It’s English Jim, but not as we know it... by Jamie

Wren and I took a short road trip to Bastrop, about forty five minutes south east of Austin, just because it was there, they have a great farmers market and the town looks lovely. We also wanted to try the burgers at the Roadhouse Café, which claimed to be “One of the 50 best burgers in Texas!”. I also wanted to go play on the arcade games in the bowling alley…. Well, the farmers market was a charm, we came away with 7 bars of posh soap (5 dollars) and a huge piece of sirloin (4 dollars). As per usual, I had the “I love your accent” conversation, which mostly serves me well while I live in Texas. Mostly…. But I’ll get to that bit later.

So, off we went to Bastrop town, where we parked up, and immediately found a pie shop, which got me all excited at the possibility of getting a steak and kidney, or pork pie or a nice big meat n tater to put in our cooler, and take home. It was shut. For good. Ah well. Wren has explained to me, on many an occasion, that British pie and American Pie are very different things quite often. When a Brit thinks of pie, it is usually a savory meat filling, often accompanied with vegetables, gravy, and usually, some variety of offal. Or pork. American pies, are usually sweet, apple, cherry, peach, or some kind of delicious chocolaty goop topped with thick whipped cream, and drizzled with some kind of syrupy, sugary and delicious sauce. Definitely not pork. But anyway, the point is, I get all hopeful whenever I see a pie shop in Texas. Not that I’m ever disappointed with pecan, or pumpkin pie… But anyway, I am rambling.

We sat by the Colorado river for an hour, with coffee for me, and green tea for Wren, just taking in the birdsong, and the sound of water. It was lovely. We walked around the charming town and main street, till we got hungry and headed off to the Roadhouse Café, for one of the famous burgers. http://www.roadhousebastrop.com/  We got there at Three O’clock, and it was packed which is a very good sign. They weren’t lying about the burgers…. Wow. Best I’ve ever had. And the milkshake? Oh my actual god….. Chocolate and peanut butter. Together. With milk. In a glass. Cold Guinness doesn’t even taste this good. The waitresses didn’t bother to ask anyone if their food was ok. They didn’t have to. They knew it was excellent.  We looked around at the other diners. Every single person there was having burgers. I didn’t blame them one bit….. Texas takes its meat and its BBQ sauce VERY seriously, and the Roadhouse in Bastrop, TX comes very close to tops in my book… Anyway, I’m rambling about food again…

The arcade games were a bit rubbish, so we headed off home. We stopped at a petrol station to get our lottery tickets for Saturdays draw. I headed in to a Chevron shop, and asked the lady if they did lottery tickets. “No Lotteria, Shell Station” she replied in Spanish, pointing across the road.  So, in I went, and asked the man at the counter “Do you do lottery?”. “What?” came the man’s reply. “Can I get lottery tickets here?” I said again, in the clearest voice I could manage with a Yorkshire accent. “What?” said the man. “Lottery. Lott-er-ree. Lottery tickets. For tonight.” I said once more, feeling that sinking feeling I get when no one can understand my accent. “What? Lobster? Huh?” said the man, shaking his head. I sighed and shook my head in reply. I looked over the counter, located the lottery ticket machine, pointed at it, said “Lottery. Three please” holding up three fingers, just in case he thought three sounded like tractor or something. We got there in the end, with the cunning use of sign language.  What’s funny, is the Hispanic lady in the Chevron shop understood me perfectly well, even with my broad Thirsk accent, and replied in Spanish, which I had no problem with. The man in the Shell station had no idea, and he spoke English. Why on Earth would I go up to a counter at a petrol station and ask for lobster? Eeeh, I ask you…

This brings me to the main point of this blog… Living in America, and having a British Accent.

Firstly, I don’t live in America, I live in Texas. There is a difference, in the same way that I don’t have a British accent, I have a Yorkshire accent. Were funny like that.

Secondly, and I must point this out, most of the people I have met in Texas couldn’t care less about my accent. It raises no eyebrows, or merits any reaction, which is fine. Some folk are intrigued, some folk engage me in conversation, and tell me they love my accent, even if they haven’t got a clue what I am on about half the time. This mostly happens with middle aged ladies in shops, and I could just as well be reading the phone book to them and they wouldn’t mind a bit, as long as I kept talking.

Very often, folk ask me where I am from, to which I usually reply ‘A small town in the North of England that you probably never heard of” The reply I usually get is ‘Huh?” or “What?” to which I make it easy for the poor listener, and just say “England”. Sometimes folk will say “You’re Australian, right?”. Nope. Not even close. About 9000 miles off. Perhaps if I said “G’day mate”, they might say “Hey, are you from Thirsk?” I’ve started telling people I’m from Oklahoma, just to see the reaction I get. Usually none, as they didn’t have a clue what I said anyway. But the clever ones laugh….

 Some folk, as soon as I open my mouth, a look of what can only be described as mild confusion and extreme terror takes over their face, and that’s the end of that conversation, especially when my simple request sounds like gibberish to Texan ears. Like, for example, in the shell station while attempting to buy lottery tickets. Also, when I first came to Austin in late 2008, and I was looking to play a couple of gigs in some local coffee houses, I went into this coffee house called Flipnotics, (now called Kick Butt Coffee.). I had one of my demo’s on CD, and I asked the barista who I should speak to about getting some gigs. “Pardon?” said the barista. “Who do I speak to, about getting a gig in here?” I said again, a little clearer. “Sorry, Pardon sir?” said the barista. I put on my clearest Queens English telephone voice, and said “Who do I speak to, about getting a gig in here?”. “Sorry sir, did you just ask for a single or a double latte?” said the barista. Honestly, you couldn’t make this up….. I did that embarrassing thing that English speakers do when they talk to people with non-English accents, and spoke slowly and deliberately in that horrid patronizing way. “I. Play. Guitar. And. Sing. I. Would. Like. To. Play. A. Show. In. Here. Please. Mate.” It was rude of me, but what else could I do? That poor chap at the coffee house…. We got there in the end. I never got a call back about a gig. Oh well.

One problem I often have, albeit an amusing problem, is my name. My name is Jamie. Say it. Go on… Jamie. Jay-mee. Simple, yes? Not in Texas….  When I introduce myself, the person I am introducing myself to will say “Nice to meet you Jeremy!”  It’s not like I was misheard, they don’t say “Jeremy?”, but “Jeremy! Hi!” I used to say “No no, Jamie.”, but that would only result in that look of confusion and terror, so now I say “Sure. Jeremy. Close enough”. I really don’t mind, it has become a source of private amusement for Wren and me. Whenever it happens (which is most of the time), I simply give Wren the look, and she tries really hard not to laugh out loud.  But get this.. Folk even spell it wrong, even after it has been written down! The amount of times I get ‘Jaime’ is unbelievable. Pay slips, job replies, you name it.   I’m just grateful they got it correct on my green card…

 On extremely rare occasions, folk are rude, insulting and bordering on downright racist, but thankfully this has only happened once. There is this bloke who goes to the same gym as Wren and me. I know him only as ‘Tosser John’. He first came to my attention when I was on the treadmill, and I noticed Tosser John, who was not doing very much working out at all. That’s fine, people can do what they like at the gym, as long as I can get on with my workout in relative peace. Anyway, Tosser John would do two or three reps on a weight machine, then stand around posing, checking himself out in the mirror, strutting around like a peacock, and generally looking like a Tosser John. It was vaguely amusing, but I didn’t think too much of it, till one morning, after my workout. It was about two days after Spain won the World Cup, so there was still some football fever in the air, especially after the USA had played so well. Football (not soccer, thank you) was a new craze for a time here in the U.S.A. and was all over the sports channels, even the British games (except for the Leeds U.T.D. games, but we wont go into that…) So, anyway, I was just leaving the changing rooms of the gym, and checking out a bit of footie on the telly (they have a telly in the changing rooms at my gym). Tosser John walks in, looks at me, looks at the telly and says “ Aint that all over now that the World Cup has finished?” A fair point.. “I suppose so, for a lot of people yes. We love it back at home though!” Tosser John’s face darkened. “Where you from anyway?” he says. “England mate” I reply. “Ok. So when you goin back?” says Tosser John. My face darkens at this dubious comment. “I’m not ‘going back’, I live here.” Tosser John tuts, rolls his eyes and curls his lip at me. “Got tired of your socialist government and ran away then, huh?” I see where this is going, and decide not to point out that Britain had recently elected a conservative government, and go for the slightly less offensive reply of “No, I married an American lady, and now I live and work here.” . “So, you’re not Australian or South African then?” says Tosser John. “No mate, definitely English.”, Says I. “I cant tell the difference , y’all guys are all fucked up anyway. You call that English speaking? I cant understand a word y’all guys are tryin to say. Y’all are fucked up.”, says Tosser John. I refrain from pointing out that I speak English a damn sight better than he can, grab my gym back and leave. Fortunately, Tosser John has had the courtesy not to bother talking to me at all since that incident, for which I am entirely grateful. And besides, if he did, I might well be tempted to reply with “What? Huh? Sorry, I only speak English….”

Now, I am not trying to belittle the American people here, nor am I making inflammatory comments towards them. If anything, this is about my own shortcomings and stumbling blocks that I have had to overcome so that I can communicate properly in Shell stations and supermarkets. Please, don’t start making rude and throwaway comments about what you think you know about the American people by using information that you have either got from the telly, or made up. The Brits are quick to do that, I have noticed, even the ‘liberal thinking’ ones.  And besides, if you make any nasty comments, my wife and her country will invade. They are very good at that, those crazy Yanks…

Guadalupe Street Vignettes: Chris

The apartment downstairs was empty for nearly two months after the tilers left town.  Things were blessedly quiet for the North End Girls, as Jeff like to call Emily, Jessica and me, in our little efficiencies facing the dumpster and the oak tree. But silence in the city rarely lasts.

                                                     ***

“You will be getting a new neighbor next week,” Della told me when I dropped off my rent.

“His name is Chris.  He’s deaf.”   Another deaf guy.  There were two deaf guys in the building beyond Jeff’s place.  One was friendly and very pleasant.  The other was aloof.  He didn’t look at you, he looked through you as though not hearing you meant not seeing you as well.   He was spooky, another of the Social Services placements that our landlord liked because their monthly disability payments meant their rents were always guaranteed to be paid as Jeff succinctly put it.

“We usually try to keep the deaf renters in the same building because they can be loud but there are no apartments vacant where Tom is,” she said. Tom was the friendly neighbor.   “Chris is mentally challenged but his social worker says he’s quite high functioning so I hope he won’t be any trouble.”

“Me, too,” I replied.

                                                      ***

Chris was a big guy, in his early thirties perhaps.  It was hard to tell how old he was.  He was living alone.  He rode his bike to a job training center several times a week.  He could read lips.  Sometimes he would ask you a question by writing it down on a piece of paper; other times he would converse in a combination of sign language and animated gibberish, always ending by giving you two thumbs up or the sign for “I love you.”  He interacted with everyone he saw.  And there was always noise when he was on his own, a continual conversation with himself that outside of his head amounted to squeals and grunts and shouts. 

Family came to see him occasionally, sometimes a woman who was also hearing impaired but who could speak fairly clearly.  She would bring a young boy with her and they would spend the night or the weekend.  The boy would run up and down the stairs and beat the dumpster with broken branches. The woman would yell at him in her rounded speech and Chris would begin to whoop and the boy would yell back in clear English that he didn’t want to come in as he and a friend jumped up and down on an old mattress someone had dumped by the high fence by the dumpster.   

Church ladies would come some Sunday mornings to collect him, greeting him in sign language.  Eventually a signing contingent of Jehovah’s Witnesses found him as well and there they would all be on the curb, signing and smiling while tracts slipped out of their grasps and skittered down the parking lot in the breeze.

                                                    ***

The television started getting loud when the black guy moved in.  He had a kind face and would smile at me and nod his head hello.  He had a car and at first he would just stop by to visit.  He and Chris would go to KFC, bring the chicken and some beer back to the apartment and watch television.  At times I could barely hear the tv, only their occasional laughter or excitement over something but some nights the volume would shoot up and I would have to turn on my air conditioner to drown out the noise.  Chris had a special doorbell that flashed a light in the apartment if it was pushed but how could I explain to two drunk deaf guys that they were being too loud?

The visits became daily and soon the green car was in the parking lot every night and every morning. The car had a security alarm that would go off at the slightest provocation, day or night.  I would find myself cursing at three a.m. as the alarm repeated its litany of sounds over and over like some demented, robotic mockingbird until it wore itself out.  A car alarm for a deaf man.  It was the ultimate irony and I prayed nightly someone would actually steal the little sedan and drive away.

                                                     ***

“He’s not supposed to be living there,” Della said when I asked who Chris’s roommate was.

“He’s not on the lease or paying any rent.  Chris is so sweet and lonely and this guy has just insinuated himself in his life.  Chris’s social worker is really worried about him.  We’ve told Chris that Ken cannot live there with him.  I’ve tried stopping by when the green car is there but Chris won’t answer the door when he sees it’s me.  We’re going to have to call the cops on this guy.  I’m afraid he is really taking advantage of Chris.”

The green car and its driver disappeared for a while.  

                                                   ***

Her name was Glenda.  She was tall and rail thin with white blonde hair.  She just appeared in the parking lot one day.  She was another deaf person and she bristled when you walked past her.  She moved herself in with Tom and together they would walk to Chris’s apartment.  I could hear them partying, sometimes late into the night.  Glenda seemed to be everywhere all the time, always there at the corner of your eye.  One day she and the aloof deaf guy walked together to Chris’s apartment.  She smiled at me as I was getting into my car.

                                             ***

“She’s been arrested,” Della said, referring to Glenda as she wrote out my payment receipt.

“She moved in with Tom and started terrorizing him.  She has a boyfriend in prison who is supposedly being released soon and she threatened Tom that if he didn’t let her stay there, the boyfriend would come after him.”

“Why did she get arrested?”

“She was breaking into Arthur’s apartment and Tom called the cops.”

“Who is Arthur?” I asked.  I didn’t know the names of most of the people in our four buildings.  As Jeff had said, I didn’t need to know most of them.

“He’s the tall deaf man who keeps to himself,” she replied, handing me my receipt.

“I’ve seen them together,” I said. “Going into Chris’s and partying.”

“Well evidently she’s been selling them all drugs, hanging out with them while they get high or pass out and then stealing any money they have left.  She was breaking into Arthur’s while he was asleep to get his social security check.  I guess Tom saw it as his opportunity to get out from under her.  He called the cops and they caught her.  She’ll be in jail for a while.  We’re moving Tom to our other apartments north of here.”  She shook her head in disbelief.

“I just don’t understand it. It must be hard enough being deaf but then to have one of your own preying on other deaf people.  It’s really sad.”

“And whatever happened with that Ken guy?” I asked.  Della rolled her eyes.

“You won’t believe this.  He was involved in some sort of mail fraud.  He had checks coming to Chris’s box. The police are after him.  If you ever see him on the property again, call me immediately.”

                                                   ***

I met Emily on the landing.

“Hey, are you having trouble with roaches?” I asked.  “I’ve never had them before but now I see them on the cupboard doors and on the wall.”  She nodded, finishing her coffee.

“Yes!  I can hear them on the wall above my bed at night.  I got a bunch of bait at HEB to put down.  I’ll give you some.  Oh I HATE them!”

                                                   ***

It was dark when I got home from work.  I had just stepped out of the car when I saw movement behind the dumpster.  I froze as a shape appeared and went to Chris’s door. A moment later the door opened and the person went inside.  From the light coming through the oak tree from the street light above I could see a bike locked to one of the iron fence posts.

Jamie, my soon-to-be fiancé who was here from England for a three month stay, was sitting at the computer by the window when I let myself in the apartment.

“I just had a scare,” I said, taking my coat off and giving him a kiss.

“What happened?”

“I was getting out of the car and a person appeared from behind the dumpster and went to Chris’s.”

“Oh they’ve been in and out all day,” he said.  “There’s a skinny person that I think is a woman, and a guy.  They both have bikes and chain them up at the fence.  I could see them while I was working.  I’m pretty sure they are both deaf.”

“Great,” I sighed.  “What next?”

                                                 ***

Chris was happier than ever.  His two friends were around constantly.  Most mornings at least one bike was chained to the fence.  It was usually the woman who stayed over. I would see her emptying the trash, sometimes sweeping the raised walk in front of the apartment.  They were constantly noisy; tv blaring; laughing; arguing.  Jamie had returned to England to wait for our fiancé visa to be granted.  If they are deaf, why do they need the tv turned up I wondered.  I kept the fan on at night to lull me to sleep.

Arguing downstairs became the norm.  The woman’s voice was high and shrill. Her words were not clear but it was obvious she was unhappy. The man was loud; defiant; unintelligible.  Chris’s  woop-woop remained constant.  Then the banging began.

Perhaps the flashing door bell no longer worked. Perhaps the vibration of the pounding on the door was strong enough to announce company.  It was strong enough to make the cups and roaches rattle in my cupboards.

The first few days, the pounding relented fairly quickly and the visitor was allowed entrance. Gradually, though, the pounding went on longer.  The silence from below began to seem sinister.  I knew Chris was home.  The man started taking his bike into the apartment.  The woman wailed outside.  They didn’t answer the door.  Eventually she would leave, pedaling off into the dark.  I phoned Della.  She promised she would speak with Chris and his social worker.  She called me at my new job to give me an update.

“He knows he is not to have anyone living with him.  I’ve stopped by his apartment and put a sign on the door saying there is to be ‘no pounding on the door.  The door bell flasher is working, please use it. The police will be called if there is a disturbance.’  Sharon, it’s the best I can do for now.  If you have any troubles, call the police.  And you can call me any time, day or night.  I need to be on top of this.”

I thanked her and hung up.  When I arrived home, the note was on Chris’s door.  I was having my dinner when I saw Chris ride into the parking lot on his bike.  Shortly I could hear him fussing as he took the sign off his door.  He slammed it shut behind him.  Later that evening there was a knock at my door.  I held my breath.  Another knock.   Silently, I walked across the door.  Jeff had told me to put something over the peep hole, a piece of paper or some fabric so no light was visible from the outside.  Then you could lift the cover, and with your face there to block the light, look outside without letting it be known you were there.  I lifted the fabric.  It was the woman.  I backed away, not moving until I heard her move off down the stairs.

                                                 ***

It was a beautiful morning.  I sat at the table with my cup of coffee watching a pair of cardinals in the oak tree.  Hearing the door open downstairs, I automatically looked out into the parking lot.  It was Chris and Ken.  They were laughing, signing rapidly to each other.  I grabbed my phone and called Della.  She didn’t answer.  I left a message that Ken was here with Chris then picked up my camera and photographed the pair below.  Standing back from the window, I watched Ken say good bye and walk up the street.  He had parked at a neighboring apartment complex.  I uploaded the photos and emailed them to Della’s work address.  Nothing came of it.

                                                 ***

The pounding downstairs woke me at 2 a.m.  My dishes rattled in the sink.  More pounding and yelling.  It was the woman.  She pounded on the door with heavy fists.  Getting no response, she pounded on the side window, yelling Chris’s name in her garbled, swallowed tones.  I was sure the window would break.  It didn’t.  She tried the kitchen window and the window by the door and then the door again.  There was no response.  One more round of pounding then it stopped.  I hoped she had gotten on her bike and ridden away.

Downstairs in the apartment I could hear laughter now.  Two voices. Chris and the man were both there.  They must have wanted to know for sure if she was gone.  I heard Chris’s dead bolt snap open and the familiar whine of the door opening.

If you have ever been in the woods at night and heard a bobcat scream then you have some idea of what came next.  The woman had not left.  She had stayed there, waiting out of sight where she could watch the door.  The minute she saw it open she was on the men, screaming.  The sound and fury coming out of her was not of this world.  It was ancient and primal, stripped of words, stripped of everything but raw anger and it was terrifying.  The men got the door shut before she could get in.  She raged, slamming her body into the door.    I called 911.

                                                ***

The police cruiser paused at the entrance to the familiar parking lot, the headlights illuminating Chris’s door.  The officer didn’t get out.  There was no woman in the lot.  All was quiet.   The cruiser slid slowly down the drive out of sight.   I crawled into bed, clutching a stuffed toy.

                                                ***

Just before dawn there was pounding on the door again, though less forcefully it seemed.  It continued on the windows and I could hear the woman calling Chris’s name.  The deadbolt clicked downstairs. Chris was blubbering on the walkway.  The woman was sobbing.  They went inside and the door locked behind them.

                                                 ***

I called Della in the morning.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.   “I’ll take care of this.”

 The next day there was a letter tucked in my door from Della.  Chris had been told he was being moved to a different location.  Chris’s parents would come get him tomorrow and he would stay with them until his new place was sorted out.  His social worker and family would have the apartment cleared out at the end of the week.  I just had to get through one more night and then it would be over. 

I was having supper when I heard people on the stairs.  There was a soft knock on my door and then another.  I looked out the peep hole.  It was Chris and the woman.  I ignored them and went back to my meal. One more time that evening and again early the next morning there was knocking on my door.  Both times it was Chris.

                                               ***

The rented box truck filled most of the parking lot entrance. I managed to squeeze the car through and park.  Two men were moving furniture out of Chris’s apartment.  Then Chris was in the doorway.  When he saw me, he started running towards me.  One of the men stopped him.

“No, Chris.  Remember, you are not to talk to anyone.  We’re just here to move your stuff.”  The man looked at me and nodded.  I did the same.  Chris looked at me, confused but smiling.  He signed his familiar thumbs up and I Love You.  I went upstairs and watched the men finish hauling things out of the apartment.  As the truck left the lot. I let out the breath I had been holding for months.

                                                      ***

The door to the downstairs apartment was wide open and I could hear Juan talking to himself as I approached.

“Hey, do you want to see something?” he asked, standing in the doorway.  I peeked in and felt sick.  The apartment was empty but destroyed.  There were holes in the sheetrock, burn marks on the counter tops, sections of carpet ripped up. Worst of all, there were roaches everywhere, walking across the walls and windows and dead on the floor.

“You should have seen them a couple of hours ago before I sprayed in here. Man, it was bad.  You’re probably going to see some in your place for a while.”

I shivered.

“They are already there. Oh my God this is gross.”

“I’ll come up tomorrow and spray for you.  I’m going to spray here again tomorrow, too.  That should take care of it really.  If you have problems you let me know.”

We both looked at the wreck.

“What will happen here?”  I asked.

“Gary’s going to have to put in a lot of work this time.  You know he hates to spend money on this place.  But he’s talking he’ll start putting in those fake wood floors.  Some patch and paint.  Fix the counter.  Probably be ready by the end of the month.  There’s a waiting list here right now so he won’t wait too long to fix it up.”

                                             

Guadalupe Street Vignettes: Juan

It took nearly two years before I could have a conversation with Juan and not be insulted in some way.  If I was with Jeff when we met, he would talk just to him, man to man, as though I wasn’t right there with them.  If I was alone, or with someone he didn’t know, he would make slightly off-color remarks. He was like that, always having to throw in some sort of dig or crude comment, as though it was a necessary part of conversation to belittle you or make you feel uncomfortable.  I came to realize that was just his machismo talking, his shtick.   The first time I called him on his attitude he said I was a stuck up bitch.  I pointed out that a stuck up bitch wouldn’t continue to say hi in the parking lot and ask how school was going. 

                                          ***

I had stuff piled everywhere in an attempt to find the copy of my college transcripts I knew I had brought with me to Texas.  The gentle knock on the door told me it wasn’t Jeff outside.  I debated just being quiet, pretending I wasn’t home.  Unexpected knocks on the door were rarely a good thing, especially after dark.  As I stood debating, the person knocked again and said my name. 

“Hey, Sharon, you home?”   It was Juan.

Opening the door I found him standing with a sheath of papers and a pencil.

“You eat fancy cheese.  Can you help me with my homework?”

                                       ***

Juan was in his late fifties, living off a small Army pension and whatever he could earn doing odd jobs for our landlord.  Recently he had been diagnosed with adult-onset diabetes.  He saw me in the parking lot and offered me a bunch of dried pasta and canned tomatoes.

“You want these?  I’m diabetic now, can’t have the pasta.”

“I’ll take the pasta for Jeff,” I said.  “But you can still eat tomatoes can’t you?”  He looked at me like I had two heads.

“What’s the point of tomatoes if you can’t have pasta?  Just take them.”  He filled my arms up and walked back to this apartment as I juggled the armful upstairs.

                                       ***

“I need to know about cheese,” he said, surveying my mess and then turning back to me.

“Your place is a mess.  You’re a librarian.  You should be more organized.”

“Funny,” I replied.  “So, what do you need to know about cheese?”

He looked around for a place to sit but there wasn’t a flat surface anywhere that didn’t have a pile on it.  I shifted things up the bed and offered him a seat.

“It’s this assignment for school,” he said, handing me the papers he had in his hand.  School was the community college where he was enrolled in a culinary arts program.  His goal was to find a job working in a school kitchen where he would have benefits and the summers off.

“I have to taste four different cheeses then evaluate them according to that list.   I have to find out the ingredients, what kind of milk is used, stuff like that.  I went to HEB to the deli and they printed out the labels for me for some different cheeses but they wouldn’t give me samples.  They said I’d have to buy some.  I don’t have any money til I get paid at the end of the week and the project is due tomorrow.  I can make stuff up about cheddar but that’s it.”

I looked at the assignment and handed the papers back to him.

“Well, I don’t know what it is about me that suggests I’d have more than Velveeta in the fridge but you’re in luck.”

Walking the ten steps it took to get from one end of the apartment to the other, I opened the refrigerator and started moving things around.  I came up with a parmesan rind, some feta crumbles and the end of a roll of goat cheese from the farmers’ market.  There was even a little wedge of Stilton with apricots, an indulgence I’d bought when I was missing my English fiancé and most of which I had eaten while watching episodes of Dr. Who as consolation.

I put a taste of each cheese on a plate and walked back to the bed.

“There you are, sir.  Parmesan, feta, local goat cheese and Stilton, which is a type of bleu cheese.”  I handed him the plate which he surveyed critically.

“But how do I find out information about them?  I don’t got a computer.  I use the ones at school.”    It was clear the search for the transcripts was going to have to wait a bit longer.

“I guess we’ll just have to look them up on my computer,” I said, quite aware that as a librarian I wasn’t going to be let off the hook with this research.

“You do the taste test and fill out your sheets and I’ll find information on them for you.”

“That will work,” he said.  “Tell me the names again.”

As he sampled and I searched, I watched him out of the corner of my eye. The parmesan and feta went down without reaction.  He paused at the goat cheese, not too crazy about the cracked pepper on the outside it seemed.  The look on his face when he sampled the Stilton nearly made me burst out laughing.  Bleu cheese is not for everyone.

By the time I had printed out everything from fat content to storage tips, the plate was empty.  Juan handed it to me as I handed him the paperwork.

“I knew you’d have cheese.”

                                                ***

I saw him in the parking lot a week later.  He was pushing leaves around with a blower and shut it off as I approached.

“How did the project turn out?” I asked.  He nodded his head.

“Good.  I got an A on it.  I needed it to bring up my grade.”

“That’s great,” I said.  He smiled.

“You shouldn’t eat so much cheese though. It’s making your pants too tight.”

It Isn't Always Winter

 

              

Guadalupe Street Vignettes: The Tilers

The Tilers

They were living downstairs when I moved in above, two men with a variety of vehicles that seem to come and go.  I quickly discovered they were tile layers.  Their door was often open and it was hard not to peek inside as I walked past to the stairs.  Boxes of tile lined one wall; new boxes; partially used boxes; stacks of mismatched leftovers.  A trail of powdered grout and cement led from their curbside parking spot, across the sidewalk and into the apartment.  You couldn’t see deeper into the apartment than the first few feet.  They kept the blinds down.

Jeff warned me early on.

“I know you Canadians like to smile at people and be friendly but don’t talk to these guys.  You don’t need to know them and they don’t need to know you.”

“I’m from Maine, not Canada,” I reminded him in a now familiar and expected exchange concerning anything north of Amarillo being Canada.

“Same thing,” he said dryly with just a hint of a smile.  But this was serious business.

“You’re in a city now and these guys already creep out Emily and Jessica so just pay attention and keep to yourself and you’ll be fine.”

***

Those first few weeks the tilers were often home in the afternoons and evenings.  It was hard not to bump into them at the foot of the stairs.  They were both Hispanic, in their early fifties.  They conversed with eachother in Spanish.  I learned from Della, the property manager, one was named David.  He tried to be charming but in that way that makes your skin crawl and makes you double check your door lock.  Our studio apartments were at the far end of the complex and a high fence blocked views into the parking lot from the street save for the opening into the lot.  Strategically speaking, it was a vulnerable spot for a woman on her own. I was polite, not wanting to encourage and yet not wanting to be seen as “that bitch upstairs” by not interacting at all thus inviting disdain and maybe trouble.  

 The other man never spoke to me, just looked on as I came and went.  One side of his face was badly scarred as if by fire or perhaps he’d been dragged across tar and gravel. It was dramatic and gruesome the first time we were in close proximity. He was sullen and stepped around me and the bag of groceries I had stopped to reposition in my arm before climbing the stairs. I never lost the feeling that it was painful mask and there was great anger beneath it.

***

Even when their vehicle was not in the lot there always seemed to be someone downstairs.  People came and went, day and night.  Doors slamming.  Music.  Lots of women.  Partying.  Boisterous sex.  My internet connection went down.  After re-setting the modem several times, I gave up trying to get it to work and called the cable company.  The technician on the other end checked what he could but had no quick fix.  He put in a service order for me and said someone would be by between ten and noon tomorrow.  I went to bed, turning on the air unit’s fan to drown out the noise below.  A tv was blaring over it all.

***

I was up early, moving stuff around so the cable guy would be able to reach the connection point and modem easily.  People were stirring downstairs.  On my way back from getting the mail at the boxes, the tilers’ door opened and a handful of young people stumbled out of the apartment leaving the door open.  There was a plasma tv set up on boxes of tile. One of the girls looked at me and smiled smugly as I passed to the stairs.  I heard laughter behind me as I unlocked my door.

The technician arrived near noon. He checked the modem and looked at the cable coming through the wall.

“You’re not getting any juice at all.  I’ll go check the box outside.”  He tromped down the stairs and returned a few minutes later.

“I found the problem.  Your line has been disconnected,” he said. “Come down and have a look.” 

I followed him to the corner of the building where he pointed up to an innocuous gray box on the wall. He hoisted himself up on a water pipe and opened the door to the box.

“The cable has been pulled out and left hanging.”

“So it didn’t just come loose from the box?” I asked.

“No mam.  Someone pried the door open and unplugged you.  I’m guessing it was one of your neighbors and they used your line.  Then they unplugged it so it wouldn’t be connected to their place when you discovered your cable was out and called us in.” 

I stood there dumbstuck as he plugged the line back in and shut the box.

“I”ll put a lock on the box and that should keep this from happening again.”

As he was jumping down from the water pipe, the tilers’ door opened.  David looked at me and then at the cable guy.

“Hey,” he said.  “I want to get cable.  Can you hook me up?”  The tech told him he needed to call the office and set up an installation time.  David thanked him and went back inside.

***

Jeff looked coolly at me when I told him about the morning’s revelations.

“It was them,” he said matter of fact, referring to the tilers.  “Jessica and Emily certainly didn’t do it.  Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

“There’s nothing to take care of,” I said.  “It’s fixed and the cable guy put a lock on the box.  I can’t prove that they did it but it is quite a coincidence that there’s a new television and they just happen to need cable now.”    Jeff just looked at me.

“Like I said, I’ll take care of it.”

***

I was trying to transcribe Jeff’s sprawling scrawl into the poetry it was when he came home from an appointment at the VA.

“Uh, by the way.  I had a little visit with your neighbors last night.”  I stopped typing.

“What did you do?” I asked, feeling suddenly sick.

“I banged on their door around 1 am and got them out of bed.  I had my tattoos showing and my slippers on so they knew I didn’t give a shit about what might happen.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“They’ve seen me around. And I kept it cool. It’s spooky when a crazy guy talks real quiet.  I told them I knew there was a lot of shit going on at this end of the lot.  I said I was personally looking after the girls they were living near and if they even looked sideways at you three I would fucking deal with it and they would never hear it coming.”

I didn’t know whether to hit him or hug him.

“Oh man, I wish you hadn’t done that,” I said.  “I’m the one that has to live above them, not you.”

The look he gave me was pure Kung Fu master.

“They are no longer your problem, grasshopper.”

                                                                    ***

Della stood by the landlord’s truck watching the boys hoist the big couch into the back.  The blinds were up in the downstairs apartment, flooding it with light.  It was completely empty.

“Did they move out?” I asked cautiously.

“Sort of,” she said. “They were behind on the rent.  Gary was getting ready to evict them but they took off.  We’re keeping the couch.  Everything else went in the dumpster. ” She smiled at me.

“It’s a nice couch.”