Beware

Flyers reading “Beware” appeared in the neighborhood, on lamp posts, electrical boxes, and the bulletin board by the local grocer. They featured a candid photo, quite ugly, of a grizzled old man with a wiry beard. You could tell from his expression he maintained a nasty demeanor. They were difficult to avoid, their ugliness drawing you in, and the detailed story of the three goats he brought with him offering a bizarre peek into the neighborhood. 

He came into the grocer just before closing and grabbed a few bags of birdseed. The cashier recognized him from the flyers, but she did not know what she should do: call the police? Refuse to sell him the birdseed? She looked at the clock and saw the end of her shift and the five minute walk up the street to her home was mere minutes away. She quickly rang up the goods and avoided conversation. The wanted man carried the birdseed out the door and disappeared around the corner.

No. 064

Currents

Currents of electricity run beneath my skin. Seated for too long, the energy has nowhere to go, building towards an inevitable catharsis. In the corner of my eye, the shadow of a tree branch dances, the leaves painting with light against the barren stucco wall. I imagine myself joining the tree, and on the wall beside it appears my own shadow dancing with the rhythm of the wind.

No. 063

Envelope

Pride had been standing in his way for too long. Spencer grabbed a pen and began to draft a letter to his father. When he left for L.A., he had received encouragement and nothing else. His masculine nature allowed him the confidence in independence to leave for a new city where he knew no one, and a new career without anybody to lift him. His father hoped the boy would learn this hubris and come to understand his place in the world was apprenticing with his father, taking the business deep into the 21st century. Spencer detailed the terms for a proposed loan, enough to get him through these difficult months. Finishing it, folding it, fitting it into an envelope, he stared at the blank space, forgetting the address to put on the front.

No. 062

Circling

Late night surrounds the neighborhood and the cars pack the curb. Wooden gates with hand-made “Do Not Block” signage warn circling drivers. Stretches of red paint mock me. The warning’s heeded.

Second block, the street cleaners anticipate empty stretches of road. They’ve made jokes about the difficulty of the parking signs. Bumper to bumper the neighbors stake their claim and leave no hollows for night owls.

A side street offers sprinklers in the night, left to coat cars in staining cries. A Colorado stretches between two spots, leaving no room on either end for someone else. 

Back to the front and no cars have moved. The curb before my living room signals to me a red temptation. Instead, I keep passing packed curbs, resisting convenience in the face of financial cost.

No. 061

Breaking In

Home after midnight. Forgot the keys. Took the train to get drunk on two martinis. Ring the door bell and hear the dog bark. Walk around to the bathroom window. Jeans fit too tight, can’t get leverage to lift onto the sill. Loop around to the living room, which sits sunken to the sidewalk. Pry off the window screen, drop it, bend the frame. Window’s already high up as it can go. Slip my left leg through, bend at the hips, slip my head underneath and scrape my back against the wood, trip over the plants. Unlock the door. Fix the screen. Shower. Sleep. Dream of all the ways the neighbors watched this ritual of humiliation.

No. 060

A Few Laughs

At the comedy show a guy I knew in college sat next to me. An odd bit of serendipity, we caught up in the way false acquaintances in forced proximity do: grad school, interrupted thesis films, teaching for him; job, job, job for me; so-and-so left L.A.; someone else is at the agency; her ex is writing for an Emmy-winning comedian. Then, the man sitting in front of us turned around to introduce himself. He, too, had gone to the same college and remembered the guy beside me. There was a brief moment he said he remembered me, or at least seeing me once, though I couldn’t discern whether this was out of politeness or genuine remembrance. In the succeeding ten years I aged and now look quite unlike I did as a student. His name and likeness inspired zero memories, so it must have been the former.

No. 059

Fern 2

Halfway through the season spring cleaning inspired the owner of the dying fern. By the time I walked past it again two days later, the plant had been removed, put in an organic waste bin. Only a single, weathered frond lay in its former place, the sole reminder of what had been. I felt to blame, a little bit, as if by voicing its observation I had written its demise.

No. 058

Stingray

I saw the crowd before I saw him. A group of men and women in trendy clothes crowded around a ‘69 Corvette Stingray. Flash bulbs illuminated. Groupies hung about, watching, using their phones. Then I saw his face, and recognized the man behind the wheel: someone I’d seen before, a name I didn’t remember. I wondered if the car had been borrowed for the photo shoot, or if he had recently purchased. It certainly had never been in the neighborhood before.

No. 057

Fern

On a narrow balcony, a sallow fern grew out of a plastic pot. The balcony had no door; instead, it ran along the side of a building, accessible by two windows. From the outside, it looked like they opened inward and not very far. I imagined the renter, or the owner, purchasing the fern, young and verdant, placing it on the balcony to make the building inviting. I imagined, too, the accumulated weight of passing days that obscured the needs of the plant. Upon initial recognition, they would have tried watering it, bringing it back to life. Too far gone—instead, the fern was left forlorn in the shade to wilt and die. 

No. 056

Greetings

Beside the Lutheran church, there was a boarding house in the old style. Rooms for rent by the week, month, year. I assumed they ate scheduled meals and commiserated in the evenings. As I stood across the street, a man exited the building, shouting expletives. I continued on my walk. Moments later, the same man came speeding down the road, shouting through his open windows. A bad day. As the car receded into the distance, I imagined him getting into an accident, what with the lack of focus and anger coursing in his veins.

No. 055

Facade

The scaffolding had fallen apart, either from the shoddy workmanship, or from the gusts of wind overnight. Walking past it the morning after the storm, it was unclear how long it had been in place. The wooden planks sat askew and looked weather-worn. The stone facade of the building had crumbled away, revealing the skeletal structure. The wooden staircase within, now exposed to the elements, began rotting. At street level the ceramic mailbox that always stood in greeting now lay crumbled in pieces.

No. 054

Shoplifter

While inspecting a bundle of brussels sprouts, I heard a man raise his voice behind me. Whipping my head around, I saw the source: a man around my age, possibly younger, clutching at his backpack. The store security guard held onto the straps. An employee stood behind him.

“I told you, I don’t got shit in this backpack except the salad.” The security guard insisted he go through the backpack. The suspect repeated his phrase louder, so more people in the store could hear. Everyone now had their eyes on the altercation. Mine roamed to the pistol harnessed at the waist of the security guard.

The young man insisted there was nothing in his backpack, but tensions had grown too strong. To alleviate the situation, the security guard escorted him to an emergency exit. With permission, the suspect absconded with the salad. The emergency alarm kept ringing throughout the rest of the grocery store trip.

No. 053

Ren Faire

The dog sniffed at the base of a flowering jacaranda, violet petals falling softly from the branches and coating the grassy lawn. Across the street, people began streaming out of an apartment building. The women wore dresses or tunics with flower crowns. The men were dressed as knights and jesters. There were kings and queens, plastic, bejeweled crowns atop their heads. They carried flagons and steins, plastic swords and rapiers, bows and quivers. Passing cars honked. Neighbors stared, took photos, commented on the number of friends. The group posed in front of white flowering bushes along the fenceline, then piled into a black van, rented out for the occasion. In true fashion, a lone friar exited the building late and was the last to board the vessel.

No. 052

A.A.A. - Epilogue

Under his bed, W. kept four shotguns. “Get rid of them,” his wife said upon finding them. “I don’t want them in here.” 

That was all he left—not money, nor land, artwork, and bonds. Four shotguns, one for each grandson. They sent around the photo: the Winchester 190 .22 in its original box; the Remington .35; the 1960’s Mossberg 12-gauge; and the one from his father, the 1940’s Mossberg .22. 

The grandsons divvied them up, planning the shipments to Illinois and California. In the back closet were two BB guns that nobody wanted and were dumped in the trash with his files, clothes, pills, and shoes. 

___

The wind came through the swamp and shifted the metal cans perched along the back fence. He held the gun against his shoulder. His cousin cocked it for him; at five his grip was not strong. Looking down the barrel, his hands shook as he maneuvered the sight to the can. “Aim above it,” the cousin said. “It shoots low.” Pull the trigger, the can went flying into the swamp. They cheered, then broke glass bottles with more shots, even taking aim at squirrels clambering up trees to safety. Inside, his great-grandmother poured whole milk into coffee mugs for them. The summer sun felt faded coming through the thick curtains and the air was heavy with cigarette smoke. That was what he remembered: the thickness of the air and milk, and the heaviness of the gun.

No. 050

Hummingbird

A neighbor tends the garden in the courtyard: tomato plants, herbs, cacti, succulents, large agave growing upward and outward, deergrass spilling onto the sidewalk. To cultivate it further, he placed a birdfeeder or two, nestled among them. At first, the birds didn’t come. Instead, neighborhood squirrels climbed the plastic poles and stole the birdseed. Then, the coyotes lurked in the tall grass and caught the squirrels at dawn before the sun’s rosy hue enveloped the courtyard. 

Now, at dusk, a lone hummingbird’s hovering body can be seen, flitting among the plants, landing at the birdfeeder before disappearing into the night.

Bees

Before I rounded the corner, I heard them: the dull hum of dozens of bees fluttering from flower to flower. From the winter rain came budding growth, and the hillside trail became overgrown, flowering weeds sprouting into the thin, dusty trail. I apologized to the bees as I pressed forward, rocking stems with my shins. In forgiveness, they decided not to sting.

Apes

Sticky notes arranged along the base of my computer monitor offer me a reminder of all the clouds hanging over me. For focus, to overcome feelings of overwhelm. Then, it’s noticed. A coworker does the same beside me, hanging his own row of signal flags. Mimicry is a form of flattery, or like apes can act as the foundation for connection.

Airship

A man wielding a machete passed the living room window. Thinking nothing of it—city living, film shoot, raccoons and skunks and coyotes, overgrown agave—I returned to my work. Then, the startling din of helicopter blades began, repeating like a stuck record. Louder and louder the sound grew as the police chopper lowered into the neighborhood.

“Drop the weapon.

“Go to the sidewalk.

“Hands on your head,” came from a megaphone-toting cop. The officer could’ve been standing beside me in the living room. Three cars, sirens blazing, raced down the road, one after the other, adding to the cacophony. As they passed, the sirens dropped low, then receded. The helicopter rose into the sky, leaving in its wake only empty tree limbs. 

I tried to search online what had happened, but there were no articles about the incident, nor any posts on the community surveillance apps. For a moment, quiet returned to the neighborhood.

Transfers

“Hello, my name is Spencer Greenwood, date of birth July 12, 1999. My primary care doctor ordered me some replacement parts for my pump, and they were shipped to a V.D.L. Enterprises warehouse, which is you guys. I want to know where it is, and—No, don’t transfer me. I’ve already been transferred four times. Please—Let me explain—I was traveling and damaged the reservoir on my pump, my primary doctor ordered me a replacement one, but did not send it to my home address. He sent it to your medical warehouse. I need to know that it arrived, and I need to make sure that it’s being sent to my correct address.—Yes.—Yes.—Do you have a tracking number?—And this has expected delivery on Wednesday?—Okay, because I cannot receive it after Wednesday.—Do you have a tracking number for me?—EightEightTwoThree….—Maybe let’s switch that to overnight. So it can arrive on Tuesday,  and even if it’s late it will arrive by evening Wednesday latest, when I need to switch it out.—Yes.—Yes.—July 12, 1999. The address is FourSevenEight….—Yes. Thank you. I need to receive the shipment by Wednesday, or I’ll need to go to the hospital. It was a horrible mix-up. I’ve already spoken with my doctor. Yes, he feels horrible, but, really, I feel even worse. Thank you for understanding and helping me out. Do you have a phone number so I can call back if there are any problems tomorrow?”

Disposal

An overturned Christmas tree juts out of a garbage can in the middle of April. I give them the benefit of the doubt: it can be easy to lose track of time amid everything else. In haste they left the string of lights and garland that shimmered in the spring sunlight. An uncanny shiver runs down my spine: I wonder where the April Christmas trees are in my life. Perhaps it’s too late to dispose of them.