hello neighborhood

Unfortunately ours is a neighborhood with very little foot traffic. Not that I'm trying to run a business that relies on walk-ins here. It's just that I was raised as an urbanite and enjoy a little bit of friendly density and prefer people to cars. There are the occasional what-could-be Reed college students in rags that pass through here on bikes or on foot. Also one sometimes sees a pair of overweight lunch time speed walkers in sweats rushing back to their office in the nearby Fred Meyer supermarket headquarters. I once even saw another mother with a baby in the stroller, but she ignored me.

A bit further up the street, children walk to and from the neighborhood elementary school. Once a boy about eight years old with missing teeth and badly bleached blond hair, told me about how he has to wait for all the cars to pass before he can cross the street. He was rolling his eyeballs and twisting his body from side to side sort of like a hyper cork screw as he was sharing his frustration with me. The car he was hoping would pass soon was about half a mile down the road. I guess someone taught him well.

On my walks around the neighborhood with Jonah, I study people's houses and their yards, wondering who lives where and what their philosophy on life is based on the lushness and "kemptness" of their gardens, the colors of their abodes, the bumper stickers on their cars, and the various props strewn on their front steps and in their driveways.

Today I passed by a house that is most likely a hipster or college student rental. The tell-tale sign was the sofa on the porch next to the electric organ that served a a coffee table. The sight of a musical instrument left out in the damp cold made me sad. What kind of people would put a musical instrument outside permanently only to be destroyed by rain and the pervasive Portland humidity? Surely only ignoramuses. But maybe the organ never worked in the first place when the residents got their hands on it, I consoled myself.

The house of the young and the restless was painted the color of white man's flesh, the blinds were drawn, the yard nothing memorable. In one window was a small display board with removable letters, the kind one would find advertising a cigarette sale or soft drink special at a corner store or gas station. I expected an impassioned political statement, but was taken by a pleasant surprise and instantly overwhelmed by a nostalgia for a time before my time when Dada was king. "The roar of the masses may be farts." Hey, someone's words made my day.

Other than single family homes with yards and fences, interspersed with the occasional seventies apartment complex that loves to dress in grey or army green, this neighborhood boasts a few haphazzard businesses. There is the overpriced Japanese restaurant with bamboo shades, the sparse hip-seeming bar with a daily happy hour and wireless internet, and two dingy pubs - one with tainted windows, one with no windows at all. There is also the corner store where scruffy drivers of pick up trucks on steroids shop (the deli has a "porn corner" Tim just informed me. Yet one more reason to feel right at home in this neighborhood), and the adjacent Uncle's BBQ, which from what I can tell consists only of a dirty old barrel-style outdoor grill and no storefront whatsoever. Around the corner there is a printing business whose young receptionist I catch staring out the window, bored, every time I walk by. Across the street from the print shop is an autobody collision repair shop that once in a while spews paint fumes into the neighborhood. To add a little spice to our otherwise run-of-the-mill array of commercial spaces, an orange warehouse a few doors down from us serves as the regional capoiera (traditional Brazilian marshal art/dance) center.

A bit further is a mysterious photography studio I've wondered about since Jonah and I first passed by it. The converted tudor-style house sports a lantern-like five point red star above the entrance. Ah ha, a local communist stronghold I thought when I first saw the star. But no, it's a fancy photography studio, I realized. But why would they choose a symbol so many associate with totalitarian regimes to "say it all" about their business at a first glance? I guess some people just have no idea.

The large what-used-to-be living room window gives a peak into what happens inside - an overstuffed sofa and an umbrella in a tripod stand. That's all you can see. I've wanted to see more, but the window is too dark for me to get a better view of the inside without pressing my nose against the glass. I'd passed the studio numerous times, but had never seen anyone inside or any cars parked outside in the carefully landscaped driveway. Having recently inquired about the prices of professional photographs, I now know that a handful of customers a month would do the trick. But still, a photography studio needs customers. A photographer can go out on assignments and bring in money that way. Or is the studio a front for some other shady business? Finally yesterday, a fancy silver sports car stood outside, and in the display window hovered the ass of a bent over photographer hard at work. Picture perfect, I thought.

Just as much as every neighborhood has its corner store, each neighborhood, I am convinced, has its drug dealer den. In Seattle we lived across the street from one. All the fun ended when the police carried a dead body out of there on a stretcher. But our local one-stop shop is a milder affair, I speculate. I've seen a whole bunch of rough looking men over there, huddled over a duffle bag. But they seem to mind their own business which could very well be meth. Once they had a yard sale out of their house, trailer, van, and station wagon, but the smell was too much to get near the merchandise. Plus most of the items seemed useless, e.g. cat and dog salt and pepper shakers and stained tupperware. Also, I'll admit it, I was a little wary of the men. They talked loudly and hadn't washed their hair in weeks (who am I to talk, you may ask). That was even before I suspected them of dealing.

Heading south, a direction in which I hardly walk since it's noisy, is a self-serve car wash. I wonder if they recycle their water or dispose of it ecologically. Probably not. Not economical. Then there is a newly opened gas station. I met the manager a couple of weeks ago. He approached me in front of the pub with no windows. I wondered if he was lost. He was wearing an orange shirt and a gold chain, and looked very Roma (Gypsy). Perhaps he was Indian or Pakistani. He introduced himself as the neighborhood gas station manager and asked me if I knew of any apartment rentals nearby. I suggested a couple of places, but they were no news to him. "Good luck with the gas," I should've said. Or "Gas is a good business to get into." Because gas is funny.

Finally, this is not quite walking distance, but just a couple of minutes by car, there is a strip club. On Halloween their billboard advertised their "big event," Pornoween. I thought that was brilliant and couldn't stop laughing all day long. Tim and I have been wondering what their Thanksgiving event will be called. Any guesses? Or should I say, " Any gasses"?