Category: Community

It’s not just the grill

Community

Community Part 2

I came home from a walk last week and dad asked me “Do you want a grill?”

I paused because that request came out of the blue. A complete non-sequitur. I had walked past him sitting on the couch, and had gone into the kitchen to get something to drink. I poked my head out of the kitchen and looked at him. Because of the angle and because his neck doesn’t turn as far as it used to (he’s got steel rods in there now), he couldn’t see me but I could see him.

“Yes?” I said. Because why not. But… “Why? How?” Was he offering to buy me one? Did he miss grilling food?

Close up of an open barbecue grill over orange-hot and black coals.
This could be us but you’re chillin’

“Well, Glasses has one and she’s trying to clear off some space on her patio. I was talking to her and she asked us if we want it.”

Oh, that made more sense. Dad’s been talking to my neighbor, who I call Glasses pseudonymously. “Sure,” I said. “That’d be great!” If I had a grill I would definitely sometimes maybe grill things.

But my happiness at getting a grill for my patio was overshadowed by my sudden worry for my neighbor. “Hey dad,” I asked, “is she still getting evicted? What’s going on with that? Is she OK?” Maybe if dad is talking to her, some of that has come up.

He grunted in embarassment. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, voice low. “I didn’t ask. I didn’t think it was my place.”

Well that’s bullshit. That was my immediate thought. If she’s having trouble, and she feels isolated, that makes it worse. We should at least let her know… I don’t know. That we know, and it’s OK. But we don’t talk about this stuff. We don’t share it. We don’t ask after each other. It’s considered icky, taboo, impolite.

We don’t have community with one another. Our employers tell us not to talk about our salary, claiming it’s just bad karma, when in point of fact everyone in America, at a Federal level, has the right to discuss our salary with our coworkers, and there are penalties for employers who try to make policy against it. Talking about money feels shameful. They have made being poor, facing eviction, and not being able to pay our bills all off-limits for public conversation. They have trained us away from building any kind of common ground with everyone else in our circumstances. They have denied us community.

I’ve never been rich so I can’t be certain of this, but I bet the rich don’t feel the same social pressure not to talk about money, perhaps because they have so so so very much of it, and sharing stories about it helps them loot even more of it from the working class.

I resolved the next time I saw my neighbor to thank her for it, and ask her if she’s OK. It’s a start, right? Gotta build community somehow. Gotta start somewhere.

Community Tales

Community

Part 1

A couple of weeks ago, I got up one morning, went dowstairs to get some coffee and wake up. Dad, since he’s been staying here, normally gets up before me (at least he did before I started working again) and makes a pot of coffee. Dad was sitting at the desk where we put his iMac and he was scrolling through Yahoo! news or Facebook or something.

A cherry turnover on a plate next to a coffee mug in the shape of BB-8 from Star Wars. Both are sitting on a computer desk. In the background on the desk are a pair of computer speakers, the arms for a computer monitor, a USB hub with cables coming out of it, and a stack of Oregon Megabucks lottery tickets.
A perfectly normal breakfast: cherry turnover and coffee in the shape of BB-8.

I made my coffee drink. I take my 20 oz. BB-8 coffee mug and add about 2 ounces of half-and-half, 2 ounces of chai concentrate, and two tablespoons of chocolate syrup then fill the rest of it with brewed coffee. I call it, “coffee”. Then I walked over to where dad was sitting and scrolling. Took a look outside, saw grey but no rain.

“Another gray day,” I said.

“Yeah, where’s our sun at?” dad said. He shifted in his seat a bit. “Had to go out front for a smoke.” My apartment, a townhouse, has a back patio where he normally goes to smoke, but if it’s raining, he goes out front because the overhang usually protects him from the rain better.

“Oh? But it’s not raining.”

“I just wanted to see if Glasses [nicknamed for her privacy] was out there.” Dad is, despite his age, an incorrigible flirt, and he’s been talking to the woman who lives next door. Just small talk, I’m sure, but he’s more extroverted than I am, so he likes talking to people, especially women. He made a sound halfway between a grunt and a chuckle that indicated to me, embarassment. “She’s got an eviction notice on her door.”

My stomach sank. I’ve been there. I’ve had to deal with no money and rising debts. I was kinda going through that now, actually; if it wasn’t for dad’s help, I would be a month or two behind in rent myself. This story is before I landed my job, when I was still hunting. My empathy for my neighbor kicked in, hard. I carefully opened my front door, saw no one was out there, cracked open the screen, looked to my right. Sure enough, a large legal paper was taped to her door.

She’s a single mom, with a teenage-ish daughter who may or may not work. I think Glasses works, not sure. I am also well aware that just having a job does not mean someone can pay the bills, especially the rent. I went back inside.

“That sucks,” I said. Dad grunted again in agreement. I wondered what he was thinking. I didn’t think he would be inclined to help her out, though he certainly could if he wanted to. I wouldn’t judge. He’s been helping me and I appreciate it immensely. I’m also quite aware that when I was much younger, he would have probably been against providing me with any kind of financial help. But people change over the years.

When I was a kid, for various reasons related to my probable neurodivergence as well as incuriosity about the world and general distaste for doing irrational things like labor, I did not like or want to work at all. Now, while I still hate doing irrational things for irrational people, I also know that I need to do a certain amount of it so I can continue to live indoors and eat food I didn’t pick out of the trash. Fucking capitalism. And maybe dad feels better about helping me when he knows I’m doing my best to helpl myself?

Glasses, though. Regardless of her circumstances, I wouldn’t wish the anxiety of possible eviction on anyone. If the sheriffs’ deputies come, I pledged to stand in their way.