i remember the days when survival meant not being able to afford things like pride. but it isn’t like you think. i am reminded by something that just happened with my downstairs neighbor.
i live in a bit of a ‘economically depressed’ neighborhood. i do it for many reasons, among which is the notion that it isn’t a bad thing to be where kindness is rare so as to both appreciate it as well as lend it when i have opening to do so.
sometimes, those openings arrive in odd ways.
my building has six units in it. i have yet to learn all the names of my neighbors. but the ones i know are vibrant, like they stepped out of someone’s storybook.
there’s sophie, who lives downstairs and to my right, in unit 1. she always has a smile, but there’s a hint of the streets left in her face. hard to explain. you’d have to have lived it to recognize it, i suppose. one of those ‘nice to see you, but don’t think it means i’m weak’ kind of things. quiet and rarely home.
there’s the couple who live in unit 4, also to my right. he’s kind of a red-neck and she works. he stays home with the kids, and she’s pregnant again. sometimes, i hear them fight and i wonder if they stay together because they have to, because they actually love one another, or just ‘for the kids’. the kids are the usual result of an environment where screaming is common and hugs are few.
i gave the woman a 21″ monitor a few months back. think i may have written about it here. in the last three months, i’ve had to call the police twice for her husband swearing to kill the entire complex across the street. the complex across the street is heavily hispanic and the music is often loud long after the sun has set. they seem to have worked it out, though. or perhaps that set-out last month did it. whatever the cause, the loud music seems to have stopped.
to my left, both upstairs and down are two families of somewhere between four and five children each. they’re both one bedroom apartments. i suspect these families are illegally present — they keep to themselves, only leave to work or buy groceries, and their children have hooded looks that you don’t usually see outside the ghettos.
then there’s my downstairs neighbor, peter.
the fellow who used to live there, tom, moved out about february, swearing like a sailor and saying he was going back to new york where people weren’t so weird. heh. oddly enough, peter is from new york as well. and he likes his music. loud.
he got himself a new bose acoustic wave stereo system. i remember seeing the box in the dumpster. and for the last month, most every night i’ve endured classic rock a la ‘Heart’ and ‘The Eagles’ and on occasion, shania twain (who peter seems quite taken with, judging from how often he just loops her songs.)
the first week i thought nothing of it. to be honest, i’d probably want to crank that bose up myself if it were sitting here, new and compelling in my living room. heh.
the second week i began noticing that ‘Heart’ usually played well after ten pm, and apparently, ‘Alone’ was meaningful only if it shook not just his walls, but mine as well.
the third week, i was on edge and beginning to get annoyed. i call the landlord who told me i should ‘go down and have a talk with him’. um. no. thank you. the last thing i need is an altercation. i reminded her that she’s the one with the authority, not me, and since our agreement stated she would make effort to insure a peaceful living environment, i expected her to send the fellow a letter. which, apparently, she did… as things have settled a bit except for the occasional weekend party, which doesn’t bother me a bit.
tonight, just about oh… 8:30pm, as i’m laying in bed reading a book, there’s a knock at my door. now, understand, the entire neighborhood is a gossip machine and apparently (as i’ve heard it here and there), they’ve all pretty well decided i’m an enigma wrapped in a mystery and served on a bed of lettuce. by turns, i’ve heard that i’m undercover, i’m some kind of traveling salesperson, i’m a nurse, or simply ‘never home’.
in truth, i’m always home. i just like my home life quiet. heh.
anyway… a knock. i ask ‘who is it?’ and hear ‘peter…. from downstairs.’
oh. great. he’s figured out who complained and there’s going to be an altercation anyway. ‘ah, hi peter…you’ve kind of caught me at a bad time. can i catch up with you tomorrow?’
a pause, and then, ‘well… it’s kind of important.’
oi.
‘ok. give me a moment. i’ll be right back.’ i’m grousing to myself now, because i’m in pj’s and i’m going to have to put on clothes to answer the door just to have an argument. for joy. t-shirt and slacks and then, open the door. the wave of alcohol fumes threatens to knock me on my ass. i manage not to make a face, ‘hi there. how can i help you?’
one of the things you remember from bad times is the trick of putting your foot along the door so if someone decides to try and rush it, you’ve got leverage. honestly, i didn’t think of that… until i looked down and noticed i’d done it quite naturally. i look out to him and wait for his reply… i notice he has some pretty bad lacerations on his head and he’s shiny with binging. i get this heavy feeling in my heart. suddenly, i know what’s coming and it isn’t an argument.
now here, i’m going to go off on a tangent for a moment because unless you’ve lived like this, you really don’t know what it takes to do what this guy is about to do. it’s pretty easy to panhandle on a street corner. it’s simple to walk into a restaurant and offer to do their ‘shit duty’ for a meal because you know they’re tired and don’t want to to it anyway.
it’s fairly simple to dig through dumpsters or sleep in dugouts or any of the other things you find yourself facing when you’re ‘down and out’. in fact, you don’t really think of it because it’s usually just part of ‘what it takes’ to get by and make sure the base of Maslow’s Pyramid is getting what it needs.
over time, if you’re really stuck in it, you even forget that it’s supposed to be shameful. you just kind of become detached because hey, it’s food and you’re hungry and so what if someone else sneers so long as you get fed?
but when you’re pulling up out of it, life is full of sharp edges and moments when who you were and who you’d like to be are having some pretty intense disagreements over what matters and what doesn’t. and that tiny little ember of hope that maybe you really can make it beyond gutters and dumpsters and dugouts and dirt and always being on the edge of oblivion has a weird way of putting you into situations that make you real uncomfortable, because now, you actually have to ask someone for help… and you already know most people just don’t care.
i mean, you get to see it every day when you’re on the street. the way people look anywhere but at you. the way they pretend you don’t exist. they way they drive by and look off in the other direction like there’s something there just so interesting… and it will hold their attention precisely long enough to pass you by, so they can feel safe.
you know what it is to hear ‘no’ and you know every lie in the book and you learn how to nod and look like you believe it.
so when you have to ask someone who isn’t where you are, and who doesn’t know what it’s like, it’s always hard. it’s admitting you’re still helpless that hurts the most. but it’s the act of having to admit it to someone you know doesn’t care that stings the worst. throwing yourself on the mercy of someone and hoping they actually have any mercy they’re willing to spare.
now i could tell you all the reasons why peter was lying to me. i could tell you that in his drunk breath and shiny, haven’t showered in days presence that i knew full well the things he was saying were completely untrue. and i knew as well as i know my own name that he wasn’t asking me for money to go catch that bus and visit a friend… he was asking me for money to stagger up to the CVS and get another 40 oz so he could stand to breathe.
and it made me feel like shit to tell him the simple truth — i never have cash on me these days. i do everything with my debit card. because he would never believe i was telling him the truth… he’d just believe that i was lying because… well, so many reasons because, really. but mostly to do with being so certain that no one cares that all you ever expect are lies.
then… i remembered… i did laundry last weekend. and i had some left-over change in the back room.
the other thing that is hard when you’re in that place is how you always want to try and do something to cover that you’re begging. i’m not real sure if it’s trying to give whatever payment you can manage – something of value when you feel you really have nothing of value to offer… or if it’s just covering the embarrassment that comes when you have the money in your hand and you just can’t help it… you want to get away and forget you had to beg to get it.
and you know what it looks like to the one who gave it to you… and you wish it could be different… but really all you want to do is get away because it hurts. for many reasons.
but you don’t. you stay there and ramble about whatever comes into your head until they end it… i guess it’s like the only politeness you have to give. or something.
peter wanted to talk about movies. he likes ‘my cousin vinny’ most of all. he’s laughing now, telling me how stupid he is for watching it as many times as he does. i’m trying not to wonder how it is he doesn’t see a bose stereo and a tv and dvds when he can’t afford his own 40oz (or goodness knows what else) is kind of backwards.
he tells me he got a letter from the landlady about his music. and he apologizes to me for it being so loud. i tell him it isn’t a big deal… but it would be nice if he could keep it to a low hum after ten pm.
he asks me what my favorite movie is, and i lie and give him the name of a movie that i think will help. he admits he’s never seen it. i recommend it again, with warmth. he looks at me oddly and says he’ll make sure to get it. and you know what? i think he will.
i tell him i need to get back to what i was doing, and he nods and starts to move off, ‘oh hey… i’ll make sure to get this back to you soon…’
i grin, ‘no, you won’t… because i won’t take it and besides, what’s a bit of leftover laundry change, anyway?’
he actually stops and turns around, and for a moment, i thought he was going to cry. ‘thank you.’ quietly. i avert my eyes so he won’t see that i see more than i should, ‘hey… no worries, peter. you have a good night, y’hear?’
i close the door and hear him exit through the screen door… coins jingling, i realize it was hard for him to wait to count it. i smile, though… several dollars in quarters. i won’t miss it. and maybe he won’t feel quite so bad that he had to ask. for that matter, maybe one day he’ll not have to anymore.
i do realize i’m an optimist, but i suppose the best any human can do is wish the best for another.