The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
them into rentals, some for students, some for other—shall we say less salubrious—purposes.
Tell me, you never got anything stolen from your house,
did you?”
“No, we never did.”
“And your neighbors, other folks you know down there, any of them have
any problems with theft?”
“Yeah, actually, my girlfriend’s place was broken into a couple of times.
She lost a TV and a stereo. This other guy I know had his car stolen right in
front of their house.”
“Either of them rent from Steve?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“I wouldn’t think so either. Funny how Steve always has such good luck
in the theft department. What’d he charge you? Just wondering.”
“Three of us paid three hundred dollars each per month.”
He exhaled, sharp and bullish, through his nose. “Okay. You probably
weren’t one of the bad ones, right?”
I didn’t know what he was talking about, but it seemed smart to agree.
“Right.”
“Right, that’s right. Listen, I have nothing against you, and probably
nothing against your friends. But I’m St. Clair Point born and raised. Student
rentos don’t respect the neighborhood and drive up the prices, is all. Don’t
take it personally.”
“I don’t offend easily. Besides, I loved the neighborhood. Loved living
there.”
“Hard not to love it, man, isn’t it? Those pink-and-purple houses, the
water right there, you got the park, ball courts, and football fields. All kinds
of people now. Just bought myself my first house, almost down by the water,
on the same street as my parents and uncles.”
“The Gomes Homes, he calls it. Not to be confused with the Gomez
Homezz, over in Coastal Falls,” said Joe.
“No, Gomes Homes you call it, Fat Man. Anyway, I truly am sorry if I
made you feel uncomfortable, Paul. It’s not what I meant to do.”
“Like I said, no offense taken at all.”
200