I Speak To A Skeezer

I Speak

In the 7 years that I have lived here at Sacred Heart, there have been some older black fellow residents that I haven't spoken a word to.

These black residents, about maybe 10 years older than me, are very similar in appearance to one another, smoke the same brand of cigarettes, drink the same Olde English malt liquor and act the same as one another in divers circumstances.

Our "interactions" the past 7 years have involved me spotting them, sitting around the front of the building, usually because they felt that they "had to get out of that apartment and get some air."

Last night, I became bored enough in my apartment to want to do the same thing.

When I stepped outside the front entrance, there was Pops number 2, an older, kind of small black man who is always in a wheelchair type of device. Pops number 1 is another guy, who could be the twin brother of the first, from whom I can usually only distinguish by the electric wheelchairs that each one commutes in. One has a red one, the other a black one.

My relationship with these people has been one of walking past them, half looking their way enough to see the sour countenances they wore, as they looked at me, or rather at whatever bags or other items I might have in my hand, with derision, as I walked past.

Pops' eyes would shift to the bags in my hand, as if trying to guess what was in them, and a frown would form on his face. The same with the other "Pops" as well as a dozen or so others who gather around the front of the building.

I always assumed that they gathered there A: because they are gregarious by nature and thus can't stand being alone in their apartments, and B: so they can panhandle the people coming and going, asking a cigarette of everyone who must walk past them in order to come and go.

A Materialistic Culture

That afternoon, I had watched a little bit of Jerry Springer, after flipping through the channels, looking for something that might fill the gap between 25 Words or Less, which follows Jeopardy, and the Jeopardy that comes on at 6 in the evening. Judge Judy is good for about an hour of amusement, despite the guilt I usually feel over watching TV and not practicing the guitar, or doing anything else creative.

But, I flipped to the Jerry Springer Show and witnessed the circus act of black people confronting each other over infidelity, and then physically fighting each other, over each other.

More Syncronicity

I had randomly heard the song by the group The Police "We Are Spirits, In The Material World," after having woken up earlier, with Madonna singing "Material Girl" from the randomized playlist that I had passed out drunk to and left on all night (early morning) as I slept.

The common thread on the Springer show boiled down to; the people cheated on their partners because that partner wasn't "doing enough" for them. This always devolved to materialistic issues. "How could you do this to me; I do everything for you, I paid for your insurance on your car, I bought you this, I bought you that, I took you out to Red Lobster; I love you, baby!?" type of stuff.

Then the person would basically counter with the argument that that person B, whom they cheated on them with, buys them more material objects, and thus, loves them more. "He buys me clothes, he paid for my hair extensions, he paid to have my car fixed; you never did none of that, you don't love me near as much!" type of thing.

And so, this affirmed the model I had been forming of African Americans as being materialistic. A bunch of materialistic motherf***ers, to use their parlance.

Eyes On The Prize

And so, all eyes are on whatever bags I am carrying when I return to the building from a store run. Some of them focus upon the front pockets of my jeans, as if looking for the tell-tale shape of a pack of cigarettes.

"Is that beer, can I have one?" asked an older black lady who was hanging out one evening as I walked past. I'm not sure I had ever seen her before in my life, but there she was asking me for one out of the six pack of beer that I had bought, and already drank one of, myself. Gee, that would leave me 4...

I remember how mad I had become. I fumed over that the whole evening, I recall. Especially as I swilled down more and more beer. The nerve of her! I wished I had thought of something even more biting than the sarcastic: "Sorry, I'm not going around handing out free beer today," that I had said something like.

But, why should that lady have such power over me as to be able to anger me the whole evening, just by asking a simple question.

Of course she thinks "just like" Freddie, and Pops 1, and Pops 2, and Lionel. I owed her the reparation of at least one of my beers.

Freddie is the guy who left greasy hand prints on the wall inside my apartment, shortly after I had moved in. I had bagged up my trash to take to the dumpster, leaving my door propped open for ventilation as I left. On the way to the dumpster, I passed Freddie, who was going in the building, as I was coming out. He had been with a couple other guys, working under the hood of a car that sat in the parking lot. He might have been running to his apartment to take a leek, or to grab another Olde English from his fridge.

I tossed my trash in the dumpster and then went back to my place. Once inside, I immediately noticed a couple of black greasy hand prints on my freshly painted white walls, where someone had stamped their hands and then dragged them downward. That had been my introduction to Freddie, a couple weeks after I had moved into Sacred Heart.

Lionel, I met soon afterwards, when I was sitting in the computer room. I had gone online to check the price of something off the Radio Shack website. Finding the item (it might have been headphones) that I was looking for, and learning that they would be open another hour or so, I dug whatever cash I had out of my pocket to see if I had enough, after factoring the tax in, to get the thing.

I had just about enough, I calculated.

Just then, Lionel, whom I had seen but never talked to, and another guy appeared and started to walk past the computer room. Seeing the money in my hands that I was counting; Lionell held up a finger for his friend to wait a minute, then came in the room and came up to me and said: "Give me a couple bucks."

I started to tell him that I was going to need all the money I had to go buy something at Radio Shack.

"Man, I need a beer!" he almost yelled, in a tone of voice that implied that that was more important than anything I might have wanted the money for. His friend in the hallway became impatient and said something like: "C'mon Lionel!"

To which the latter said: "Wait a minute; I'm trying to get this asshole to give me a couple bucks, so I can get a beer!"

"Oh, I'm an asshole because I don't give away money for free?" I said. "Ask one of your friends for money."

"I don't have any friends," said Lionel, then appended the threat of: "We'll see how many friends I have as soon as you step outside!" which didn't make much sense, other than to indicate that Lionell was the actual asshole.

The Origins Of Harold's Name

Then, the list goes on, to include Jackie, who lives two doors down from me, and whom I haven't spoken to since shortly after she moved in the building about a year after I did, having taken over the apartment vacated by a guy named Harold, who had reportedly gotten caught transporting a large amount of heroin in someone's car and had gotten something like 5 years in prison.

I named Harold, my cat, sort of after him; thinking: one Harold out (of the building) one Harold in...maintaining the delicate balance of Harolds around here, type of thing.

That, and the fact that I had found the copy of the Bagavad Gita that had a cover that matched the color of the cat's fir about an hour before being given Harold by a neighbor who had rescued him from the parking lot. Hare Krishna, I derived "Harry" from, and then amended it to the more formal "Harold," after learning about the guy 2 doors down going away for 5 years.

A Somewhat Conversation

So, more to the point. Yesterday, I decided to talk to Pops, who sat in his wheelchair in his regular spot near the front door, where he stations himself, ready to offer assistance anyone trying to get in and out, especially if their hands are occupied with a bicycle or bags of groceries, or other things, which he will stare at contemptuously, if I'm the one holding them. 

He will beep the door open using his key card, so the person pushing the bike and holding the bags won't have to fetch their own card from their pocket. This is always followed by a request for a cigarette or a dollar, as if this is the price for his service. No such thing as random kindness in their materialistic world, I guess.

But, I spoke to him about my having gotten bored and needing to step outside for a few minutes (see, I'm just like you, Pops, white people can get bored and lonely too...). 

This led to a somewhat conversation, where I noticed that everything I said, he was quick to refute, or to correct me upon. A police SUV turned off of Canal Street and started to ride by the building. Right before reaching the front landing area, its spotlights came on and illuminated us.

"I guess they're checking our faces, looking for someone," I said.

"They ain't looking for no one; they're checking on the school; every night they ride by that school; that's part of their job, to check the school. You don't know what you're talking about!" snapped Pops (2).

Well, excuse me. 

I guess, since he spends so much time sitting there by the door, he thinks he has become an expert, I thought.

On every other subject that came up, he apparently knew better than me, also. He mentioned that he wanted to move out of Sacred Heart, despite the fact that it is in a "historical" neighborhood.

"Yeah, Louis Armstrong got married in that church right there, in 1964, I think it was to Lucy, his first wife," I said, referring to said history.

"I'm talking about in the 1700's, history!" barked Pops, in his "you don't know what you're talking about" tone again. 

I'm not saying that talking to Pops drove me to do so, but I was soon en-route to the Shell to get some beer.

Returning from there, I saw that there were 2 police SUV's parked out front and I walked past a few officers once I entered the lobby (having opened the door myself to save being panhandled for a dollar or a cigarette) who were in the process of leading a 280 pound black lady in a moo moo dress and handcuffed, towards the exit. I guess they had rode by shining their spotlight, looking for someone, and not just doing a routine check of the school after all, I thought. I wonder if it had dawned upon Pops that he hadn't known what he was talking about with his school checking theory...

But, as unproductive as it might have seemed to have broken a 6 year silence and spoken to Pops, I realized, once I got back to my apartment and eventually grabbed my guitar; I felt a lot less "oppressed" by the sense of being surrounded by a bunch of hostile fellow residents. I had humanized Pops, I guess.

I have always felt inhibited in totally opening up and singing at the top of my lungs by the sense of resistance that comes from the fact that, while I proclaim to not give a crap about what any of the other people here think, it goes against the grain of music being an expression of love (and all that) and "How can we sing king alpha's song in a strange land?" type of sentiments.

They can continue to hate me all they want, but I have, at least, done my part (or started to do it) and so can breath (and sing) easier. I am afraid that it might be my karma to learn to love these African Americans and not feel superior to them; no matter how ignorant they might be... like that is my mission, should I choose to accept it, type of thing. It's would be a challenge, but maybe that is the one incumbent upon me.

"You Know Any Santana, Man?"

I still can't see myself taking my guitar down to the recreation room and taking requests for Motown songs; but, if that is the next step in my journey I guess the sooner I come to grips with it, the better...

I used to leave here to go to the Quarter to make money and then come back with the attitude of "Don't ask me for shit; so what if I just made almost 200 bucks in a little over 3 hours!"

I'm starting to question that attitude. Maybe a little generosity would go a long way; like slipping the beggars a couple bucks every night, upon returning. 

I do currently make a habit of buying a little snack, every time I go to the store, for the ladies who work at the security desk in the front lobby, ostensibly for buzzing me in the front door; but mostly out of respect for the fact that they are working. 

And, they are just as black as the bums. Actually the one who is a Sargent and above the others is rather light skinned. I'm not going to go there, though (saying that that's why she is above them; by virtue of having some white in her bloodline somewhere).

The irony is that, because they are working, they are getting a paycheck and can afford their own Zebra Cakes, though those are the ones I "reward" because they work, like I do.

The bums out front kind of need the money more. If "need" is the right word. I'm still not there yet, but I have made an inroad, at least, by speaking to one of them; extending an olive branch maybe. 

I just wish I lived in a building full of Latinos; I would sing my heart out for them and hope that they heard me; rather than being in the market for sound dampening materials, as I have been, and wanting to stuff a closet full of pillows to do my singing in...because my music is none of their business, type of thing..this has produced a lot of wimpy sounding vocal recordings; of a man feeling oppressed by the tacit hostility of his neighbors.

Freddie's hand and finger prints are still visible on my wall..

I should have gone back out, after he had returned to the group working on the car, holding my phone to my ear and saying loudly: "Yes, could you please send a fingerprint technician out here to 3222 Canal Street, officer? Thanks."

I mean how foolish is it to vandalize someone's apartment by leaving your palm and finger prints on his wall? What are the odds that they don't have Freddie's prints on file down at Central Booking?