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Fresh succulent cuttings grew out of an empty pinot noir case. A hand-written note rested on the side for any neighbors interested in replanting or regrowing them.

A lemon tree plump with fruit grew in the front yard of a house. A cardboard sign reading “Do Not Take Lemons” was tied around the trunk with a thick, layered rope. The lemons glistened in the afternoon sun.

A collection of plates and bowls, cheap and plastic, sat atop a wrinkled tarp. Ants from a mound beside it crawled over the dinnerware.

Neighbors left a couch blocking half the sidewalk. The wooden bones of the structure looked solid and well-made. The cushions could be thrown out and replaced, and the furniture would be good as new.

No. 075

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

Gasoline

A neighbor buys, restores, and resells classic cars and trucks, routinely cycling between different models that sit on our block for days at a time. The latest, a ‘77 Chevy Bonanza, sat outside the apartment three days when a passing couple noticed the street beneath coated in gasoline.

Within thirty minutes, the smell permeated the apartment. I had been cooking and thought I sprung a gas leak on the stove. Before I had a chance to call, a fire truck pulled up outside, and five men inspected the truck. Deeming it insignificant, they shoveled sand beneath the tank to soak up the oil. When the owner came by the next day, he commented on the dirt, but did not attempt to start the truck.

No. 021