Knowing my neighbors
I don't really want to be here.When I moved to California I lived about a mile from the ocean. The living situation wasn't great but I could take my bike to the beach every day, and I did. As I moved around the city I found things to like everywhere I went, but I still regretted not being near the water. The beach is the #1 reason to live here, I think, and if you have to drive to get there ...
The fact that I am still renting at my advanced age vexes me, but for the first time in many years I live in a neighborhood where I know my neighbors.
My downstairs neighbor, Ian, has become a friend of the family. My neighbor across the hall is a brain-damaged Vietnamese tattoo artist. His wife is a sullen caucasian. When I met him, he said, "My wife is white, too, so it's OK."
People in this part of Los Angeles don't know how to park. Since we use our garage for a meth lab, we park on the street. People out here tend to see parking as an unlimited resource/Manifest Destiny-type commodity, so if there are five parking spots in front of a house, they will take up all of them with as few cars as possible. Once every space was occupied by just two cars.
The neighborhood is mostly Armenian. The guy in the house next to me, Armo (pictured), has been here for at least two decades. He does not speak English. He patrols the quarter acre lot on which his house stands and, because there are no Armenians in my house, he patrols that one, too. He walks up and down the street all day. I don't know what he does for work.
This morning he knocked on my door. My car was parked on the wrong side of the street and was in danger of getting a ticket because of street cleaning. "Your car. Ticket. Go," he said.
He and his wife (we call her Armette) pinch our daughter harshly and leave her redolent of their colognes. Marisol likes it. It is a challenge for us as parents. When Armo has a barbecue, he will give me vodka and spiced beast. Last week he asked for our Halloween pumpkin. Ian says he will return with some sweet and horrible-tasting pumpkinseed paste that Armette makes.
He and his son appear to be running a recycling scam. They have appropriated the city-owned recycling containers for some of the houses on our block. The first day I went downstairs with a bag of recycling, Armo intercepted me.
"I do," he said.
"Where do these go?" I asked.
"I take," he said.
It's impossible arguing with someone when he can't understand you and you are unwilling to talk in pronoun/verb constructions.
I think Armo and his friends prevent crime in our neighborhood by walking the beat. They do not prevent pinching or parking crimes, but it's nice to know our neighbors care.
I can see the San Bernardino mountains from my office window, but I would rather see the ocean.
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by Marty Barrett at Monday, November 07, 2005
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