SEVENTEEN
A short story by Vanessa Renee Williams
Been here a long time. I’ve seen the neighborhood go from one extreme to the other, but I tell you, I don’t remember it ever being this quiet.
It’s been about a year or so, and things are mighty different. I can look out of the big window now. I put my chair back there in front of it, too. Couldn’t do that before—sit by the window, I mean. It wasn’t always safe, especially when what you’re looking at isn’t Nature, but the nature of what you’re looking at makes you have to hurry up and call the police.
They said, “If you see something, say something.”, didn’t they? I guess they get a little tired, and show up a little slower, and a little less frequently, if you always “seeing something” every day.
You get tired, you know. What’s wrong with people? Why is somebody always trying to hurt somebody else? What’s wrong with a little peace and quiet and safety?
Maybe I was praying out loud, and didn’t know it, but the peace and quiet and safety is almost too much these days. I don’t know what happened, but we don’t see trouble anymore when we look out of our windows, just the trees and the birds, and people going about their business with smiles on their faces.
I’m seeing people out taking walks now; walking funny looking dogs that look like they came straight off a shelf at a fancy toy store. Shouldn’t be nothing strange about that, except the dogs on the ends of long leashes, or running loose all over the place, so much so, that the children couldn’t play outside, used to be Pit Bulls or Rottweiler’s. Their swaggering, puffed-up owners didn’t seem to care about who needed to use the sidewalk. People were terrified, and you could tell it. That was the plan. Inspire fear. Be intimidating. People would stop dead in their tracks and let the dogs go by, or not get out of their cars until the coast was clear, or walk on the other side of the street altogether. It was ridiculous. Don’t have that problem no more.
Used to be, I could almost bet how many times and when I’d hear sirens, or that pop-pop-popping day or night, and it wasn’t nowhere near the Fourth of July.
Ain’t nobody worrying about coming in late, or locking down everything so tight, that they can’t get into their own stuff their own selves. I tell you, it’s just different now, and nobody’s talking about leaving the neighborhood, or moving to the country no more, either.
Sure is something.
They used to be out there 'most every day. I don’t think I’ve ever seen people make doing something look so much like doing nothing. Just hanging around; shifting; hands in pockets; staring.
They stopped looking like people after a while. It was like a predator spirit had taken them over. Just wasn’t a whole lot they cared about, except acting like they didn’t care, and wasn’t scared of nobody. They’d walk up the street, then I’d see them coming down the street on the other side—one hand holding cell phones or brown paper bags, and the other pulling up their pants.
(I don’t know. In my day they were called “underwear” for a reason. Didn’t need all those colors, and pictures, and patterns, because they weren’t supposed to be seen.
My daddy used to say when he was a boy, anybody whose pants didn’t fit was poor, or they just couldn’t do any better. He said if he could have gone to school looking like some of these kids go to school today, he would have got a PhD…Anyway…
Every day—and I mean every day, there they were. I guess I didn’t notice it as much when I was working, but being home now, I see so much. Able bodied. Young. So much potential. Just pure bone-idle, and up to no good. I know there were more who seemed like they were on a mission to give the neighborhood a bad name, but they just disappeared.
Some I heard are in jail, and don’t seem to be trying to ever get out. Some are dead. I know because I stopped counting how many funerals the church around the corner was having. It just seemed like they liked killing each other—and over stupid stuff, too-- and stuff that didn’t even belong to them.
I know there were more, but I suppose, since I stopped working, and closed in my porch so I could sit out there some mornings, I counted about seventeen.
Funny, but I don’t see them no more, and nobody seems to know or care where they went. Nobody even mentions their names.
I like opening up the windows and the blinds in the morning. It’s nice to let the sunshine in, and some fresh air, even when it’s a little chilly. Those other fellows would be out there on lawn mowers at the crack of dawn, working and looking happy like they were on amusement park rides. They’d be out there with their weed whackers, leaf blowers, hoes, and spades, just whistling and singing like they had won the lottery.
Then, I saw one of them swaggering ones on his phone; talking loud, walking down the hill just dropping paper as he went. I guess he thought the trashcan out there was for decoration. Those other fellows stopped their work to let him pass, and then answered his littering with brooms, picks. and dustpans. There they were, getting paid to try to keep his space beautiful, and he could have cared less. Wrapping his hands around the handle of a lawn mower, wasn’t as cool as beating up those loud, silly girls he was always with, or robbing people, or shooting up in the air, or shooting other people who’d ticked him off, or going to the bus shelter, but not getting on nary bus, all day.
When that truck pulled up, though, he, and the one who was waiting for him on the corner, got inside. That loud, silly girl who’d run up to confront him, was still yelling and making a spectacle of herself, long after the truck was gone.
Don’t know where that truck took them, but I haven’t seen the two of them since.
The early morning air hasn’t been assaulted any more by trashy-dressing girls, cussing and screaming, and putting all of their business in the street. There’s nobody to scream at. Haven’t seen trash on the ground, lately, either.
They always spoke to me when I went outside to get the paper or the mail. I figured it was because I was old that they had a little bit of respect. I always spoke to them. I’d say “Good Morning”, or “Good Afternoon”, and they’d either say a very quick “Guh Morr”, mumble something, or say “Fine” as if I had asked them how they were doing. I noticed they had a hard time looking me in the eye; they always kept their heads down. There was just something so sneaky about them. They didn’t have time for pleasantries, or maybe nobody ever taught them. A little time, attention, and conversation from mamas and daddies would have been so good for them. Lord knows they should have stayed in school for a few days longer. Now all the world sees, are hard, snarling faces that seem to have forgotten how to smile. Shame how they stole from their mamas, so their mamas took their keys, and they spent all day in the street, rain or shine, until mama came back home from work. Wonder if their mamas miss them, because they sure got in that truck when it pulled up— all three of them.
Some of them were good looking young men; tall and strong; could have been in the movies, like that Poitier, or on a ball field like that –well pick one. Jackie Robinson. They don't know nothing about that. Some had this look in their eyes as if they were just waiting for somebody to assume authority and make them do something—anything. Tell them the right way to go. They looked like they wanted somebody to care, but since nobody did, or everybody they encountered who could have helped, had been exhausted, or got fed up, then, hanging on the street corners like human ornaments, and being a nuisance, must have been, based on their logic, the best thing to do. There was always that one who looked lost; a follower; always looked like he didn’t have an idea of his own unless somebody gave him one. He was never the lead bird. He got in that truck one day, too.
It didn’t surprise me that most of them had kids. When school was in, I’d see them walking their little ones down the hill. The little ones seemed to have everything they needed. They were neat in their little uniforms and shiny shoes. They had their little backpacks and lunch boxes, too. Seemed odd to see one tall, pimping, pants falling, hat cocked, overwhelmed by over-sized clothes, hair unkempt, and one small, colorful; little legs trying to keep up; looking up in admiration. When it was time to cross the street the menacing gave way to nurturing. They’d reach out for their child’s hand, or pick them up. Somewhere in there, they knew what to do. They knew right from wrong. They knew how to care. They just didn’t seem to have hope for themselves. Once the kids were at school, they were back on the prowl.
How do you not look suspicious? Ain’t no law against walking down the street, but how do you keep from looking like you’re just up to no good? Is there a class? It’s darn near 100 degrees outside, and you’re all wrapped up and hooded like Nanook of the North. Something is wrong. Or, it’s darn near minus 4 degrees, and you’re standing outside on the sidewalk like a statue, just waiting and watching. Something is very wrong.
Every day. Hanging on the corners. Propped up on steps, or posts. Sitting and smoking and drinking in the park. Talking loud; arguing. Walking hard, up and down the street. Ducking in alleys. Fighting. Hopping fences. Hiding in bushes. Stashing stuff. Watching like predators. Signaling. Listening for sirens. Armed. Taking chances. Looking aimless, but on money-making missions. Every day.
All seventeen of them.
It wasn’t odd to see the cars with out-of-state tags cruising along, slowing down, parked crooked, or temporarily blocking traffic. Wish I was exaggerating, but it happened every day. They’d either lean in the windows of these cars, or sometimes it would look like they were giving the driver directions. There was always some exchange. Every now and then, they’d get in. Then you’d see the same car a few minutes later, and they’d get out and walk in the opposite direction--always walking fast. Those sure were some short trips they were taking. I watched five of them do it every day. almost. while I sat on the porch. Then, all of a sudden, those trucks drove up. They got in those, too, but they didn’t come back.
One of them was always over by the basketball court. He never, ever put his hands on a basketball, but just set up shop by the court everyday. I saw the trucks pull up again. This time, the drivers got out. I couldn’t see their faces, but they were dressed in fatigues. There was some exchange of words, but it wasn’t for long. He got in. I haven’t seen him since. There are no more fights breaking out, no chases through the woods, no helicopters lighting up the night. The only shooting going on is balls through hoops. Now the kids can actually learn how to play the game.
Another day, one of them was just leaning on an iron fence, and another one was across the street perched up on the brick wall like a hawk on a hill. It would have been okay if there was a bus stop or something, or even if they lived in the buildings they were in front of. Can you teach somebody how to behave like they have a purpose? They kept looking around; looking up and down the street. When one took something long, shiny and sharp out of the back of his pants and started trying break into a car, I knew they weren’t just waiting for a ride, they wanted to take one. I knew it was broad daylight, but did they? Cars going up and down the street, people walking by, and when things cleared up, they’d go back at it again, trying to get in that car. The car put up a fight, though, and they gave up, and I guess they went looking for an easier job near the park. Not a police car in sight, but those trucks were there. They headed back up the hill, and those trucks followed. I heard a horn, and the two of them stopped. The drivers got out. They said something to them, and the two of them got in.
I went out to get the mail on another day, and noticed those two brownish-colored trucks again. It was a little after 9 o’clock, and one of them was coming from the school. The drivers in fatigues were walking behind him. He turned, they exchanged words, and then he walked back to one of the trucks with them, and climbed in the back seat. The truck drove away. I guess he didn’t make it back to the school in time, because I saw his little boy walking up the hill alone.
I decided to take a walk to the corner store. I was about to get disgusted about having to wade through a crowd just to get to the door, when I saw the trucks again. Two of them walked away from the store and crossed the street. I hurried up and went in the store when an argument started. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but when I finished shopping and came out, I saw the trucks driving away. The group that used to loiter in front of the store every day, was gone.
I tell you it sure is quiet in the neighborhood these days. I enjoyed my time on the porch this morning. There were kids headed to school; people taking walks; no sirens blaring; nobody just hanging around. I kept the windows open, and all I heard were the sounds of a little traffic and the birds singing. I even enjoyed my walk to the corner store. I had to pick up a few things.
Company’s coming over this evening. Hadn’t had company in a long time. Nobody’s worried about being in the neighborhood at night anymore. People got tired of having to check on their cars every five minutes.
I decided to listen to the news while I prepared dinner. They led off with the war again. I wish they would find something more pleasant to report, but I guess it’s good to know what’s going on. It was so depressing, but I kept listening anyway. Road side bombs, snipers, explosions. Whew. I sure will be glad when it’s all over. I’m not sure if I admire the courage of those news people who go and report from war zones, or think they’ve lost their minds. Sometimes it gives worried families a chance to see their soldier loved one when the interviews are on. One day, I could've sworn a couple of the soldiers on TV looked like some of those that used to be raising so much sand around here, but it couldn’t have been. The military wants sober people with some discipline who can follow directions, don’t they?
They can have the noise and the confusion. I love this peace, because the war zone on TV was like a library, compared to the noise that used to be going on around here. People used to be downright scared all the time; always worried that some thug had their eye on what took 8 hours a day, 5 days a week to obtain. You never knew when somebody was going to jump you, or rob you, or carjack you, or shoot you--and for what? For what they thought you had? It’s just not natural to live in fear like that.
I always joked, they ought to come and round up all the people who seem to like to fight and shoot and terrorize neighborhoods, and show them what real fighting and shooting is really all about. Just sedate them, take them somewhere remote; maybe some war zone like the one on TV, and drop them off, and let them fight it out with somebody who wasn’t scared of them, and wasn’t afraid to die. Then maybe, they wouldn’t be so quick to be a menace to their own communities and families.
I thought something was wrong with the TV, but there was no sound while they showed the pictures of the young soldiers who recently died. It’s always so sad. Some days they only report a few, but even a few still is too many.
This time, there were seventeen.
I tell you the truth, it sure is quiet around here.
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