A Capital Idea

A bit of perspective can be a good thing some times.  Being married to someone from another country is like being given a second set of eyes with which to see your own world.  After hearing a reporter refer to the Green Bay Packers as the “world champions”,  Jamie asked how they could be the world champions when the rest of the world had not competed against them in the Super Bowl.  I pointed out that being America, we ARE the world.  But then the chuckling began from both of us.

It has lead us, however, to think about the ways we market ourselves as being superior in some way to the rest of the world, or rather possessing such attributes that would render one the cream of the crop.  After four months of job applications, resume re-writes and rejection letters, I am beginning to wonder if I ever possessed anything in the way of experience or skill that would set me apart from the crowd.    It is clear that I need help in delineating my vision of myself but rather than enlist the services of a life coach or career advisor, I’m choosing instead to follow the example of Mills County, Texas.  After all, it’s the Goat Meat Capital of Texas.

You don’t have to drive very far in Texas before seeing some sign, banner or monument proclaiming the excellence of the place you are about to experience.  Texas is darn good at promoting itself. It was on our trip to Abilene that we saw the sign in Goldthwaite about the Goat Meat Capital.  Now we haven’t done the research so I don’t know if Mills County is the clear and clever champion of goat meat production or if they just edged out Gillespie and Comanche counties in the per pound categories, but they have a nice big sign on 183 North so I’m not about to argue.

After a cheer for Mills County, Jamie and I realized we’ve seen quite a few boastful signs in our travels.  Of course you have to start with Austin which is not only the state capital but has also trademarked its self-proclaimed motto of “Live Music Capital of the World.”  Now I must admit that I’ve grown quite cynical while living in Austin so I do caution that the Austin founding fathers and mothers didn’t coin the city “The Great Live Music Capital of the World”  so caveat emptor if you show up looking for music.  Maybe you will fare better than we have.

It did seem that Austin would garner the title for the most grandiose Texas world claim until I picked up a magazine about El Paso at a tourist information center.  There on the cover for all the world to see was the feature article:   El Paso—Mexican Food Capital of the World.  Ok, isn’t that a bit cheeky?  The Mexican border makes up the western city limit of El Paso.  Isn’t it quite possible that Mexico just might be the Mexican Food Capital of the World?  But that’s Texas for you and neither the city of El Paso nor the country of Mexico hold the trademark on the motto.  That hot piece of marketing property belongs to some bright spark in El Paso who markets it on key chains, license plate holders, magnets and jewelry.  Texas wins again!

But let’s get down to some slightly more conceivable capital claims.

Baird is the Antique Capital of West Texas.  This is an official proclamation put forth by the state legislature in June of 1993.  We were in Baird on our way home from Abilene.  There are quite a few antique shops.  Most of them were closed.

Bastrop is the Most Historic Small Town in Texas.  Why this is, I don’t know.  But we’re more tempted to believe that the Roadhouse Café, which boasts on its t-shirts “Best Burgers in Bastrop”, is undoubtedly telling the truth.  No burger in Bastrop could be better than the ones we had there.

San Saba bills itself as the Pecan Capital of the World;  however, so does Albany, Gerogia.  I’m not about to get in the middle of that feud because Georgians and Texans are both passionate peoples who are fond of carrying firearms.  Brunswick, Missouri, claims to be the Pecan Capital of Missouri, a relatively safe and modest claim in my book, but it’s also home to the World’s Largest Pecan, unless you talk to the folks of Seguin (pronounced Sa-geen), Texas, who make the same claim.  Read this quick article for a good belly laugh:   http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.roadsideamerica.com/attract/images/tx/TXSEGpecan.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.roadsideamerica.com/story/4031&usg=__pZlun7MATIb16nvL4AsG3TdnaEg=&h=256&w=240&sz=14&hl=en&start=41&zoom=1&itbs=1&tbnid=3WoHk5mZe-M5gM:&

When I started looking for more Texas capitals, I was delighted to discover that a couple of websites are all ready dealing with this complex topic. 

Athens is the Black-Eyed Pea Capital of the World.

Waxahachie is the Crape Myrtle Capital of the World, though Lamar County is the        Crape Myrtle Texas County Capital.

Bandera is the Cowboy Capital of Texas.  Jim Hogg County is the Official Vaquero Capital of Texas and of the United States.  No one is talking about where the Unofficial Vaquero Capital is.

 Eagle Lake is the Goose Hunting Capital of the World.

Hawkins is the Pancake Capital of Texas.  Elgin is the Sausage Capital.  Parker County is the Peach Capital.  Caldwell is the Kolache Capital of Texas.  Mauriceville is the Crawfish Capital.  Medina is the Apple Capital.  Westlaco is the Citrus Capital.  Poteet is the Strawberry Capital.  Basically, you don’t have to worry about finding lots of capital food in Texas. 

Watermelon is a little more tricky though.  Luling and Dilley share the honor of  Watermelon Capital of Texas.  Someone in Hempstead was not to be left out and decreed it is the Watermelon Capital of Texas 2.   But the standing ovation has to go Knox City who championed the cause of the seed-free watermelon and got the state House of Representatives to issue a resolution in 1997 making it the Seedless Watermelon Capital of Texas.  Absolutely brilliant!

I was a bit curious why the lists were not including the chicken, pork or beef capitals and a cursory glance through Google on the topics only brought up beef boasting which goes to the panhandle city of Hereford, Texas, named for the local breed of cattle.  A few Google pages later you find Buenos Aires, Argentina, being referred to as the Beef Capital of the World but they must not be paying Google AdWords enough money if the county seat of Deaf Smith County, Texas, is garnering the first search result.  It may interest you to know that Hereford, due to an unusually high level of naturally-occurring fluorine (fluoride) is also called “The Town Without a Toothache.”  It is, as well, the birthplace of Ron Ely who played Tarzan in the 60’s AND replaced Bert Parks as host of the Miss America Pageant.  Three claims to fame for Hereford…it hardly seems fair.

There is the Bluebird Capital in Wills Point and the Catfish Capital in West Tawakoni.  The Rose Capital in Tyler (presumably where the Yellow Rose of Texas resides) and the Cactus Capital in Sanderson. Mesquite is the Rodeo Capital and Madisonville claims mounds of Mushrooms.  Buda (pronounced Be-you-da) is the Outdoor Capital of Texas but I think that’s because there is a massive Cabela’s retail complex there, though Buda is the undisputed home of the world-famous Weiner Dog races.

My favorite capital of something is Odessa, Texas.  Odessa is quite amazingly the Jackrabbit Roping Capital of Texas.  That’s all thanks to Grace Hendricks who set a new record in rabbit roping at the State Convention of the American Legion in 1933. Her record-winning time of 5 seconds beat the 11 1/2 second time of the previous record holder, Sheriff Arden Ross of Loving County.  According to Mrs. Hendricks’s grandson Jon, Grace was convinced to enter the roping event, which she did, and walked to the center of the arena to prepare to rope the rabbit.  She saw the rabbit heading for her so she roped it in self defense.  In 2001, the Texas Legislature signed another of its resolutions thereby granting Odessa its truly unique designation.  And of course, Odessa is home to The World’s Largest Jackrabbit… I think the lesson learned here is that I need a big sign and a big claim.  Once I've got that, I think I'll be good to go.

(Check out these links for more unusual place designations and to see just what the Texas Legislature has been up to when it comes to putting Texas on the map....as if taking up a vast quantity of the atlas wasn't enough!  And sadly, none of the great photos in this posting were taken by us.)
http://www.beer-bytch.com/state_and_county_designations.htm
http://www.tsl.state.tx.us/ref/abouttx/capitals.html

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.”