The bus eases onto Route 1 north, cruising the curb in search of riders then gliding into the left lane to turn onto Main Street, then left again onto southbound Route 1, aka Second Street. In front of the abandoned plumbing supply store is a middle-aged, paunchy, sandy-haired man in bermuda shorts and shades holding aloft a hand-lettered sign saying "Thank you Police Officers."
Confronting rush-hour traffic, peering into the bus looking to make eye contact with each and every one of us, he's shoving his message out there.
What's happened in my neighborhood?
The bus turns onto Montgomery Avenue and I pull the cord for the next stop. As I do every working day, I get off at Fourth and Montgomery, seven and a half blocks from my house, so I can walk through the neighborhood, seeing who's about and what's what.
There's that pugnacious little dog, RUNNING to accost me, barking ferociously (or so he thinks) and dogging me along the boundaries of his property. There is no fence, no electronic device around his neck to shock him if he steps beyond his jurisdiction. His property is a large corner lot, usually hosting a cadre of teenagers playing basketball. You can see the furry little tyke wavering between his sacred responsibility to guard the perimeter and his secret desire to join in the basketball game.
As I walk on pondering that guy's sign, I remember a voicemail message we got Monday morning from the city's emergency hotline. An eleven-year-old boy had been waiting for his schoolbus alone on the first day of school when a dirty white van pulled up alongside him. One of the two men in the van, whose description we are given in amazing detail, beckoned to the kid while holding out a toy motorcyle. The boy, surely acting on at least ten years of training by his parents and teachers on the perils of strangers bearing gifts, refused to even look at the men in the van. When one of the men got out of the van and began to approach the boy, shaking the motorcycle enticingly (or so he thought), the boy turned on his heels and RUNS. The creep holding the toy froze in his tracks. Well done, Mom. Booya, Dad. Fucking-A, little kid.
The cops, who I know had some help from neighbors, must have caught those monsters.
Up ahead of me, I see the blonde, lanky, youngish landscaper weed-whacking the sidewalk in front of the insurance agent's office fronting on Talbott Street. Without looking up, he retreats with his noisy apparatus deep into the yard as I approach. We never make eye contact. But we are certainly aware of each other.
Confronting rush-hour traffic, peering into the bus looking to make eye contact with each and every one of us, he's shoving his message out there.
What's happened in my neighborhood?
The bus turns onto Montgomery Avenue and I pull the cord for the next stop. As I do every working day, I get off at Fourth and Montgomery, seven and a half blocks from my house, so I can walk through the neighborhood, seeing who's about and what's what.
There's that pugnacious little dog, RUNNING to accost me, barking ferociously (or so he thinks) and dogging me along the boundaries of his property. There is no fence, no electronic device around his neck to shock him if he steps beyond his jurisdiction. His property is a large corner lot, usually hosting a cadre of teenagers playing basketball. You can see the furry little tyke wavering between his sacred responsibility to guard the perimeter and his secret desire to join in the basketball game.
As I walk on pondering that guy's sign, I remember a voicemail message we got Monday morning from the city's emergency hotline. An eleven-year-old boy had been waiting for his schoolbus alone on the first day of school when a dirty white van pulled up alongside him. One of the two men in the van, whose description we are given in amazing detail, beckoned to the kid while holding out a toy motorcyle. The boy, surely acting on at least ten years of training by his parents and teachers on the perils of strangers bearing gifts, refused to even look at the men in the van. When one of the men got out of the van and began to approach the boy, shaking the motorcycle enticingly (or so he thought), the boy turned on his heels and RUNS. The creep holding the toy froze in his tracks. Well done, Mom. Booya, Dad. Fucking-A, little kid.
The cops, who I know had some help from neighbors, must have caught those monsters.
Up ahead of me, I see the blonde, lanky, youngish landscaper weed-whacking the sidewalk in front of the insurance agent's office fronting on Talbott Street. Without looking up, he retreats with his noisy apparatus deep into the yard as I approach. We never make eye contact. But we are certainly aware of each other.
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