Tag: Neighborhood

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.

That was a 4.7 bar

General

“Was going to ask if you’d want to get a drink in your neighborhood after.

“I’ll be done at 3. No is always okay.

“Just thought I’d ask since I’m out here.”

It was my best friend, Tracy, texting me. I did want to hang out with her. Been kinda lonely ’round here lately. But…

I replied, “I would like to get a drink but I don’t know where.”

Her response came back almost immediately. “Is the bar across the street not good?”

Dad has been walking to the bar across the street pretty much daily while he’s been here. I’ve been in there exactly twice when I first moved in to this neighborhood and, no offense to dad, it was not my cup of tea. Run down, open, no dark corner to hide in, noisy. I just sent back the emoji that’s described as “grimacing face” which I interpret to mean anxious avoidance.

I looked up “bars near me” on Google. The one across the street had a 3.5 star rating, which seemed high compared to the last time I’d been in there, which to be fair was 4-5 years ago. I poked around and found one between where I lived and Tracy’s appointment and found one that was rated 4.7 stars, and sent her the link. We agreed to meet there after 3.

Part of my depression kept telling me it did not want to leave the house. I mostly ignored that part of me. I wanted to see my bestie.

We both pulled in to the parking lot at the same time, her from one side, me from the other. We hugged and went inside. It did not seem too bad; had a nice covered area, despite each table having a coffee can half-filled with cigarette butts. Inside was clean, about half-full of patrons. Music a bit loud for conversation — or maybe I’m getting old. We got drinks; me a black ale, her the prickly pear cider they had on tap, she ordered a BLT, we went outside.

It was good to see her. I felt a little of the stress and despair leave my body. We caught each other up on our individual drama, commiserated with each other, talked a little bit about politics. She complained about work, I complained about looking for work. It was good. We’ve known each other for decades. The familiarity is a comfort.

We were on our second round of drinks, Tracy’s BLT half gone, when she went inside to get a to-go box for the fries and half-sandwich. While she was gone, the bartender, a thin tough-looking woman my age or older, came out to talk to one of the other patrons on the patio. I didn’t pay much mind; she said something about the man’s wife that I didn’t register, turned to walk back inside, and the guy yelled back at her, angry and defensive, defending his wife about… something. The bartender turned on her heel and came back outside, leaning over him, not backing down, finger wagging in his face.

A crowd quickly formed. Tracy and I took long sips of our drinks, gave each other significant looks.

I held up my beer. “Think I can get a to-go cup for this?” She laughed.

We weren’t able to finish our drinks. It was clear we both wanted to escape before things escalated. As we walked out to the parking lot together, Tracy turned to me.

“I’m sorry you live in the ghetto, dude.”

Wonder if the 3.5 bar would have been better? At least they would have known my dad.