I was going to write a witty blog on green living (I’ve been working on it since last week), but it is rather difficult to write about the evils of fossil fuels when chaos is at your doorstep. Well, not exactly my doorstep, more like my window sill. Weekends in my neighborhood often present a pageantry of colorful locals engaging in unique and bizarre performances of “authentic” Allegheny Highlands life.
Bar brawls often overflow from Christy’s Bar and rumble-tumble to my corner, picking up friends and relatives as they go. It is a rare Saturday morning that I am not awoken by sirens or the voices of police. If I’m sleeping late, it could be several times. The sounds of domestic disturbances float on the evening air many nights and mingle with the tinkling bells of the Ice Cream Man’s truck. I also happen to live smack-dab on a corner with an often ignored but critically important stop sign.
So while this morning was quiet, this early evening has not been.
A few hours ago, I was dragged from my desk by the sounds of shouting. The word “gang” is one I would only hesitantly apply to any group in Cumberland, at least not without sniggering. Of all the places I have lived—homeless shelters; NOLA’s Mid-City; Bangkok, Thailand the year of the 2006 coup; parts of Cambodia—any part of Cumberland seems warm and cuddly in comparison. I don’t think I ever feel afraid for personal safety. Sure my scooter is knocked over every other week and has been stolen and I lock my door when I’m gone, but I am not really on my raw-edged guard like when I was walking from my store on Bourbon Street at 3:00 am with over $1,500 in my bag.
Though, really, what are gangs in essence? Groups of people who have a common objective or bond. Rural groups of friends can be the same. And different groups can hate each other just as much. Of course, the baby-gangs I see out of my window are less organized and lack catchy names. They definitely loose points for that. Territory is not the same priority here, but these groups are very territorial around individual homes. For example, because my corner is along a major bar-hopping route, these rival groups often mingle, and fight, beneath my apartment as if it was a balcony in a theater of the absurd.
The violence is different, too. I have never seen anyone brandishing a gun, a surprise in a hunting community. Mostly it has been fist fights. Like the gangs of twenty or thirty years ago, bashing in someone’s face seems the modus operandi. One of my neighbors who lives in my building, Glenn, frequently has people stopping by to extend a firm offer to kick his mother f****** a** if he would be so kind as to step out of his house. For a few weeks it was almost daily. Much of what goes on is elaborate posturing. They puff themselves up like cats and hiss and spit for a while. Neither party actually gets close enough for real damage almost by unspoken agreement.
When fists do connect to jaws, the police are often already on their way. So far I have only called 911 twice in the 14 months I have lived here. Often, by the time I am feeling uncomfortable enough to call, I hear the sirens. Fortunately, I suppose, one of my other neighbors has a much lower threshold than I do. The police always show up en masse as well. Three or four cars, lights flashing, recklessly speeding around the perilous corner. I wonder that one of the constant gaggle of sidewalk kids has not yet been hit. I guess they have learned to dive out of the way.
I theorize that if the area had more jobs, better education, and/or more general entertainments the loyal bond of high school buddies that seems to contribute to if not create the local paradigm would be diminished by the world beyond high school. The basis for my theory? One of the most popular essay topics from local students at ACM: How College Is Different from High School. The good days are gone. You may still have the same minimum wage job at McDonald’s, but now it has to cover rent, too. Most of the guys I see brawling are still boys. The world leaves no space for them to become men.
As a Gen X-er, I could feel sorry for the Millennials who have no place, who were shuffled off into vocational programs to learn skills for jobs that are now being performed on other continents. But of course, as a Gen X-er, I have my own bone to pick with the Baby Boomers who can’t retire, who in turn feel resentment for the Silent Generation who won’t retire before the grave.
And round the wheel of Samsara spins.
As I strolled to the window to watch the show, cell phone in hand, just in case, I watched as two groups argued about something unintelligible. One guy was backing up with his hands raised above his head, proclaiming to his antagonists and the street as a whole, “One at a time. That’s all I’m saying. I’ll take you one at a time.”
The unspoken agreement looked about to be broken. To defuse the situation, a minivan full of interested persons reversed, with speed, between the two groups. While potentially a good strategy to prevent blood from spilling, the driver misjudged, and I heard a crash.
At that moment, I was extremely grateful that I had over mastered parallel parking to the point of often ending up partly on the sidewalk. The full-sized green truck parked in front of me was not as lucky.
I called 911 and was informed the police were already on their way. That lady must have 911 on speed dial! The crowd quickly dispersed and calm returned to the street. As I looked around the block, I saw other neighbors returning to their homes. Like the denizens of Ankh-Morpork, everyone likes street theater.
North End provides me with an endless source of character study. Too bad I don’t spend much time writing fiction.
*Note: This blog is meant for edutainment purposes only, and to that end, I may occasionally use some literary license. Additionally, if you are a Baby Boomer, it’s nothing personal!
Living on the Green Edge 