There Goes the Neighborhood

Photo by Lance Grandahl on Unsplash

Even though it is only June the temperature has soared to an unrelenting 90+ degrees. The sky speaks less of lovestruck eyes and faded jeans and more of the proverbial blues; the down at the heels, worn prison blues, blue collar disillusionment kind. The neighborhood sits in a valley between the great wide entry to the midwest and the gateway mountain pass to the Pacific Northwest, once described to me by the son of a Virginia transplant as “God’s country.” The middle class houses that line the streets have an air of similarity with their small front yards dotted with cracked containers of half wilted plants and littered with slightly dusty, slightly old American made vehicles that still have payments due on them.

Here it is not uncommon to see American flags made of nylon or synthetic materials hanging at a crooked angle from poles attached to scuffed front doors with bent aluminum screens hanging sentry before them. These faded and frayed rags swing through the air lazily and defiantly, lest anyone spontaneously forget which country we stand in. Signs with the word “Lifer” can be found every few houses, leading one to question whether the inhabitants of the house are somehow alluding to the grind of middle class existence, doing the proverbial time of daily life, a life sentence. A more literal interpretation, of course, being the inhabitant’s support of the pro-life movement in which an unborn fetus is afforded the rights and privileges pertained thereto in an arguably greater and more universally applied fashion than their human incubators.

Pickup trucks with lifted bodies and wheels too prominent for their frames dot the street, often with decals of skulls, crying eagles, stylized iterations of Old Glory herself, Gadsden flags, obstinate bumper stickers that say things like “Sometimes there’s justice. Sometimes there’s just us.” The verbiage littering the vehicles tends to not elaborate on who is “us,” and who is the implied “them,” but the distinction is a moot point here, where everyone already knows anyway. Gun racks hint at a ready action that isn’t quite threatened but isn’t quite ruled out either.

If you are willing to have air that feels like the business end of a hairdryer blasting at you while you drive down the shoddily maintained blacktop you could roll down your window and hear some crossover country playing in the distance, likely emanating from a garage spilling with piles of the stuff of plastic overconsumption but devoid of motorized vehicles. Those are for parking in the driveway, as evidenced by gummy layers of spotted oil blemishes on cracked and discolored concrete. Overflow parking is on the curb, with several vehicles emblazoned with the telltale shadow of moss underneath a flattened tire denoting a lengthy and distinguished tenure in that particular location.

Glimpses into backyards by way of chain link side gates reveal sun bleached or broken trampolines and buckling above ground pools, divots of dead grass and discarded playthings of absent children. Dogs bark aggressively as you pass by. What is only hinted at is the existence of actual people, who are largely absent from the street. The ones you do see are frowning, bearded men with tee shirts emblazoned with veiled words and symbols, wearing shorts, mesh back hats, plastic sunglasses, visible tattoos. Not that anyone is mad at the ink, mind you. But really, even these scowling souls are few and far between. One of them watches your car roll by just above the speed limit with a narrowed glare and puffed up chests, swinging arms seemingly ready to square off if necessary. You decline to engage. The heat is making everyone edgy, you tell yourself. You roll up your window and turn the AC on full blast, feeling the soured vibe melt off of you like that first shower after a long camping trip.