A short story by Cara Cushing.
He thought, Whatever happens I won’t be moving out. To do so would be the ultimate cowardice. “I’ll stand my ground,” he muttered to himself, and the phrase recalled to his mind a news story he’d read in the past and found relatable, though he couldn’t quite place all the details.
Jeffrey was in his home office, a section in the corner of his living room, which was itself a section in an even larger room -- a sunny, spacious apartment, high-ceilinged, hardwood-floored, and immaculately clean. Through a broad, east-facing window he could peer out at the cars parked on the street two stories below and keep watch for nefarious activity. The street was thronged with people weaving in and out between cars aimlessly, or else, he surmised, with singular intent: they were probably checking -- flagrantly criminal even in daylight -- to see if any of the car doors were unlocked. This thought, though it was not new, caused him fresh alarm and he craned his neck further to look down at them.
From this vantage, he could see the newest cause of his ire: a dilapidated RV parked at the north end of the street, which had not moved from its spot in days. He had seen its owner a few times; a white man, probably a few years older than him, by all appearances in fine health. Yet when Jeffrey worked from home some days he could sense that the man was in there all day long – why didn’t he get a job? A more disturbing question occurred to Jeffrey: how was he disposing of his sewage?
He opened a browser window on his laptop. It snapped into action quickly and quietly, his beloved machine. He scanned his bookmarks folder and clicked on the site he wanted. A page instantly loaded, bearing the title: “Next Door.” The private social network for your neighborhood, explained the header, floating in the trees above an image of a professional-looking couple in smart autumnal clothes walking some kind of collie; Nextdoor is the best way to stay informed about what's going on in your neighborhood—whether it's finding a last-minute babysitter, planning a local event, or sharing a safety tip. And this had proved true for him. Here for the past two months he had issued his warnings, and been warned himself. He had also learned about a biweekly tango night that was hosted in a formerly abandoned mattress factory nearby, had hired a security camera installer on someone’s recommendation (it was so hard to find trustworthy contractors these days) and had been involved in a long, heated comment thread about picking up dog shit in the community park. He prided himself on having contributed wisdom and balance to this discussion, even including a link to a website that sold cheap, biodegradable poop bags, which he felt certain his neighbors had appreciated.
His move to the neighborhood had not been seamless – he had even felt unwelcome, had felt the glares of unemployed men on street corners as he walked past them every evening with his faithful hound. He had pleaded with his realtor to come up with something better, at first, happy to forfeit his security deposit if it came to that. “It’s an impossible market, Jeffrey,” she’d written in response to his frustrated emails. “I’m doing the best that I can. In the meantime, take heart! The mayor’s office is in the process of making some much-needed changes to the area. Saw police on 8th & Market out in full regalia the other day tearing down that awful camp. Be careful out there—God forbid Cassius cuts his paw on a dirty needle or something! I’ll keep looking for your dream apartment! X’s and O’s! Tamara.”
But here, on this website, he’d finally begun to feel a nascent sense of fraternity with others in the neighborhood, the first hints of integration into a place that was as much rightfully his as anyone else’s. His resolve to stay had strengthened with each encouraging message in his inbox:
Celeste B.
thank you so much for making the post about the boys on bikes riding around MLK blvd. glad i’m not the only one wondering what they’re up to. shouldn’t they be in school??? (actually I can’t even tell if they’re 9 years old or like, 17!) called the cops – of course – no response. what are we paying them for? keep up the good work!
Not a bad-looking woman, either, this Celeste, if you could trust a photograph that’s only 100 x 100 pixels. Which, with this graphics card, you absolutely can, he thought with satisfaction.
He clicked on “Start New Post.” He glanced out the window again. No sense putting it off any longer, he thought. He pictured the RVs and junk cars multiplying with each passing day, until finally the street was consumed by them. And what of his own vehicle -- where would he park it then?
MAN IN RV ON PERALTA
Fellow Neighbors, Hello from 15th & Peralta again! Wondering if anyone else has noticed the crummy RV that’s been parked on the corner for the past 5 days. Didn’t realize I was living in a trailer park! I don’t want to post exactly how much I pay in rent for my apartment [you never know who’s reading!] but suffice to say that I would like very much to be able to park in front of my own building without worrying about stepping in human sewage, since it’s a pretty sizeable sum!
Friends, let’s try to brainstorm…what can we do about these people who think it’s okay to clog up the streets with their broken-down junk?? I don’t want to have to call the cops on this guy [not that it does any good!] But this is unacceptable. Please message me with any ideas. In the meantime, I’ve set up an extra cam in my window so I can see who’s coming and going from this possible mobile meth lab. Wish I was joking!! Will post pertinent screenshots in this thread.
He clicked “post” and waited. Soon a reply popped up on the page. It was from one of the crazier people on the website, some religious whack-job who was always quoting Bible verses about being neighborly, anointing the poor, that sort of thing. She had trolled his posts in the past, and in this latest reply she revisited the same old themes. He was waiting for her to get mugged and change her tune.
“You’re not gonna see me kneeling down to wash this guy’s feet – LOL no thanks !!” he typed in response. After a moment’s consideration he highlighted “LOL” and pressed the delete button – he knew that his generation had ironically embraced the shorthand, but he still felt uncomfortable using it in his posts. Finally he deleted his whole response, thinking, I shouldn’t be too sarcastic. Some people on here look to me as a pillar of the community. He swiveled his chair to admire Cassius, who’d woken and was making a commotion, chewing at the bars of his crate. Time for a walk, he thought, harnessing his dog, grabbing his pepper spray, and heading for the door.
That night, another commotion woke him, this time coming from outside. Probably teenagers breaking bottles again, or some crackhead using a cordless saw to liberate some poor car’s catalytic converter. It won’t be the last time, either, he thought, rubbing his eyes.
Then he noticed the familiar red and blue lights of a police cruiser projected, spinning, on the wall of his loft. The lights brought him an instant sense of relief; something had happened, no doubt, but here was proof that something was being done about it. There was no need for him to intervene. He pulled a pillow over his face and tried to fall back asleep, but a piercing wail soon roused him fully from his bed. He padded softly to the window.
As he’d thought they might have, the police cars had converged upon the end of the block, surrounding the RV at odd angles, their doors left open and headlights ablaze. There were men and women in uniform milling about in what looked like the aftermath of recent chaos. It took him a moment to take in the full scene. On the ground, as if circled in the glow of a streetlight and the radiant spotlights of the cop cars, the RV’s owner was lying in a contorted pose, his neck twisted up in red anger at the officers who surrounded him, his sweatpants drooping around his hips as though he’d tried to stop them from falling but had been interrupted. The source of this interruption, Jeffrey guessed, was a younger male cop who stood above him with one hand on the man’s bicep, forcing his arm behind his body. Had this man, the RV deadbeat, been the source of the girlish shriek?
But no, it must have been her – someone Jeffrey did not remember having seen before. She must have been around ten years old, and as she came into his focus he understood that she had been crying the whole time, shrieking for the man on the ground and straining, against the arms of another police officer, to join him. She looked healthy enough, though she had the stringy hair and unfashionable clothing of the girls in middle school who had always harangued Jeffrey for his friendship, for reasons he could never understand. And she was streaked with tears and dirt like someone in a Dust Bowl era photograph. Had a child been living in the RV too? He struggled to recall any evidence that this hapless, disheveled man was a father. As he taxed his memory, he watched a ponytailed female cop walking in and out of the RV with what must have been the girl’s belongings. Dingy stuffed animals, a fluorescent backpack made of a tacky nylon material, a tangle of clothes.
What a dreadful scene, like something out of a Dickens novel, he thought, with the girl there crying Daddy, daddy and the RV man trying to mollify her with soothing phrases from his undignified position on the sidewalk. Jeffrey wondered if his post had helped to alert the authorities, and even thought, in the confusion of words that could be understood amidst the static of their walkie-talkies, that he heard an officer say as much. Well, it was a heart-rending scene if you didn’t know the full story, he thought. For all he knew, the man had been running a child pornography ring out of his RV. And the girl, now in the throes of Stockholm syndrome, would soon see that Jeffrey’s efforts had saved her. He took a last look at the female cop, who was now dumping out the contents of a battered suitcase onto the street. He shook his head and drew his blinds.
Reply to MAN IN RV ON PERALTA
Celeste B.
i totally noticed this man, too, and was even thinking of making a post about it! think I recognized him from one of the old buildings down the block – so glad they tore those ugly things down!! but your post must have helped, because when I came home from my run this morning --- there was an extra parking space! 😊 community action at work!! THANK YOU for all that you do!!!
He sipped his coffee with pleasure and read Celeste B’s message once, twice, three times, and as he read it their brief correspondence enlarged, in his mind, until it had become a full-fledged romance. It was just the internet, he considered, but then again it may be the best we’ve got these days, when you can’t even go outside without inviting violence. And certainly no dating app or website had ever made him feel so civic-minded. He tapped his laptop’s touch screen to zoom in on Celeste B’s smiling profile picture, admiring her lovely face. In the light of a fresh new day, Jeffrey felt happy, he felt warmth toward his fellow citizens. “Community action,” she’d written – her words inspired him. He thought he should try his luck, tell her how he felt. He clicked on the link that would allow him to speak with her privately, poised to compose a casual, cheerful message inviting her to join him in organizing a block party – “just a bit of fun for all our friends in the neighborhood—maybe sometime next month?”