Please Stop Telling Me I’m Wealthy

I would rage all the way back home and shout at/to Greg, “Some guy just pulled up in his fucking truck, blocked my path and asked if I needed a ride.”

Greg would nod, not half as bothered as I wanted him to be, and reply, “Yeah, the main road is where all the prostitutes work. Where else are they going to look?”

“I’m a middle-aged woman, with no makeup, jeans, a sweatshirt, and flip-flops! How do you mistake that for a prostitute?”

“I don’t think they care what you’re wearing.”

Greg and I have different viewpoints on certain topics. He feels if I don’t want to be mistaken for a prostitute, I shouldn’t walk where the prostitutes work. I feel as a woman I should be able to walk wherever the fuck I want and not get hassled by men. Like all married people, we are a work in progress and have numerous discussions on a lot of heated issues. (For the record, I’m right about this one, but that’s another story.)

Anyway, I was excited and grateful for the move to our new house. It was better than where we were. I found pieces of old furniture at thrift stores and set about sanding and painting, while Greg built shelves in the kitchen and trimmed out our windows. We were determined to make this house a home.

That Christmas, I baked cookies and other treats and dragged my reluctant husband from house to house delivering my good cheer. The looks on the faces of our suspicious neighbors were priceless. One would have thought we were presenting them with a court summons instead of a plate of Snickerdoodles. It was both awkward and amusing. I could only imagine how much of my Season Greetings ended up in the garbage out of fear a random crazy lady was trying to poison them.

At Odell and Leah’s it was different. They opened their door wide, and we could see they had guests. We chatted for a bit at the door, wished each other Merry Christmas, and went home. A few days later, they left a kind gift on our doorstep. It was exactly what I was hoping for, a friendly relationship with our neighbors.

Over time it became increasingly difficult for me to keep that friendship because they were often intoxicated. I was raised in an alcoholic home. It’s hard for me to listen to people slurring their words while swaying. I tend to recoil from drunk people who want to hug me, and Leah liked to hug a lot when she was tying one on. Their drinking didn’t bother Greg and he would often share a beer with Odell, shooting the shit over the low fence that diaren’t the solution.

But then one morning in mid-December, I was just about to get into our truck on my way to the grocery store, when I heard Odell call out. He waved for me to hold up before running into his house. A moment later he returned and I met him at the fence. He handed me the glass plate with snowmen on it that I used to deliver the baked goods the year before.

“Here,” he said, as he pushed it toward me.

“That was for you to keep,” I answered. “It was a gift.”

He pushed it a little closer until I took it. “Yeah, I know,” he laughed. “I’m giving it back so you can fill it up again. Put more of the bacon toffee. That was good!” He was so matter-of-fact, I didn’t know how to respond. I stood there for a moment, stunned and speechless before muttering something along the lines of, “Sure. Okay.”

I did bake that year, just for Odell. Greg and I laughed while I spent days making small batches of a variety of Christmas treats to fill one glass plate. We kept repeating Odell’s words. “Fill it up.” Of course, I could have said no, but I think, deeper down, I didn’t want to and in the end, by baking for him, some of that Christmas spirit did return.

Seeing flashing blue and red lights is not unusual in our neighborhood. I only look outside now if they remain for a long time. Eight months ago, the lights stayed flashing outside Leah and Odell’s house. Greg and I went out, just as they were bringing Odell out on a stretcher. He’d had a massive heart attack while they lay in bed. That would be the last time we would see him. He died a week later. Leah was lost without him. They had known each other since elementary school.

After the funeral, which we attended, we saw very little of Leah. She couldn’t bring herself to come back to the house where her husband died. Instead, her son Darren moved in. He immediately went to work cleaning up the house and yard. He worked for hours in the hot sun removing bags of trash from the back yard. It turns out not only could Odell and Leah not afford electricity, but they also couldn’t afford trash service. As Darren hauled away more and more trash bags piled in the back yard, mice began to enter our home.

To say I was annoyed by seeing mice running across my living room floor would be an understatement, but I admired the young man’s work ethic. I brought Darren sandwiches and bottles of water, and Greg loaned him tools to work on his car. He had a job but needed his car running to get there.

And then one night we heard a strange howling sound coming from next door. It was the middle of the night and it woke us up. We looked out our bedroom window and saw Darren half-naked rolling around on the ground near his car. It was clear he was high on something, but what, we did not know. This became a regular occurrence. He woulFrom the older man who walks up and down the street with a rake every day and offers to rake our leaves for twenty dollars, to the younger guy who knocks on our door late at night trying to sell us his food stamps, to the children who laugh and argue as they walk home after school, this is where I live. My neighborhood is filled with characters, some poor, some working-class. We look out for each other, and yes, sometimes we fight, just like everyone else.

What isn’t in my neighborhood is an upper-middle-class lady with a fine arts degree talking down to the poor.d work during the vided our yards.