ø - Razorcake

TITO
TITO
I used to live in the second to
last apartment building at the end of
a dead end street. The first thing
you would notice when you turned
onto my street was the enormous
amount of trash piled up at the dead
end. I never actually saw it happen
but I guess people used my street as
their dumping ground because they
were too lazy to take their trash to
an alley like any other self-respecting
person would.
Trash wasn’t the only thing that
people would leave on my street.
Parking was always next to impossible
because it seemed like anyone
who owned a large truck of any
kind knew that they didn’t need to
pay a lot fee to keep it parked legally
because cops never rolled
through this neighborhood, so the
street was full of landscaping and
moving trucks. Thankfully, I had
my own parking space in the lot
provided by my apartment building.
The building itself wasn’t that
bad. There were sixteen one bedroom
apartments – I lived in number
nine, the first one on the second
floor. Below my apartment was the
pool. I never even dipped a toe in it.
The pool was cleaned every
Thursday and by Friday afternoon
the water resembled milk but a lit-
36 tle more on the
NOM DE PLUME
Friday afternoon the water resembled milk but a little more on the brown side. The
kids couldn’t get enough of that pool. Kids of all ages, too. Kids in diapers.
227TH
brown side. The kids couldn’t get
enough of that pool. During the hot
months there seemed to never be an
empty moment in that thing. Kids
of all ages, too. Kids in diapers.
Speaking of kids, I was the
only person in the building who
lived alone. Every other apartment
was occupied by a family. There
were families of seven living in
some of those one bedroom apartments.
I was always convinced that
everyone thought I was weird. I
must have been weird. Why would
a single white guy want to live in a
neighborhood of Mexican families?
Most of the kids seemed to like me.
They either liked me or were
intrigued by the local weirdo.
Whenever I would do something
outside like work on my car there
would be at least one little kid trying
to help me. They rarely talked
to me. The ones who were too
young to be in school didn’t even
speak English. One day a little girl
asked me if I was rich. I thought it
was a funny question and, of
course, I said no.
RALLY THE
PROLETARIAT...
The kids were only a small part of
the color of this neighborhood. It
seemed like every night there was
something interesting going on.
The first night I spent there, I was
startled by a man driving a car up
and down the street rattling off
what seemed to be a manifesto of
sorts in rapid-fire Spanish through
a megaphone. I had no idea what he
was saying. He came around at
least every other night. For weeks I
thought (I hoped) he was spouting
off some kind of political speech –
trying to rally the troops or convince
his fellow immigrant workers
to unionize. One night I left my
apartment to walk to the video store
just as my favorite political activist
pulled his rickety station wagon
onto my street. As he started in with
his diatribe he was flagged down by
a man and his two kids. He stopped
his car and a woman opened the
tailgate from the inside and started
slopping soup, rice and beans out of
large pots wrapped in towels. This
guy had no political agenda at all;
he wasn’t trying to enlighten anyone
with his views. He was shout-
ing out his wife’s menu so they
could pay the rent. DIY catering
service.
In fact, after a while I found out
that you didn’t really have to leave
the street at all to take care of your
daily business. Every morning the
tamale guy would come around
selling sweet corn breakfast treats.
Twice a week a produce truck
would come by with all of your
fruit, vegetable and household
product needs. And at least once a
week a guy would knock on my
door holding two buckets – one
with cheese and one with steaks.
FOR THOSE ABOUT
TO ROCK...
This was the loudest neighborhood
I ever lived in. It was the loudest
neighborhood I’ve ever even been
to. There were parties every weekend
like clockwork. I don’t mean
that someone would have a little get
together at their place on a Friday
night, I mean the whole street
would get into it: live bands, fireworks,
light shows.
Weeknights were no
library either. One night I woke in a
flash as someone was blaring their
music in the wee hours of the night.
I quickly gathered my senses and
realized that the music was coming
all pictures by Tito
from the house next door to my
building and it was outside – directly
under my window. It was 2:00 in
the morning. The song came to an
end and there was a long pause.
Cool, I thought, they were just testing
out their new outdoor sound
system with one tune just to see
how it kicks. Now everything will
be back to normal. Before I could
get back to sleep another song