Rainy Labor Day in the neighborhood
For both Beth and I, Seattle is by far the most densely-populated place we have called home. Most of the time the difference does not come in to focus. We accept perks and drawbacks and whether subconsciously or purposefully, we find similarities between our new place and our old place. In many ways, living here in Seattle's University District parallels living in East Davis. There is a major university nearby. There are coffee shops and cheap restaurants everywhere. There is a farmer's market a few blocks away. Students rent many of the houses and apartments within walking distance. They drive too fast, talk or text on their phones completely oblivious to the world around them, and wear fashions straight outta the 80's but claim them all their own. (Geez, listen to me. Have I become my parents?) We can walk to acquire nearly all of our daily essentials. When we do drive we schedule trips to avoid the hairy freeway traffic.
Then there are differences. The Trader Joe's lies a block and a half away. Instead of a handful of restaurants there are hundreds. Instead of two movie theaters in town I can easily name at least 6 within a mile radius, including two art house theaters. During the summer you can find a fair or festival or parade every weekend.
There are also many more homeless people, far more in our neighborhood than we encountered in all of Davis. There is the old man who wears a plastic grocery bag over his head, carries a heaping black plastic bag over his shoulder and mumbles to himself constantly. The cashier at the local Quick-E Mart tolerates him and lets him loiter in the store, refilling his cup from the cocoa machine. I'm told he carries an incredible stench but haven't experienced it myself. There is the tall, lanky man with wild long gray hair and a beard. He can often be seen sitting on a bench in the park, legs crossed like a lady, silently bobbing a tea bag into a styrofoam cup. Nearly every evening he walks south down our alley carrying a bed roll he must stash nearby during the day. One night at the same Quick-E Mart, this man was in line behind me. The cashier had run out of small bills enough to give change to the college kid at the counter. The cashier gestured toward both me and the homeless man and asked if either of us planned to pay in cash. I replied, "Nope, plastic." and the cashier gestured for me to ask the homeless man standing behind me. I gave the cashier a matter-of-fact look back to say "You really think this guy is paying with his American Express card?" Undeterred, the cashier gestured again. So I turned to the man and asked, "Sir, will you be paying with cash?" He nervously stammered for a moment and then turned his attention to the candy display at his right, the stammering trailing off again into silence. I turned back to the cashier and shrugged.
At the same Quick-E Mart recently a clean-cut college kid in a hooded sweatshirt bypassed the line at the counter and simply walked out the door carrying a case of beer. "Wow, that's bold!" agreed the paying customers in line. The cashier cursed until his face turned cherry red and then finally called the police.
Recently a kid just down the street spent about fifteen minutes screaming at a man for "decking me and taking my money" before three blue & white cruisers arrived and spent twenty minutes sorting out the incident. The cops sent the man and kid off in different directions.
A few nights ago Beth and I were chatting on our porch in the twilight, watching a storm blow its way in. A man walking down the alley stopped for a moment when he saw us, waited for a break in our conversation and then called up from the alley. "Excuse me" he asked politely. "I don't suppose you might have an extra blanket, do you?" Nearly cutting him off I curtly replied, "Sorry, man." and he continued down the alley. Light raindrops began to join the wind and I started to realize how miserable this night would be outdoors. I don't know if we have an extra blanket but I'm sure we have some sort of warmth we could have offered. He wasn't asking for money, for cigarettes or beer, or even bus fare. His question seemed to pain him, to hurt his pride. He asked politely. It rained hard that night. I haven't seen him since. I believe I would have responded differently in our first months here, but after saying "Sorry, man" to so many people on the street, my response has become automatic.
I am alert walking the neighborhood at night. We often hear shouting matches among the homeless in the park. A neighbor across the alley recently received a minor stab behind the ear at 4 in the afternoon because he yelled at some meth-riddled kids for cutting at his bamboo with a pocket knife. Our own house was robbed in the first week after our move.
There are bad people about. There are good people about. There are just so many people. So how does one remain vigilant without losing a sense of humanity? I suppose it has to come down to a gut feeling, a sense of trust that is continually refined the longer we live here.
