspaces are all the rage. Old

warehouses are being converted for habitation. More cement. I would like to see someone build

another park around here because there is only one that I know of, and that park is totally lame.

     The park where I live is divided into sections. The outside perimeter where the cement pic-nic

tables and metal trash cans are is where the homeless people sit or camp out. There is an asphalt

trail that weaves its way through them where the dogwalkers from the nearby animal shelter do

their thing.

     I was in training to be a dogwalker, but it didn’t last long. The way of introducing volunteers

into their program was just like an animal behavior modification program. You had to keep

coming back every week for a short amount of time to learn more about the system. It was way

too controlling for me. I was able to interact with the dogs after my first session and could handle

even the wild ones on a leash.

     The facility itself is quite impressive, in fact it’s well known for the high quality of care the

animals receive. The dogs are kept in a neighboring kennel and get assigned a number that

equals the level of goodness or ease they have interacting with people. The lower the number the

more well behaved they are. If I was a dog there, I would be a six, somewhat in the middle, not

unruly, but not submissive either.

     The room’s where the animals are kept are nicer than some apartments I’ve been in. They

have furniture and TVs. The cat’s TVs show videos of birds and squirrels. The dog’s TVs show

videos of families and other dogs.

     On my last day there I was visiting with the dogs, going into their rooms and petting and

taking to them. There was a two-year-old Cocker Spaniel and we bonded instantly. It was true

love, and it broke my heart. I wanted to carry him to the front desk, fill out the papers, and take

him home. But I can’t have a dog where I live. So, I just spent as much time with him as I could.

When I had to go on my walk, I let him lick my face.

     About fifteen minutes later a very nice yellow woman adopted the Cocker Spaniel. I smiled at

the people I was working with and made small talk with them as we walked the dogs around the

 homeless people in the park. When my shift was over, I signed out, put my volunteer apron in

 the laundry basket and knew I would not be back.

     The main section of the park is a soccer field surrounded by a high chain link fence. The field

is torn and muddy. The Brown people play soccer there. It’s empty during the week except for

the occasional pick-up game with neighborhood folks wearing street clothes. On Saturday the

little league teams play there and on Sunday after church the men play. Some spectators stand

outside the fence drinking beer and listening to loud music from their car stereos. Sometimes

they set up a small grill in the parking lot and barbeque.

     You know what I’d like to see on that field? A soccer game with the homeless people. I’m

 sure I’d have to be the one to put the wheels in motion. I’d have to take the day off from work,

 but I think it would be worth it. I’d wear some sporty clothes, maybe even buy a whistle and

 wear it around my neck and approach each homeless person and convince them to play. We

 would push their shopping carts on to the field and put them along the sidelines so they could

 keep an eye on their stuff, and then divide into two teams. It might be too much for them to run

 the entire field. We could always play using half of the field. It would be fun for them. Exercise

 is always good. I know they get a lot of exercise with all the walking they do, but still, they

 might like the feeling of competition. It might be hard to console the losers. Hopefully there

 would be graceful winners. Afterwards I would go to the grocery store across the street and buy

 a gallon of orange juice and some paper cups while they cooled down. I would even buy some

 of the chocolate chip cookies they make in the bakery in the grocery store. I could give each of

 them a cookie and some orange juice. I could even have some certificates printed for them like

 the ones you get at work for doing something the boss wants to be recognized for recognizing

 you for. The only thing is they really wouldn’t have any use for a certificate if achievement. It’s

 not like they have anywhere they could display them.