Last night my husband and I went for a walk and halfway down our street I noticed it was unusually quiet. Normally at this row of tenements people are hanging out on porches with babies and dogs, overflowing onto the sidewalk. I saw a neighbor that lives in the cottage across the street and said, "It's quiet tonight." "There was a fight, you know the little bird of a woman who lives across the street?" she said, pointing. "She was beaten by her husband and went running down the street screaming 'call the police.' She's gone, we haven't seen her since."
Where is this lovely woman and her adorable child and their beloved dog? I liked her kid with big brown eyes and black eyelashes who would hop off the porch in spite of being partially paralyzed, wearing a brace on his left leg. He'd come over to see us, leading with his good leg, and tell us not to be afraid of Princess, his gray and white pit bull. Lily and Princess would greet each other, affectionately sniffing each other's snout. Sometimes it was hard to understand what the boy was saying because half of his mouth was paralyzed. His right arm was stuck in a bent position like a wing with his little brown fingers curled up but he hopped about moving his other arm freely, telling us stories, petting Lily. We fell in love with him and enjoyed saying hello each day. His mom would look up from her phone and smile from the porch. I hope wherever she is she's safe with her child and their dog.
This is our neighborhood and to some degree this is every neighborhood. Human struggle is everywhere whether it takes place in raw exposed battles or neat and tidy concealed ones. I have been thinking a lot about trusting and having faith versus fear and the desire to control. When I struggle I realize it is my fear that drives the "control" bus. Einstein said, "The most important decision we make is whether we believe we live in a friendly or hostile universe." The real challenge for me, and the more freeing and frightening one, is to embrace my deeper struggles on the page, on the canvas, and between my ears, to tune into that friendly creative universe, sink in, and let go. To answer the call. To follow the path, the one lined up within my spine that belongs to me.
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
Naming
My yogurt came out great. I never tire of waking up to see if the sourdough rose or the yogurt incubated overnight. I like to have friendly bacteria working hard having fun making instant and slightly-drunken families in my kitchen while I sleep.
Today is Giuseppe Verdi's birthday. I love opera and I used to be convinced I had been adopted because I loved opera and sauerkraut with equal passion and nobody in my family paid attention to these things but then I saw my mothers feet in sandals and her toes looked like mine so I had to drop that theory. Only her toes looked very angry. Recently I could see my biological father's face in mine when looking at a photo of him at age 18. I met him long after I could spot any resemblance but I tried hard to find one. He had blue eyes but not much hair when I met him. He was 6 foot 4 with a long face and clumsy like Dick Van Dyke in the TV show. He had a deep radio voice. He made the bloop bloop sound effects for Sacramento tomato juice. He was the original ad man with three advertising wives, real glammy lookers. I got to see photos from my half sister of the old advertising studio days in 1965. Amazing to see the old TV cameras and women in stilettos and strapless dresses smoking cigarettes. He trained as a teacher and did that for years, and then wrote kids books and when he was 18 he was in the army and before that he was a lifeguard at a summer camp back when my mother first met him. She was 16. He was 18 and looked like a Greek god in our old black and white photos.
Today is also world mental health awareness day something our society needs to pay attention to. Nearly every crazy news story in the NYT has mental illness behind it or maybe that's just my take on things. Every crazy story in my family has mental illness behind it.
I think Giuseppe Verdi would be a great tiger cat name. And the composer (Mikhail) Glinka would be a great Yellow Labrador name. I love naming things pets, bands, anything. I think I got that from my father even though I didn't grow up with him or see him often, I give him credit for that piece of myself. That was his job for most of his long life. He wished he was a novelist but he was an advertising copy guy in Yonkers with a rusted out Carman Ghia and a green leaf as an inspection sticker. He had more angry wives suing him for child support and made more promises to 'take the kids to The Bronx Zoo and the Thanksgiving Day Parade' than any man would want. He loved a daily dose of dry martinis with a few green olives. Gin and dry vermouth were the only things in his barren fridge besides a container of Dannon coffee yogurt and a package of Lender's bagels in the freezer. A sad but telling story. I guess I can laugh about it now. He made a martini for me when I was 15 and visiting him in Yonkers. I had never had a drink in my life. I remember placing my fully-loaded and untouched dinner plate under the table to feed his gorgeous collie named Shadow and that's all I remember except him dropping me off back in Larchmont on Cooper Lane where my mother and step father lived in a gigantic brick Georgian style house. I never took to drink, just like my mother. Caffeine was my illegal drug growing up. I'd have to sneak coffee and tea or have it at friends houses along with television and candy. When my my mother and step father were driving off to their weekend 18c country house restoration I'd plug in the coffee pot just as they pulled away. Bliss for me was staying home and drinking coffee and making paintings, steaming up a head of broccoli and reading poetry in the sun, and dancing around the house alone. Not much has changed in that regard. I am easily amused and that annoys some people but luckily not many around here. This is why I love this quirky poor town. People don't have much but they are friendly and they appreciate what they have, which is a gift in itself.
Today is Giuseppe Verdi's birthday. I love opera and I used to be convinced I had been adopted because I loved opera and sauerkraut with equal passion and nobody in my family paid attention to these things but then I saw my mothers feet in sandals and her toes looked like mine so I had to drop that theory. Only her toes looked very angry. Recently I could see my biological father's face in mine when looking at a photo of him at age 18. I met him long after I could spot any resemblance but I tried hard to find one. He had blue eyes but not much hair when I met him. He was 6 foot 4 with a long face and clumsy like Dick Van Dyke in the TV show. He had a deep radio voice. He made the bloop bloop sound effects for Sacramento tomato juice. He was the original ad man with three advertising wives, real glammy lookers. I got to see photos from my half sister of the old advertising studio days in 1965. Amazing to see the old TV cameras and women in stilettos and strapless dresses smoking cigarettes. He trained as a teacher and did that for years, and then wrote kids books and when he was 18 he was in the army and before that he was a lifeguard at a summer camp back when my mother first met him. She was 16. He was 18 and looked like a Greek god in our old black and white photos.
Today is also world mental health awareness day something our society needs to pay attention to. Nearly every crazy news story in the NYT has mental illness behind it or maybe that's just my take on things. Every crazy story in my family has mental illness behind it.
I think Giuseppe Verdi would be a great tiger cat name. And the composer (Mikhail) Glinka would be a great Yellow Labrador name. I love naming things pets, bands, anything. I think I got that from my father even though I didn't grow up with him or see him often, I give him credit for that piece of myself. That was his job for most of his long life. He wished he was a novelist but he was an advertising copy guy in Yonkers with a rusted out Carman Ghia and a green leaf as an inspection sticker. He had more angry wives suing him for child support and made more promises to 'take the kids to The Bronx Zoo and the Thanksgiving Day Parade' than any man would want. He loved a daily dose of dry martinis with a few green olives. Gin and dry vermouth were the only things in his barren fridge besides a container of Dannon coffee yogurt and a package of Lender's bagels in the freezer. A sad but telling story. I guess I can laugh about it now. He made a martini for me when I was 15 and visiting him in Yonkers. I had never had a drink in my life. I remember placing my fully-loaded and untouched dinner plate under the table to feed his gorgeous collie named Shadow and that's all I remember except him dropping me off back in Larchmont on Cooper Lane where my mother and step father lived in a gigantic brick Georgian style house. I never took to drink, just like my mother. Caffeine was my illegal drug growing up. I'd have to sneak coffee and tea or have it at friends houses along with television and candy. When my my mother and step father were driving off to their weekend 18c country house restoration I'd plug in the coffee pot just as they pulled away. Bliss for me was staying home and drinking coffee and making paintings, steaming up a head of broccoli and reading poetry in the sun, and dancing around the house alone. Not much has changed in that regard. I am easily amused and that annoys some people but luckily not many around here. This is why I love this quirky poor town. People don't have much but they are friendly and they appreciate what they have, which is a gift in itself.
Thriller: Eyes on the Car
For a few nights in September I woke up at three AM and decided to go downstairs to my office to work. I would open my screened porch door for air while working standing at my desk. One night I heard a car drive in to the parking lot behind my house. I can easily see the whole lot from my office. The car did not belong to any of the residents. I glanced at the clock. After five minutes the car left. Then another car drove in, parked in the same spot, and stayed for another five minutes. This happened each night. I began to notice this regular traffic pattern at all hours of the day, too. I suspected drug-dealing was going on and my neighbor confirmed it. She even knew who it was, and which apartment he lived in.
I emailed the local police chief and he connected me to a detective. The detective knew about the guy, a small-time dealer. The detective wasn't particularly interested in him, but asked me to stay in touch. One morning I was carrying my husband's coffee and lunch box out to the car at 6:30 AM and I noticed a shiny new black Impala with NY plates in the parking lot. I emailed the detective about it. "Can you get the license plate number?" he asked. I walked across the lot and back with my dog, glancing over at the Impala as I passed it. I emailed him back. "You won't believe this," he wrote back immediately, "I'm sitting here right now waiting for exactly that car!" All of a sudden my hands were shaking so much I could hardly write. "They're leaving now," I wrote back, "Do you want me to obstruct them?" I imagined, oh, taking my trash can to the sidewalk and tipping it over "accidentally" in the driveway, slowing the car's escape while the detective showed up. "NO!" he replied. "Please call me when you have a moment." He gave me his cell phone number.
I took a deep breath and phoned him. I told him that as soon as I had hit "send" on the last email I realized my mistake. "I just got caught up in the drama," I said, laughing. "Don't ever put yourself in harm's way," he warned me. I felt embarrassed. I was the Lucille Ball of amateur crime-fighters. "Don't worry," I tried to reassure him, "They won't suspect me. I'm just the lady with the big black dog who walks everywhere."
"Wow, so they were here at that early hour?" he asked. "The heroin addicts get up very early," he volunteered, thinking aloud. My heart pounded and I started trembling from head to toe. Heroin? I had visions of guys with tourniquets on their arms, veins popping, shooting up in dark alleys like in the movies of my 1970's NY childhood. He continued: "These guys make so much money they rent a car for a month and then turn it in for another. They think that with out-of-state plates they won't be noticed, but they stick out like a sore thumb." His voice was young and kind and I tried to envision his face from the tones. He sounded 20 years younger than me, with straight light brown hair, clean-shaven. "Yeah, those orange NY plates, you can spot them a mile away," I said, feeling like I already knew way too much about drug dealers. My confidence was quickly retreating.
For days I sent regular emails alerting the detective. "The black car is back here." "The black car is still here." "Now there's a white car." My pulse quickened every time I hit the "send" button. I sent him plate numbers if I could see them. I wasn't comfortable crossing the lot with my dog anymore. One day a scary-looking silver Ram wagon with tinted windows parked in what I had begun calling the hot spot. When it started appearing regularly I was terrified. My husband teased me: "You're just scared of the design of the car." I told the detective what my husband thought, but my hunch proved to be correct. The detective confirmed that the silver Ram was the drug-dealer's new rental car.
I was getting jumpy, fearing everything. How do the police do this? I'd walk my dog around the city as always but I couldn't shut off my hunting impulse. I learned to recognize car models and manufacturer's logos, to memorize license plates at a glance. I saw out-of-state plates everywhere, on fancy cars with tinted windows. Were they drug-dealer rentals too? Was I losing my mind? I sent the detective a Smithsonian Magazine article about an art historian who was training police detectives to observe using museum masterpieces. "I'd like this job!" I told him. One time he asked in an email, "You've got the black dog, right?" I didn't reply right away. I had mentioned my dog the first time we spoke on the phone. I was quite visible walking my dog around town, but he was still invisible to me. What do detectives look for anyway? How deeply do they research people? Was he reading my writing, looking at my paintings? I felt like I was in on a seduction. I was getting spooked. "Yeah she’s my dog,” I finally responded. "People see me walking her all over the city. She's practically a local celebrity." All I knew about the detective was that he drove around in an unmarked black Buick. He had told me that he'd be keeping an eye out on the parking lot. I was comforted, though, knowing there would be another set of eyes looking out.
The drug dealing seemed to escalate. I was monitoring the stream of cars and sending license plate numbers to the detective while continuing to brush up on the makes, models and logos of the cars. Now and again the detective would have a specific question: "Did you see the guy who drove the silver Ram?" "No, I saw him in the car as it was parked and then he got out and a woman got in and drove it away." The parking lot was like a shopping mall. Customers were sitting in their cars in the dark, their faces lit by their cell-phones. One night I saw a guy illuminated by his car light licking something from his fingertips. He held what looked like a white envelope. Another night I woke up in the night to pee and in the dark I peeked out the window through the gap above the curtain in the stairwell. I saw the dealer's car out back and raced down to my desk to email the detective. I was so full of adrenaline I couldn't fall back to sleep. "This is hunting, and you love the hunt," my husband said. "Yes, you're right," I admitted. "And you have an audience, the detective," my husband reminded me.
The dealers looked so young, they looked like little boys with their backwards baseball caps and shiny cars. They weren't even wearing winter coats, just decorative T-shirts. I didn't want anyone to get hurt, I wasn't out to get everybody incarcerated. It's bad enough that I already feel responsible for everything on the planet. I had no malice toward the dealers. My feeling was just please don't do this. As I told the Chief and Mayor at a meeting earlier in the year, I am speaking up on behalf of my tenant neighbors who are too afraid to call for help. This cul-de-sac parking lot had become a lawless wasteland because of the landlord's neglect. I wanted to improve the quality of life for everyone in my neighborhood.
Whenever my inbox showed the detective's name I jumped through my skin. It was almost like having a crush. I would hang on every word, read the message over and over. Stay calm, I told myself, breathe. Be safe, do not be seen. So much was unknown to me, but that's what made it verge on sexy. "I am freaking out with jitters," I told the detective, on the phone. "This is why I could never have an affair, too much adrenaline. I need my life to be calm and orderly." "Absolutely," he agreed, and laughed.
In time the scary silver Ram was replaced with a shiny silver sportscar, then later with a plain new red Ford with local plates. Maybe the dealers were beginning to feel exposed. "I think this is the new car," I wrote to the detective. He said, "I think you're right." "They park with authority, in the hotspot. They're sitting in the car with the seats pushed way back so they're hidden." "Important detail," the detective replied. Then I spotted the guys in question going in and out and was able to identify them. "Good job, Can you get the plates?" "I'm too scared to walk across the lot." "No, don't," he said, "I'll drive thru and get them in an hour."
At this point he had a search warrant for the apartment. An undercover cop had successfully bought drugs at the apartment, and now they were just waiting for the right time to execute the warrant. After eight weeks of team work I was still hanging on the front lines looking out from my perch. One Friday the detective asked me, "Can you keep your eyes on the red car for fifteen minutes?" "Yes, I'll set the kitchen timer since my sense of time is wonky under stress," I said. "Good," he replied. The bell rang and I wrote back, "Red car still here," but then the car immediately left. I phoned in a panic. "He just left!" I said, shaking like a leaf, imagining having botched the crew's efforts. "He must have the same timer," I said. The detective laughed. The stake-out was cancelled for the day but we'd be back at it again Monday. "We can be in casual alert over the weekend, making note of the red car's comings and goings. But Monday night, high alert." "Okay," I said. "By the way, I know I don't have to tell you but for your safety and ours, do not tell ANYONE you are working with us." Later I sat down and wrote the names of all the people I had told. Forty-five. I was spooked.
There's a part of me that always wanted to be a detective. Artists, writers, and detectives share lot in common: observe and listen. I told myself that my role in this was to keep paying attention and write down what I see. Just the facts ma’am, I told myself, and leave the interpretation to the experts. I was in a kind of training, I decided, doing my best to be a good and honorable witness to help solve the problem on behalf of my neighborhood. I wanted it to be over, though. "Believe me we do too," the detective said, "but it has to run its course. We need to get the right guys." I told myself it was a good but terrifying exercise for my writing. "My wife has a pen-pal who is a detective!" my husband announced proudly one morning while pouring his coffee into his morning to-go thermos.
Monday came. I was in self-imposed high alert, awake since 4 AM. I had been standing lookout in the empty tub of my cold office bathroom for hours. The detective and I were keeping in touch by email. It was now 6:30 PM. My husband appeared with two plates of hot spaghetti. We ate it standing in the dark, eyes on the red car. I was exhausted. "Go rest," the detective said. "I hate to do this to you, can you come back at 10:30?" "Perfect," I said. At 9:30 my husband woke me up. "The red car is back," he said. I emailed the detective, my heart pounding. "Okay, keep an eye out. Let's see if he stays," he said. The red car was in a different spot because of the ice in the lot. A truck partially blocked my view of the car, and the new spot was very dark. My husband got his binoculars. I could confirm the red car was red and I recognized the shape of the tail light. Then the truck left. Another guy pulled in to the hot spot to buy drugs. When he returned, he put the car in reverse and got stuck in the ice, tires spinning, but his back-up lights illuminated the red car. "It's DEFINITELY red," I told the detective. "A customer lit it up." He laughed. Another sedan drove in, a brown Crown Vic. Maybe this is the detective I thought. But it was a lanky guy in a Peruvian hat carrying a brown paper bag. Another customer.
The detective wanted to communicate now by cell-phone. "I'll have to wake my husband, it's his phone and I don't know how to use it." "He's not going to be too happy about that," the detective said. "Oh no, he'll be fine about it." I got back to my station just as the red car started to leave. I called in a panic: "Red car just left!" I feared the detective's team would move in on nothing. "Oh don't tell me!" he said. He was exhausted too. "Hey, a pickup truck just pulled in," I said. I noticed it was missing a rear light. "I think it's another customer. I'll bet the red car will be back momentarily to make a deal." Suddenly I was alert and wide awake. Sure enough, I called back with good news: "The red car's back! And now the truck is gone." "The truck is gone? You have eyes on the red car?" I could hear police radio in the background. A cop was saying he was staked out on the corner lot at the school. "Okay I have to direct my guys now," he said, hanging up. I went to the bathroom window. Two cars drove into the lot and stopped. One passenger got out carrying something really heavy and ran towards the apartment. I sure hope this is the police, I thought, and not the dealers because this looks dangerous. Then I saw another vehicle pull into the driveway and park, blocking the only exit. Okay, whew, it's the cops. Then I saw the detectives come out into the lot with a police dog to search the red car. It was late, after eleven. I finally went to bed.
The next morning I had a new message. "Call me when you have a chance." The detective told me the story over the phone. They got their guys, exactly what they wanted. The apartment was a classic crack house. "You won't believe the paperwork we have to do now, it will take all day," he said. I was blown away, exhausted, relieved. Was it really over? The Chief later sent me and the Mayor a follow-up note, and a personal thank-you note. "Community policing at its best," he wrote.
I emailed the local police chief and he connected me to a detective. The detective knew about the guy, a small-time dealer. The detective wasn't particularly interested in him, but asked me to stay in touch. One morning I was carrying my husband's coffee and lunch box out to the car at 6:30 AM and I noticed a shiny new black Impala with NY plates in the parking lot. I emailed the detective about it. "Can you get the license plate number?" he asked. I walked across the lot and back with my dog, glancing over at the Impala as I passed it. I emailed him back. "You won't believe this," he wrote back immediately, "I'm sitting here right now waiting for exactly that car!" All of a sudden my hands were shaking so much I could hardly write. "They're leaving now," I wrote back, "Do you want me to obstruct them?" I imagined, oh, taking my trash can to the sidewalk and tipping it over "accidentally" in the driveway, slowing the car's escape while the detective showed up. "NO!" he replied. "Please call me when you have a moment." He gave me his cell phone number.
I took a deep breath and phoned him. I told him that as soon as I had hit "send" on the last email I realized my mistake. "I just got caught up in the drama," I said, laughing. "Don't ever put yourself in harm's way," he warned me. I felt embarrassed. I was the Lucille Ball of amateur crime-fighters. "Don't worry," I tried to reassure him, "They won't suspect me. I'm just the lady with the big black dog who walks everywhere."
"Wow, so they were here at that early hour?" he asked. "The heroin addicts get up very early," he volunteered, thinking aloud. My heart pounded and I started trembling from head to toe. Heroin? I had visions of guys with tourniquets on their arms, veins popping, shooting up in dark alleys like in the movies of my 1970's NY childhood. He continued: "These guys make so much money they rent a car for a month and then turn it in for another. They think that with out-of-state plates they won't be noticed, but they stick out like a sore thumb." His voice was young and kind and I tried to envision his face from the tones. He sounded 20 years younger than me, with straight light brown hair, clean-shaven. "Yeah, those orange NY plates, you can spot them a mile away," I said, feeling like I already knew way too much about drug dealers. My confidence was quickly retreating.
For days I sent regular emails alerting the detective. "The black car is back here." "The black car is still here." "Now there's a white car." My pulse quickened every time I hit the "send" button. I sent him plate numbers if I could see them. I wasn't comfortable crossing the lot with my dog anymore. One day a scary-looking silver Ram wagon with tinted windows parked in what I had begun calling the hot spot. When it started appearing regularly I was terrified. My husband teased me: "You're just scared of the design of the car." I told the detective what my husband thought, but my hunch proved to be correct. The detective confirmed that the silver Ram was the drug-dealer's new rental car.
I was getting jumpy, fearing everything. How do the police do this? I'd walk my dog around the city as always but I couldn't shut off my hunting impulse. I learned to recognize car models and manufacturer's logos, to memorize license plates at a glance. I saw out-of-state plates everywhere, on fancy cars with tinted windows. Were they drug-dealer rentals too? Was I losing my mind? I sent the detective a Smithsonian Magazine article about an art historian who was training police detectives to observe using museum masterpieces. "I'd like this job!" I told him. One time he asked in an email, "You've got the black dog, right?" I didn't reply right away. I had mentioned my dog the first time we spoke on the phone. I was quite visible walking my dog around town, but he was still invisible to me. What do detectives look for anyway? How deeply do they research people? Was he reading my writing, looking at my paintings? I felt like I was in on a seduction. I was getting spooked. "Yeah she’s my dog,” I finally responded. "People see me walking her all over the city. She's practically a local celebrity." All I knew about the detective was that he drove around in an unmarked black Buick. He had told me that he'd be keeping an eye out on the parking lot. I was comforted, though, knowing there would be another set of eyes looking out.
The drug dealing seemed to escalate. I was monitoring the stream of cars and sending license plate numbers to the detective while continuing to brush up on the makes, models and logos of the cars. Now and again the detective would have a specific question: "Did you see the guy who drove the silver Ram?" "No, I saw him in the car as it was parked and then he got out and a woman got in and drove it away." The parking lot was like a shopping mall. Customers were sitting in their cars in the dark, their faces lit by their cell-phones. One night I saw a guy illuminated by his car light licking something from his fingertips. He held what looked like a white envelope. Another night I woke up in the night to pee and in the dark I peeked out the window through the gap above the curtain in the stairwell. I saw the dealer's car out back and raced down to my desk to email the detective. I was so full of adrenaline I couldn't fall back to sleep. "This is hunting, and you love the hunt," my husband said. "Yes, you're right," I admitted. "And you have an audience, the detective," my husband reminded me.
The dealers looked so young, they looked like little boys with their backwards baseball caps and shiny cars. They weren't even wearing winter coats, just decorative T-shirts. I didn't want anyone to get hurt, I wasn't out to get everybody incarcerated. It's bad enough that I already feel responsible for everything on the planet. I had no malice toward the dealers. My feeling was just please don't do this. As I told the Chief and Mayor at a meeting earlier in the year, I am speaking up on behalf of my tenant neighbors who are too afraid to call for help. This cul-de-sac parking lot had become a lawless wasteland because of the landlord's neglect. I wanted to improve the quality of life for everyone in my neighborhood.
Whenever my inbox showed the detective's name I jumped through my skin. It was almost like having a crush. I would hang on every word, read the message over and over. Stay calm, I told myself, breathe. Be safe, do not be seen. So much was unknown to me, but that's what made it verge on sexy. "I am freaking out with jitters," I told the detective, on the phone. "This is why I could never have an affair, too much adrenaline. I need my life to be calm and orderly." "Absolutely," he agreed, and laughed.
In time the scary silver Ram was replaced with a shiny silver sportscar, then later with a plain new red Ford with local plates. Maybe the dealers were beginning to feel exposed. "I think this is the new car," I wrote to the detective. He said, "I think you're right." "They park with authority, in the hotspot. They're sitting in the car with the seats pushed way back so they're hidden." "Important detail," the detective replied. Then I spotted the guys in question going in and out and was able to identify them. "Good job, Can you get the plates?" "I'm too scared to walk across the lot." "No, don't," he said, "I'll drive thru and get them in an hour."
At this point he had a search warrant for the apartment. An undercover cop had successfully bought drugs at the apartment, and now they were just waiting for the right time to execute the warrant. After eight weeks of team work I was still hanging on the front lines looking out from my perch. One Friday the detective asked me, "Can you keep your eyes on the red car for fifteen minutes?" "Yes, I'll set the kitchen timer since my sense of time is wonky under stress," I said. "Good," he replied. The bell rang and I wrote back, "Red car still here," but then the car immediately left. I phoned in a panic. "He just left!" I said, shaking like a leaf, imagining having botched the crew's efforts. "He must have the same timer," I said. The detective laughed. The stake-out was cancelled for the day but we'd be back at it again Monday. "We can be in casual alert over the weekend, making note of the red car's comings and goings. But Monday night, high alert." "Okay," I said. "By the way, I know I don't have to tell you but for your safety and ours, do not tell ANYONE you are working with us." Later I sat down and wrote the names of all the people I had told. Forty-five. I was spooked.
There's a part of me that always wanted to be a detective. Artists, writers, and detectives share lot in common: observe and listen. I told myself that my role in this was to keep paying attention and write down what I see. Just the facts ma’am, I told myself, and leave the interpretation to the experts. I was in a kind of training, I decided, doing my best to be a good and honorable witness to help solve the problem on behalf of my neighborhood. I wanted it to be over, though. "Believe me we do too," the detective said, "but it has to run its course. We need to get the right guys." I told myself it was a good but terrifying exercise for my writing. "My wife has a pen-pal who is a detective!" my husband announced proudly one morning while pouring his coffee into his morning to-go thermos.
Monday came. I was in self-imposed high alert, awake since 4 AM. I had been standing lookout in the empty tub of my cold office bathroom for hours. The detective and I were keeping in touch by email. It was now 6:30 PM. My husband appeared with two plates of hot spaghetti. We ate it standing in the dark, eyes on the red car. I was exhausted. "Go rest," the detective said. "I hate to do this to you, can you come back at 10:30?" "Perfect," I said. At 9:30 my husband woke me up. "The red car is back," he said. I emailed the detective, my heart pounding. "Okay, keep an eye out. Let's see if he stays," he said. The red car was in a different spot because of the ice in the lot. A truck partially blocked my view of the car, and the new spot was very dark. My husband got his binoculars. I could confirm the red car was red and I recognized the shape of the tail light. Then the truck left. Another guy pulled in to the hot spot to buy drugs. When he returned, he put the car in reverse and got stuck in the ice, tires spinning, but his back-up lights illuminated the red car. "It's DEFINITELY red," I told the detective. "A customer lit it up." He laughed. Another sedan drove in, a brown Crown Vic. Maybe this is the detective I thought. But it was a lanky guy in a Peruvian hat carrying a brown paper bag. Another customer.
The detective wanted to communicate now by cell-phone. "I'll have to wake my husband, it's his phone and I don't know how to use it." "He's not going to be too happy about that," the detective said. "Oh no, he'll be fine about it." I got back to my station just as the red car started to leave. I called in a panic: "Red car just left!" I feared the detective's team would move in on nothing. "Oh don't tell me!" he said. He was exhausted too. "Hey, a pickup truck just pulled in," I said. I noticed it was missing a rear light. "I think it's another customer. I'll bet the red car will be back momentarily to make a deal." Suddenly I was alert and wide awake. Sure enough, I called back with good news: "The red car's back! And now the truck is gone." "The truck is gone? You have eyes on the red car?" I could hear police radio in the background. A cop was saying he was staked out on the corner lot at the school. "Okay I have to direct my guys now," he said, hanging up. I went to the bathroom window. Two cars drove into the lot and stopped. One passenger got out carrying something really heavy and ran towards the apartment. I sure hope this is the police, I thought, and not the dealers because this looks dangerous. Then I saw another vehicle pull into the driveway and park, blocking the only exit. Okay, whew, it's the cops. Then I saw the detectives come out into the lot with a police dog to search the red car. It was late, after eleven. I finally went to bed.
The next morning I had a new message. "Call me when you have a chance." The detective told me the story over the phone. They got their guys, exactly what they wanted. The apartment was a classic crack house. "You won't believe the paperwork we have to do now, it will take all day," he said. I was blown away, exhausted, relieved. Was it really over? The Chief later sent me and the Mayor a follow-up note, and a personal thank-you note. "Community policing at its best," he wrote.
Lost and Found
Today the sun came out for the first time in a bunch of days. The weather was warmer than it has been, too, but it was still in the 40's. It seemed like everyone was outside. I passed odd-shaped sand-covered chunks of snow under the shrubs on Clinton Street as I walked with Lily to the library. They looked like styrofoam props made to resemble boulders. Lots of people were out walking. I saw people with their dogs, babies being wheeled in strollers, kids playing tag. I walked Lily to the reservoir, and we stopped at the park and played in the fenced-in baseball field on the way home. I threw a stick for her and she was prancing and running. She geared up to a high speed and then ran through the gigantic puddle which today was a duck pond with two ducks swimming in it. Lily splashed right through the water and the ducks flew up and away.
When we exited the park I saw a small young female boxer with a purple collar running loose. The dog was sweet and approached to meet Lily. The dogs ran in circles, spinning around me as I held Lily's leash, spinning like a top to keep from getting tangled. I got dizzy! The boxer then ran off, going from yard to yard and coming back to see us as we walked along the empty street. I called the dog over and looked at her tags to see if there was an address, but the dog slipped out of her collar. I tied up Lily and called the dog to me and she came back. I slipped her purple collar back on, held on tight, and examined the tags. I saw she had a Blackstone dog license tag and a rabies vaccination tag from the nearby veterinary hospital, but no address or phone number. Not knowing what to do, I let the boxer go. As cars approached the intersection, I motioned to the drivers to watch out for the dog. It was running around all the little side streets. I was afraid it would get hit by a car, so I called the dog to me again and held her by the collar. I brought the dog over to the next corner where a few mechanics were working on cars in a driveway back from the road. They were friendly, so I asked them if they had a piece of rope because this dog was loose and I didn't want it to get hit by a car. They hunted around and found me a piece, apologizing for it being greasy. I thanked them and made a leash for the boxer. She slipped out of her collar again and I called her back, fastening her collar once more. I was thinking that I'd bring the boxer home and start making phone calls.
We started to walk back out to the street and I saw an adult at the corner draping his jacket over the shoulders of a very small boy about three years old. "This is a missing boy," the adult yelled to me, apparently meaning that the boy was wandering alone. Then I heard another person ask whether anyone had a phone. I said these guys do, motioning to the mechanics. Do you know of anyone missing a child? the adults asked me. No, but I found a lost dog, I told them. The man who gave me the rope said the boy lives here, pointing to the big multifamily house on the same property. Just then a very young woman came out of the house and said to the men, have you seen the baby? He's here, I said. One mystery solved. I continued on my way home.
I said hello to a woman walking her dog, asking her if she recognized the lost puppy. I recognized her dog from the neighborhood. When she came over Lily ran to her husky and they sniffed each other. I explained how I found the boxer. She's got tags, I said. The woman had a cell phone with her and volunteered to call the police. While she spoke, the husky was whimpering over Lily. It was nearly impossible for me to hold both dogs and keep the puppy from squirming out of her collar. It was crazy. The lady explained to the police that I had found a loose dog, and described which intersection we were at. The police said they'd send someone over. The woman apologized for having to head home, but she had to leave.
Back where the mechanics were there had been a big black couch on the edge of the yard, presumably put out for the trash. I went back to sit and wait for the police. Lily sat on the sidewalk, and the puppy as well as the mechanic joined me on the comfortable couch. The dog officer finally showed up about an hour later. I thanked the man who had been so kind to wait with me, holding the puppy and playing with her the whole time. The dog officer picked the dog up, tightened its collar, and promised to find its owner. It was getting dark as Lily and I walked home. What an adventure. I had wondered if I'd have anything to write about today.
When we exited the park I saw a small young female boxer with a purple collar running loose. The dog was sweet and approached to meet Lily. The dogs ran in circles, spinning around me as I held Lily's leash, spinning like a top to keep from getting tangled. I got dizzy! The boxer then ran off, going from yard to yard and coming back to see us as we walked along the empty street. I called the dog over and looked at her tags to see if there was an address, but the dog slipped out of her collar. I tied up Lily and called the dog to me and she came back. I slipped her purple collar back on, held on tight, and examined the tags. I saw she had a Blackstone dog license tag and a rabies vaccination tag from the nearby veterinary hospital, but no address or phone number. Not knowing what to do, I let the boxer go. As cars approached the intersection, I motioned to the drivers to watch out for the dog. It was running around all the little side streets. I was afraid it would get hit by a car, so I called the dog to me again and held her by the collar. I brought the dog over to the next corner where a few mechanics were working on cars in a driveway back from the road. They were friendly, so I asked them if they had a piece of rope because this dog was loose and I didn't want it to get hit by a car. They hunted around and found me a piece, apologizing for it being greasy. I thanked them and made a leash for the boxer. She slipped out of her collar again and I called her back, fastening her collar once more. I was thinking that I'd bring the boxer home and start making phone calls.
We started to walk back out to the street and I saw an adult at the corner draping his jacket over the shoulders of a very small boy about three years old. "This is a missing boy," the adult yelled to me, apparently meaning that the boy was wandering alone. Then I heard another person ask whether anyone had a phone. I said these guys do, motioning to the mechanics. Do you know of anyone missing a child? the adults asked me. No, but I found a lost dog, I told them. The man who gave me the rope said the boy lives here, pointing to the big multifamily house on the same property. Just then a very young woman came out of the house and said to the men, have you seen the baby? He's here, I said. One mystery solved. I continued on my way home.
I said hello to a woman walking her dog, asking her if she recognized the lost puppy. I recognized her dog from the neighborhood. When she came over Lily ran to her husky and they sniffed each other. I explained how I found the boxer. She's got tags, I said. The woman had a cell phone with her and volunteered to call the police. While she spoke, the husky was whimpering over Lily. It was nearly impossible for me to hold both dogs and keep the puppy from squirming out of her collar. It was crazy. The lady explained to the police that I had found a loose dog, and described which intersection we were at. The police said they'd send someone over. The woman apologized for having to head home, but she had to leave.
Back where the mechanics were there had been a big black couch on the edge of the yard, presumably put out for the trash. I went back to sit and wait for the police. Lily sat on the sidewalk, and the puppy as well as the mechanic joined me on the comfortable couch. The dog officer finally showed up about an hour later. I thanked the man who had been so kind to wait with me, holding the puppy and playing with her the whole time. The dog officer picked the dog up, tightened its collar, and promised to find its owner. It was getting dark as Lily and I walked home. What an adventure. I had wondered if I'd have anything to write about today.
Lily and Spud
Yesterday in the late afternoon I walked to Turbesi Park. Lily was frolicking in circles, squeezing an empty plastic water bottle in her mouth, when she suddenly stopped to watch a tiny dog in the adjacent ball field with three girls running after him. The kids were having so much fun, as if they had entered the outdoors for the first time in their lives; running, jumping, falling, chasing this fast little burnt-sienna-colored dog with ears that stood straight up. Their dad was outside the fence watching them. They threw a ball and a stick for him to fetch, shouting "Spud, fetch!" but he ignored their prompts. He just ran around in circles.
After Lily was done running in circles I put her leash back on and we walked along the path behind the other ball field. Spud ran up to the fence and met Lily nose to nose. Spud was wearing a blue plaid wool sweater. The girls asked me if I would bring Lily inside to play with them. I said, "I'm worried about Spud getting hurt. He is so delicate."
"What does that mean?" the younger girl asked.
"He has small, fragile arms and legs. Is he a Chihuahua?" I asked.
"No, he's a red miniature Doberman Pincher," the oldest girl said. She had wavy long blond hair and thick black eyelashes. "He's strong and not afraid and runs fast," she said.
"Okay, as long as Lily doesn't knock him over. I wouldn't want him to get hurt. How about if I keep the leash on Lily until they get acquainted?"
"Does your dog chase balls?" The oldest girl asked, handing me a baseball she had found.
"Yes, but she loves empty plastic bottles the best because they are light and she makes them squeak and crunch in her mouth." I threw the empty plastic bottle and Lily ran after it with the red-and-black harlequin-patterned leash trailing on the grass. I ran over and unclipped it. She and Spud circled the field with full energy and joy.
"She runs like a reindeer. Makes me wish I could be a dog and play with a plastic bottle in my mouth!" the middle girl said.
The girls laughed and ran after Lily and the dogs seemed to be laughing too as they ran in high speed circles and zig-zagged around us. The father was amused and stood, leaning forward with folded arms, watching and smiling.
"Careful, don't get knocked over," I shouted to the girls.
At one point the smallest girl draped her whole body in its shocking pink jacket over Lily, hugging her like a pet pony.
"Our dog doesn't like to chase sticks or balls," the oldest girl said.
"Lily is a Labrador Retriever. She's bred to retrieve ducks out of water for hunters. The bottle is like a duck to her, that's why she chases it. I'm sure your dog has special characteristics. Does he dig holes?"
"Yes, sometimes."
"Chase mice?"
"No, we still have plenty of mice."
"Guard your house?"
"Yes!"
"Well, there you go, every dog has special traits. If you look in the encyclopedia you could probably find the special traits for your kind of dog."
"I heard from someone that the red miniature Dobermans are extra nice," she offered.
The girls didn't want me to leave and I didn't want to leave either. I stayed for a few more rounds of running with the girls and the dogs. Then Lily was tired out and was chewing on grass like a cow and biting at the clay field, which is what she does when she is thirsty and looking for water. I clipped the leash on her and started for the gate. Their dad called the girls to go home for supper. The oldest was carrying Spud like a baby in her arms. On my way home I saw the long-haired Husky trotting beside his master who was slowly bicycling down the street through the long, triangular shadows.
The Apology
A colorful plastic toy keyboard had been sitting in our driveway for the past few weeks. My husband suggested that we should throw it away. Yesterday I spontaneously decided to find out who it belonged to. I walked over to where lots of young kids live at the third house on the big shared parking lot. "Is this yours?" I asked holding up the keyboard. A man said "Yes, the toy belongs to my kids." A woman was on the phone on her stoop. The woman said "Get away from me!" looking at me and then at the man while still holding the phone to her ear. "She is the lady who yelled at me." I went up to her and said "I am very sorry." I continued, "There was no good reason for that and it was very wrong." She said "My kids like you and your husband, Santa Claus. I see you but you look away." She demonstrated, turning her head and tilting it back. I wondered how that could be, since I never knew who I had yelled at. "Please accept my apology," I said. I took her hand and looked her in the eye. She continued, "I didn't do anything wrong, I was just looking for my kids, you would be worried too." "I know, it was wrong," I said. "Sometimes the noise in the neighborhood sets me off." "Yes, it's a very bad neighborhood, bad stuff is always going on," she replied. I objected; "No, there are a lot of good people, and it is the little relationships that make us feel that this is home." "True," she said. Like this moment, I thought. We can mend this, and turn it into something good.
"I didn't know who I had yelled at or if you lived here or across the street in the red buildings. I didn't even see your face. I was having a bad day. It is not my usual behavior and it was wrong. Please accept my apology." I clasped her hand again. "I was not in my right mind. I was even cutting the grass with scissors." I said, laughing. "Yes, I remember. I told my mother 'the lady who yelled at me was cutting the grass with scissors.' " Then we both laughed. "I accept your apology. We can laugh about it now." And she smiled.
"I didn't know who I had yelled at or if you lived here or across the street in the red buildings. I didn't even see your face. I was having a bad day. It is not my usual behavior and it was wrong. Please accept my apology." I clasped her hand again. "I was not in my right mind. I was even cutting the grass with scissors." I said, laughing. "Yes, I remember. I told my mother 'the lady who yelled at me was cutting the grass with scissors.' " Then we both laughed. "I accept your apology. We can laugh about it now." And she smiled.
Nobody can Write Your Poems
To write is an entertainment I put on for myself.
- Jean Cocteau
Red and Darlene moved in four years ago. I met them when I was standing on the street with my dog Lily. I had just accidentally sliced my thumb open with the antique serrated bread knife and I had no band aids or money to buy them so I wrapped my thumb in toilet paper and taped it up and stepped out. As I held the leash Red saw the blood drops hitting the sidewalk and ran inside and got a butterfly bandage and bandaged my thumb. "I drove an ambulance, I know a serious cut when I see one," he said. I was relieved, and our friendship began.
The following week I brought them a loaf of my bread and they loved it.
One day I saw a dead orange tabby cat in my bushes and I asked Red if it was theirs. "No, but would you like me to remove it?" Red asked.
"Wow, thank you," I said.
"I used to be a driver for the humane society," he said.
"Really?" I said.
"We even once had a Great Dane that nursed a motherless kitten."
"Amazing."
At Christmas Red and Darlene bought a blue and white ceramic mini loaf pan decorated with a penguin, and left it on the porch with a card: "More bread please!" I dropped off a few more loaves.
One day last summer at 6 AM I went out and snipped away at my shrubs. Red came out and told me stories, including how he was booted out of the Marines for standing up to a drunk Colonel. He got emotional reliving it as he spoke, sweating and becoming weepy. I kept snipping the shrubs, listening. "You did the right thing," I said.
"Would you like to hear my latest poems?"
"Absolutely," I said.
He walked across the street and returned with two typed pages and began reading. I got goosebumps. They were heartfelt and powerful.
"These are excellent," I said, thinking that he should give a reading at our local public library.
"I have hundreds of these," he said.
Red has told me about being lowered into the jungle by helicopter on a wire to rescue soldiers in Vietnam, driving a city ambulance, being homeless with Darlene and living out of their car, divorcing his nasty first wife and the awful custody battles they had, his son in prison, his landlord he calls 'Alabama,' his love of getting embroiled in the dramas of the neighborhood.
Red has a quick wit and a love of words that I can appreciate. "You know you can call me if there's a problem," he reminds me, "and I'll be over faster than you can say 9-1-1."
"Thanks Red," I say, "but there's a great local police force for that job, plus I don't want to interrupt your most important job, writing poems. Nobody can write your poems."
Recently Red befriended the local drug dealer. He knew all about the early-morning surprise search warrant, from the dealer's point of view. "The police searched his wife, the toddlers were traumatized." I think he was the one traumatized. Red had an angry 'Pitbull Warning' sign in his window facing the street and 'Private Property' signs on his landlord's chain link fences and gates. When he saw me picking up trash from the sidewalk one day, he called out to me. "You'd better wear gloves. We found needles in our backyard once." I realized this tough-and-tumble Marine was actually more frightened in the neighborhood than he showed himself to be, and probably suffering from PTSD.
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