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Neighborhood Watch

by Manuel Ramos

The neighborhood has changed over the years but then hasn't everything? I've changed, that's for sure. When Emilia and I moved in to the house we were kids with a kid of our own. That was five children and close to fifty years ago. The house was only a few years old and we paid $5,000 for it. Hard to believe now but that was a bundle back then. It was a struggle but we stayed. Man, oh man, if I had only been able to buy three or four of these houses. For what they go for now? Well, that's water under the bridge or lo que pasó, voló as my father used to say.

We wouldn't have made it except for the job at the brick factory. Working with the Italians eventually turned into a godsend but when I was hired I was the lowest of the low--the only Mexican guy in the entire place so I guess they treated me all right, considering.

Funny, how life is. The Italians settled into the North Side, built homes and businesses, raised their families, and then the Mexicans started moving in and ten years later most of the Italians were gone and Spanish was spoken everywhere. Emilia and I didn't object, of course, but I will say that those Italian people were solid for the most part. Loyal to a fault. Took care of their homes, kept the yards neat as doctors' offices, and had the best damn Church bazaars I ever been to. They had their troublemakers, sure, every group does. That was what was behind the fire bombing of the house on the corner a few months after we moved in to our place. Two of the older Italians started a feud with each other and the next thing I know fire trucks are parked all up and down the street. But that was unusual. Like I said, for the most part they were good people who minded their own business.

Sausage sandwiches and beer--you knew it was summer when you could walk over to Mount Carmel and buy a sausage sandwich and a beer for a buck, play some Chuck-A-Luck for a nickel, and all the pretty Italian girls wore red, white or green shorts.

Oh, oh. Starting to sound like an old fart again. Sitting on the porch, on the swing that Emilia and I set up so many years ago, I guess I turn a bit sentimental. Good thing she's not around to see me like this. Spending my days on this swing that doesn't move--frozen stiff from age and rust, just like me--watching the comings and goings of neighbors I don't even know. Some days I don't talk to anyone unless one of the grand kids stops by. They're good kids. They don't speak more than a few words of Spanish but I always know they're coming to visit when the windows in the house start to vibrate from the music they blast from their cars. Embarrassing, but what can I do? I'm just the old abuelito, the little grandfather, living all by myself in this old house and I should be grateful for the company. Most people think I'm deaf, some think I'm blind, too, and they all think I'm a little loco with a touch of that old-timers' disease. Let them think it. What do I care?

And now the neighborhood's changing again.

Guess I wasn't cut out to be a real estate tycoon. I didn't buy me more houses when they were really cheap all those years ago--of course, I couldn't have afforded to buy any more even if I had thought of it--and I never anticipated that my neighborhood, mi barrio as we used to call it, would turn into a hot market for young white couples who have at least a hundred grand of credit, want to buy a nice brick home, take care of a yard, and live in a part of the city with a real history and a real personality that is close to downtown office jobs. I'm sitting on a gold mine, like my daughter Francine says. But if I sell, then what? She's not going to put me up, we all know that. Anyway, I can still talk to Emilia here, if I set my mind to it, and that's not going to happen anywhere else no matter how nice of an apartment my kids find for me. No, I'm not going anywhere. One day I'll die here on my broken swing and that's the way they'll find me, when they find me. Probably be dead for a couple of days before someone notices that I haven't moved for a spell.

Those two across the street. They're a pair. She's cute. Sara's her name. Likes to wear short shorts and tank tops and work up a sweat in the flower beds Carmen Avila planted around the house back in the seventies. I worry about Carmen and Alfredo and hope they're doing all right up in Northglenn. Hair like a shaft of morning sunshine. Sara across the street, not Carmen. Carmen'd be lucky if she has any hair left.

The husband's a big guy, always dressed in a suit except when he mows the lawn. Drives a flashy sports car. Must be a Miata or something like that but I thought those cars were for women. What do I know, eh? His name's Carl.

Then there's her boyfriend. Don't know his name. Guy in a silver pickup truck with fancy wheels, fat tires and tinted windows who comes by every other day or so about an hour after the husband leaves for work. Short red-headed young man, but stocky, full of muscles, like he works out. He parks down the street or around the corner, runs into the house, then comes out later, much later, and runs back to his pickup. Once in a great while the two of them leave together and take off in his ride. Lunch? A drink? Just cruising around? Can't screw every minute I guess.

The couple's lived in the house for only two months, but already they've had four fights that woke me up in the middle of the night, and it takes a lot to wake me up. The sleep of the dead is not easy to disturb. Cops came by a couple of times. And other nights I hear shouting and cursing. That's how I learned their names. That couple is trouble for themselves, for me, for the neighborhood. But what am I going to do about it? Nothing, absolutely nothing.

Got dark on me. Damn, I must have dozed off and it's night already. Better fix me something to eat. This porch always needed a light. A kid busted the one over the door when we moved in and I never did replace it. At least I thought it was a kid. There was some bad stuff when we moved in, at first, but the Delvechios, next door, they had a party and invited us and we met almost everyone on the block and that was that. No more bad stuff. No more dirty words painted on the fence, no more ringing doorbells and nobody at the door, no more ugly stares. That party was where I heard about the job at the plant. A move up for me from construction work. Good thing Emilia and I decided to go to that party. Delvechios were good people.

Oh, oh. The pickup truck is still parked down the street. Very careless, and this late?

And here comes Carl.

Parks his car, doesn't bother to turn off the lights, sprints inside. Now what?

Should take care of that food. I could pass out from not eating, or so said the doctor. Wonder how Sara's dealing with the men in her life.

Um. Sounded like a crash. Something. What the hell? The red-haired guy, sneaking out to his silver pickup.

Where is Carl? And Sara? Nothing. No lights, no sound, nada. Guy in the pickup is long gone. Hey. It's their problem, their soap opera.

That was a window breaking. I heard that. ¡Santo Niño! She's screaming. The cops will be here any minute. The whole neighborhood heard that scream.

Need to warm up the beans that Francine brought by, and that little bit of soup left over from yesterday. What's on TV? News. Christ, it is late. How long was I out there? Ah. Sirens. Here come the cops.

***

"Mr. Sanchez, we'd like to ask a few questions, if you don't mind?"

"Sure. What's going on? Somebody in trouble?"

"Well there was some trouble, yes. Tell us, did you see anything out of the usual tonight?"

"Can't say that I did. But then, I'm an old man, and I might miss things that others see, know what I mean?"

"Yeah, sure. Have you seen any strangers around lately, even if you didn't see anything tonight? Maybe some kids hanging around, messing with things they shouldn't?"

"Strangers? Kids? Well, there's always kids around, but I wouldn't call them strangers. Why, what happened?"

"How well you know the Parkers, the people across the street?"

"Don't know them at all. They keep pretty much to themselves, not like the Avilas who used to live in that house. We were always talking to each other, visiting, sharing stuff. Not these new folks, though. Not like it used to be."

"Yeah, we understand. You didn't know the Parkers and you didn't see anything tonight or anything unusual lately. Sorry we bothered you."

"Uh, Officer. What happened? What was the trouble?"

"Well, if you don't know already you will soon enough. Mr. Parker, Carl Parker, he was killed tonight. His wife said that they had been out to dinner and when they came home they ran into a kid who apparently had broken in to their house. According to Mrs. Parker the kid went crazy. He wanted money, drugs, anything and when Mr. Parker tried to stop him the kid went after him with a bat that he had taken from Mr. Parker's memorabilia collection. Then the kid took off and Mrs. Parker called us. We're looking for a dark Mexican kid about fifteen wearing a blue baseball cap, jeans and a black T-shirt that had some lettering on it that she thinks said "Cinco de Mayo" or something like that. Seen anybody matches that description?"

"A Mexican kid? You're joking right? That's all there are around here. Why would a kid do something like that? Damn, it doesn't make sense."

"That's okay, pop. Nothing these punks do ever makes sense. We'll figure it out. Leave that to us. If you think of anything, or see something in the next day or two, give us a call. Here's my card. Thanks for you help."

It's not right. The way these people try to blame others for their mess. Maybe I should have told the cops what I know. They wouldn't believe me. An old man? Old man Sanchez, seeing things. That sweet Sara Parker said it was a Mexican delinquent and that's who the cops are going to find and when they drag one in front of her she'll pick him out. Any story I might have told the cops will be dismissed and forgotten. Case closed.

"Hello, Larry? Larry Delvechio? Sorry to call so late. This is Joe Sanchez, an old friend of your father's. They called me Mexican Joe."

In those days everyone had a nickname and Mexican Joe was the best they could do for me. I was lucky compared to what they called some of the other guys.

"Sure, Joe. Long time no see. I haven't heard from you in years. Tell the truth, I wasn't sure you were still around. All the old guys are slipping away. But you know that. Say, is anything wrong? Anything I can help out with?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, I do need a favor, Larry."

"Hey, Joe, no problem. My father made it clear just before he passed that I was to take care of the guys, and he told me about all the favors you did for the family, starting with that hot night before I was even born. Just give me the details, Joe, and it's done."

"Thanks, Larry. It means a lot to me, and I appreciate that your father remembered me. I respected him and he respected me, but that's the way it was back then. Listen to me, blubbering like an old man again. Anyway, Larry, it's like this. These people across the street, they been trashing up the neighborhood and now they did something that could ruin it for all of us around here. The woman's husband just died, so he's out of the picture. But her and her boyfriend . . . it would be better for everyone if they left the neighborhood and stayed away, the both of them."

"We'll take care of it, Joe. Now, you go to bed. It's late."

***

"Dad, you need to eat better. This meatloaf's still in the fridge. I brought it over last week. I'll have to throw it out now."

"Mi'ja, you worry too much about me. I eat, I sleep, I take walks around the block. I'm all right. Don't worry so much."

"Right, Dad. I'm not sure you can take care of yourself anymore, especially in this neighborhood. It's worse than I remember. There used to be all those Italian gangsters running around when I was little, but now trouble could come from anyone, even the kids. Look at what happened to those poor people across the street."

"I heard about the husband."

"Not just him, Dad. The wife, too."

"What? Something else?"

"It was in the paper, Dad, if you'd read something besides the comics once in a while. She disappeared. Gone. Her sister from Chicago's been trying to get a hold of her and finally she called the police. They can't find her. No trace. She left everything in the house and just took off. They think she might have gone up into the mountains and killed herself. Grief stricken over her husband. Something like that."

"¡Qué carambada! I didn't know. I hadn't seen her for a few days, but I had no idea. Maybe you're right about this neighborhood."

"Absolutely. Dad, these windows are filthy. Oh-oh. Check this out. Some people think the streets are a junk yard. That pickup's still parked down the block. It's been there for days and nobody's moved it. I'm calling somebody down at City Hall. Have the damn thing towed if I have to."

"Good idea, mi'ja. Don't want any trash in the neighborhood. Starts with an abandoned car and then who knows where it could lead."

NMM

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