Moonbeam McQueen

This post’s theme song is brought to you by Eric Burdon and the Animals.

We went to the video store the other night, and before we even rounded our block, the surrealism started. Here’s a sampling:

A little girl (probably about eight years old) on a pink bicycle. She was wearing a jeans skirt, a pink t-shirt, and her head was completely shaved. Lice maybe?

A hookeress (Doesn’t “hooker” sound kind of masculine? I think a fisherman should be called a hooker, a gardener should be called a “ho,” and a hooker should be called something else. Something a little more feminine like, I dunno, “Queen of the Corner,” “Kink Kitten,” or “Sex Sweetie” maybe. Of course, around here, they just call them “crack whores.”)

A big old guy on a little old bike.

A drugged out, tattooed thugster, balder than even the little girl, with prison tears inked onto his face and a polyester snap-down shirt with “New York” cheerily emblazoned down the front.

A one-armed man in a motorized wheelchair, who’d gotten his wheels stuck while trying to maneuver a curb.

I stopped the car, and Tom got out to help the wheelchair guy. It was like trying to get a Mack Truck out of a snow drift, and the gentleman had to back up and try to pull forward several times before Tom could get him unstuck. Finally, he succeeded, and the guy thanked him and went on his way.

As Tom was getting back into the car, the tattooed prison guy walked up and asked if he could use his cell phone, as he needed to call his girlfriend to pick him up. Tom dialed, and as the guy realized he’d given him the wrong number, we realized that he was completely squoofed– his eyes were half-closed and he looked as though he could be quite dangerous, if he didn’t pass out first. He commandeered the phone, dialed another number and successfully reached his lady love. Keep in mind that we were still parked in the street, waiting for him to finish his business.

“Hey baby, where you at?” He began telling Lady Love where to pick him up, and gave her a fashion update on what he was wearing so she’d recognize him. He described the shirt, which he said someone had given to him.”I don’ know, I think it’s pretty fresh.” He asked us to confirm this, and Tom and I assured him that it was indeed “fresh,” although it was stained and appeared quite used.

He then started rambling about how much he loved her, repeated where she could find him about three times, and seemed to just be hanging on the phone for the hell of it. As a hint, I said, “C’mon Tom, we really need to go,” which made the guy seem to want to stay on the phone longer. He began having a stare-down with Tom while he continued to talk. I was developing a serious dislike for this guy. I was also getting the heebie jeebies. The cold hatred in his gaze made me realize that he’d categorized us somewhere between rodents and roaches on the life order scale.

“Okay, baby, you can tell me about the nigger when you pick me up,” he slurred and purred. It was all so romantic.

My dislike was turning to hatred. Tom held out his hand to take the phone and the guy gave him a long, leering eat-dookie look. He told his girl how much he loved her, then kissed the receiver about twelve times, more in defiance of Tom than out of any real affection for his woman (yes, Tom did disinfect the phone when we got home). He hung up, then had the audacity to ask Tom for a cigarette. I gave him one (no, I still haven’t quit), partly because I have this thing about helping people who ask for stuff, and partly because I figured it would bring him one step closer to God or Satan or whomever he was going to spend eternity with.

We left our charming little buddy, and ran our errand. On the way back, we passed more neighborhood thugs, shirtless guys attempting to look menacing while they showed off their muscles, scars and tats. There was a fat woman spread like butter on a bagel on a tiny chair she’d pulled onto the sidewalk, assorted wheelchair riders, teen parents, and so many other delightfully colorful characters that by the time we got home, I just wanted to climb up on the roof and jump off.

Before we got out of the car, Tom and I talked for a minute about the sad and desperate people in this neighborhood, and I told Tom that it seemed a sin to allow things to get to this point in our society. Most of these people used to have factory jobs, but the factories are all closing, and opportunity is scarce for second and third generation blue collar workers. Our neighborhood’s become desperate and sick, and on nights like these, you can almost feel the poison in the air. Everyone’s hurting, no one can think clearly, and most are living on the lowest rung of the existence ladder.

Two weeks ago, the police barricaded our street and hauled a guy off for threatening to kill a couple who lives several houses from ours. Although the woman part of the couple was actually threatening to kill him as well, he was at a disadvantage because he was drunk and in public.

A group of young-enough-to-be-my-daughter hookers has recently infested the bar at the end of our street, and we just found out that there’s a little abandoned garage down the alley that’s been converted into a nifty crack cavern. See? That’s how desperate people are around here– they can no longer afford to rent crack houses and have downgraded to crack garages. There are crack hos kink kittens riding around on bikes in this hood, predatory guys lurking in doorways in hopes of pimping little girls, and increasingly, the popo seem to be on our street for some reason or another.

As we sat there in the car, Tom was commiserating with the poor folks in the hood, and I often do too, but you know, on days like this, I just want to run. No matter how heartbroken I am for them, or how much I empathize, the bottom line is that it’s all about survival around here, and I’m sure that there are more than a few of these neighbors who’d rip our hearts out for a cigarette or a little bit of pocket change. I just want to survive somewhere else.

Yesterday, I was chatting with a lifelong local about this incident and she was mortified that we’d offered help to our neighbors.

“It could have been a setup,” she told me. “You have to remember that around here, they’re always watching you. You have to be on your guard all the time.”

I suddenly imagined the guy we helped pulling an AK-47 from the side pocket of his wheelchair. I asked, “You mean, the wheelchair guy could have been part of the set up?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “It happens all the time.”

“We have got to move,” I told her. “I don’t want to live someplace where we have to be so on guard that we have to drive past people who need help.” I never want to feel that jaded about the world.

Later, Tom and I were standing in our tiny garden, and he was talking about additions and improvements we could make to it. “Next year, the irises are going to look amazing,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s a shame that we’ll have moved before we can see them,” I answered, in my combo attitude of positive and negative thinking. I don’t want to plan for the future here, but as Tom sees it, we still need to make the present as comfortable as possible. I don’t want to be comfortable here. I don’t want to get used to this environment.

Yes, I know, if I’m not part of the solution, I’m part of the problem. Yes, I know, there are wonderful places, people and things that make up other areas of this town. Blahbiddy blah blah blah. There are luxury hotels near Darfur too, but I wouldn’t want to stay in one of them.

I’ll soon adjust my attitude, and will once again put on my Pie in the Sky ™ hat. But for now, once again, I’ve let the neighborhood get to me. Thank goodness we now have our intimidating badass dog, Theo the WonderPup® to guard and protect us against evil.

Sorry for the rant. I’m just venting. Again. Happier posts to come.