Neighborhood Watch

Last week it happened twice.

I was stopped on a sidewalk near home in the evening hours (between 10pm and midnight) by tall white men, confident and handsome, each a little angrier than the situation would warrant.

"Where do you live?" they say to me. They aren't asking in a neighborly way. They are the self-deputized neighborhood watch. Because I won't fess up my exact address, they usually end the conversation by telling me to get the hell out of their neighborhood and stay out.

They picture themselves as cinematic steely-eyed vigilantes.

Let me describe myself. I'm small—slightly under 5 feet tall on a good day—with long messy brown hair; I'm wearing jeans, a plain long-sleeved t-shirt (sans logos, pictures, obscenities, band names, affiliations), and Asics running shoes, the kind with reflective stripes. 

I'm no taller than the average 10 year-old and I'm dressed like one too, an unfashionable 10 year-old. I'm no Tavi Gevinson.

Did I mention that I haven't been 10 for decades and decades?

I'm also an insomniac, apt to be awake late at night. When I was very young I would lock myself in the bathroom and read Mad Magazine when I couldn't sleep. Or I'd lie in bed and balance a pillow on my feet. But as I got older, I started walking. I've been rambling around the neighborhood—whichever neighborhood I happen to be sleeping in—for many years now. 

The funny thing is that it's different when I walk several hours later, at 1 or 2 AM, when it's truly late at night. At 1 AM these guys are usually snug abed, the hum of their air conditioners concealing my quiet footfalls. They don't lose any sleep over me, these opportunistic guardians of the neighborhood.

But this time, it wasn't so late. It was 11:30 at night on a recent Wednesday. I was walking in my parents' neighborhood, a peacock-infested suburb south of LAX. Gordita Beach-adjacent, if you will. The neighborhood has always been on the xenophobic end of the spectrum, a hotbed of surfer localism and long-time card-carrying John Birch Society membership.

I'd gotten as far as Plainfield Drive. Plainfield is a long, gentle descent: under the bright streetlights, you can see all the way from the top of the hill to the bottom. Blocks in this neighborhood can be almost a mile long.

Although there are a few mature trees—the houses are about 50 years old—the view from where I'm standing is mostly unobstructed. Big shade trees just don't grow in the rocky alkaline soil around here. On one side of the street is a steep iceplant-and-ivy covered hill, on the other, midcentury houses. The side of the street with houses has a sidewalk; the iceplant-and-ivy side doesn't.

I'd actually noticed a house midblock on Plainfield the night before. A small grave marker near the sidewalk had caught my eye. I'd hoped it was a memorial for a hamster or a goldfish; the thought of the family German Shepherd buried so close to the sidewalk made me shudder. I'd also clocked new artificial turf, matching ram's head ornaments on either side of the driveway, and an American flag affixed to the front of the house. 

I love spotting this kind of stuff when I walk, but I know better than to pause or take a photo (although I might allow myself this luxury around Xmas time, when the decorations are lavish and strange: crèches with a giant baby Jesus and itty-bitty wise men, inflatable Santas and spooky 12 foot tall snowmen, moving merry-go-rounds and animated reindeer).

Anyway, I was walking downhill—purposefully—listening to a several-year-old episode of Catching Up on my mp3 player. A white Mercedes passed me and swung over to park behind another white luxury car on the iceplant-and-ivy side of the street (the side without houses). A third car was already parked directly across the street, in front of the house with the tiny grave marker. It's rare to see so many cars parked on the street here. By this time, I saw that the trunk of the third car, the one nearest me on the sidewalk, was popped open.

A tall figure got out of the Mercedes and started moving stuff in fancy shopping bags from the backseat of his Mercedes into the open trunk of the other car.  

Even so early it's unusual to see other people out when you're in this part of LA. We're all of 270 or 280 blocks from downtown. 

In San Francisco at this hour, I might see someone having a smoke, walking a dog, staggering home from a party, or getting out of an Uber, rolling suitcase in hand. 

Here I rarely see a soul, even at 11:30. 

I kept walking. The figure had resolved itself into a man, well-dressed. Perhaps he lived in the house with the pet grave and statuary out front. Normally I would've tried to avoid him, but really unless I wanted to turn around and go back the way I came, I couldn't. 

In my ears, Joe was telling a story about his cousin Richard's Instagram feed.

I drew even with the man. He'd stopped transferring shopping bags and was saying something to me. I reached up and took one of my earbuds out. I could still hear Joe talking in one ear. The other earbud leaked podcast into the night air.

"Having a nice evening?" the man asked. His voice was aggressive.

"Yes. I am." I said. "And you?" I turned to face him as a 'see? I mean no harm' gesture.

But the man wasn't satisfied with exchanging greetings; he evidently decided to get to the heart of the matter before he let me get back to the podcast.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"I'm on a walk," I said. "I grew up around here." I smiled at him. 

There. I'd given him enough information to reassure him. No funny business. I'm not writing on the sidewalk or peeing on the artificial turf. Maybe he'd even be delighted by this fit of nostalgia (for who doesn't walk around their childhood neighborhood, marvelling at how memory exaggerates things?). Or perhaps he'd even say he grew up around here too.

"But where do you live NOW?" he said. His face was angry. I realized he'd decided I didn't belong in his middle-class professional neighborhood. 

Do these pants make me look poor?

"Around here," I said. "I live around here." I didn't want to explain that I was visiting my parents.

"Then what's your address?" He was a nice-looking blond dude, but now his face was contorted with rage.

"What's wrong with you?" I said. "You're asking a small woman, walking alone, where she lives? Get a grip, mister!" I noticed that my voice had developed an edge too. I always feel like I'm back in high school when stuff like this happens. I had to tell myself that I wasn't doing anything wrong, because somehow I felt like I was.

He started saying something else, something angry, but I didn't want to keep listening. I put my other earbud back in. Joe was still talking about Richard's Instagram feed, but I couldn't focus on the story. I walked away fast, willing myself not to run. I wondered if this man was going to call the cops on me, or whether he had a gun stashed in the glove compartment of one of the cars. 

The trouble with these mile-long blocks is that you can't turn off on a side street and take a different route. You just have to keep going. So I kept walking. My heart was pounding. I thought he might be watching me, but I didn't want to turn around and check.

I hate confrontations. As I said, I usually walk much later, when the skunks and raccoons are rifling through the black trash toters and the humans aren't out. By the time I go out, the recycling scavengers have already sifted through the blue toters, careful not to leave a mess. The skunks and raccoons aren't so careful; they just flip over the bins to see what's inside. But the skunks and raccoons never ask me where I live.

What's wrong with these crazy white men? Is it so outré to take a walk at night?

I turn left on Monero to check out the view. The moonlight cuts a wide white swath across the dark ocean. You can see the outline of a palm tree. 

It looks like a fucking postcard. 

Waiting for the rainy season

The other night I was taking my walk earlier than usual, not long after midnight, and a CEO type, a tall man with forgettable WASPy features and recently coiffed brown hair, approached me.  He was perhaps 40 and dressed too formally for a late-night stroll around the block.

He said, "I know you've got chalk in your hand. I want you to stop writing on the sidewalk." He was so angry his voice quavered.

He was right. I had chalk in my hand. I wasn't about to write though. I was inspecting a hunk of wire on the street, a remnant from a sloppy construction jobsite. This is a place on my route where I frequently pick up nails. I do it in memory of Uwe Dobers ("Fine European Construction"). When Mr. Dobers's crew was working on the place next door to us, our Hondas suffered an abnormal number of flat tires. There'd always be stray nails on our driveway, fallout from lax oversight. Twice nails punctured the sidewalls, and we had to buy new tires. Since then I've been compulsive about picking up nails and sharp things from the street.

I had taken the piece of chalk out of my pocket, lest it would fall out while I was picking up the wire. But I dropped the wire when I saw him, startled by a big guy walking toward me fast so late at night. I should add, I'm small and feral-looking. I don't pose much of a physical threat.

But he was right. I have written on the sidewalk, here and there, always something small—a LOTSL (a podcast I think many of you would enjoy) or a FAP! (a homage to Major Hoople, a long-running comic about the gouty Major Hoople, a fat man with a bulbous nose who can often be found wearing a Shriner's cap). More occasionally, I'll draw a small muted post horn, in the hope of thrilling a Pynchon fan.

I don't know why I do it. It's a compulsion. I don't do it often, and the marks aren't particularly noticeable. They come off with the scuff of a tasseled loafer.

It would've been disingenuous of me to deny his rage-fueled accusations. Instead I said, "Okay. I'll stop now. But I think you'll find I'm not the only one who writes on the sidewalks around here."

He seemed too angry, given the nature and scope of the crime. I also thought he was way too optimistic that he'd singlehandedly brought down a major graffiti ring by hunting me down.

Lots of other chalk marks besmirch his lovely white sidewalks, including huge dense scribbles made by the young spawn of our neighbors. Their drawings are far cuter than mine (some are even lovely and show artistic promise). But often these children—despite the hovering ministrations of their parents—don't color inside the lines. They won't get into Harvard if they can't learn to color neatly.

And not to nitpick, but my usual marks despoil an area about 3" by 8" or 24 square inches. The kids cover vast swaths of sidewalk with their hopscotch games, desultory drawings of happy families and marching elephants, and messages to daddy. An average drawing fills an area of about 3' by 8', or 3456 square inches, 144 times my chalk footprint.

Nor am I the only grown person with the temerity to write in chalk. There are occasional messages. I don't know who writes them, but I love it when I find one. I spent hours following a trail of arrows a couple of years ago. At the end, whether by design or coincidence, I found a half-eaten container of mixed nuts.

Mr. Angry CEO said the whole thing again as we parted, word for word. This time I said, "Okay. Fine. I hear you." I was polite and conciliatory.

To be honest, I was more than a little embarrassed. I thought, "Aw, I should just knock it off. This guy is genuinely upset." In retrospect, it seems clueless on my part to think people who park their new Jaguars and high-end German luxury cars—cars with finish as hard and shiny as a rhinoceros beetle—on the street, wheels carefully turned in to the curb, would have a sense of humor about sidewalk chalk. I was treating the sidewalks of my neighborhood as if they were public.

"I'll stop," I added.

Then, much to my relief, we parted. He said something else as he was walking away from me, but I'd returned to my MP3 player, my constant companion when I go on walks. I listen to podcasts. As I said, the LOTSL I had written was an advertisement for a podcast. You can search for LOTSL on the web, and you'll easily find the podcast so you can download it and give it a listen too.

It's much more dangerous to chalk up a "Big Fatty" on the sidewalk, and to expect the search to go well.

I should mention, this was a gay neighborhood, and these are gay podcasts. I really did think some of my neighbors would enjoy listening to LOTSL. But I probably should have attended to the steady rise in property values and noticed the changes afoot in the neighborhood; it's just not the neighborhood I moved into at the tail end of the 1990s.

You don't see "Keep the Castro Queer" bumperstickers anymore. I miss them.

The confrontation unnerved me. But I walked on. My walk is often the best part of my day. It's reduced my tendency to insomnia; it calms me down; and it makes me feel good, exuberant, alive. I'd even love to go back to running, but I'm old, and I'm certain my knees (which click and lock with every step) wouldn't allow it.

But something was making my Spidey-sense tingle. I turned around quickly. Although we’d originally been walking in opposite directions, now Mr. Angry CEO was following me, about a half a block behind me.

It was creepy.

I haven't had a stalker in many years. But I do remember that feeling, that creepy, creepy feeling that someone might be right behind you.

When he saw me look back, he turned the corner and disappeared down another street. Weird. I continued on my way, stopping only to check for a Duncan yoyo, the kind that lights up. It had been left atop a retaining wall. I was planning to stop and give it a few yos as I walked by, then return it to its nest when I was done.

For the first time in a couple of weeks, it wasn't there. It occurred to me that I was sufficiently rattled that I wasn't listening very carefully to the podcasts. I usually have out-loud conversations with them.

Sure enough, at the next corner, Mr. Angry CEO stepped out of the shadows, primed for another confrontation. Apparently I was supposed to leave his neighborhood immediately after our first conversation, so he had walked around the block in the opposite direction to intercept me. Did he think I was going to just ignore his fury and blithely keep walking and chalking?

I was about a block from home.

He delivered his speech AGAIN, verbatim. He'd been rehearsing it. This time he followed it up by saying, "Where do you live?" He said this in a way that I found wholly provocative.

I said, "None of your business, mister." It was late at night. Was he planning to follow me home?

He said, "Well, I'm a homeowner around here. You write ALL OVER this hill."

What had he seen when our paths diverged? I don't usually walk the route he'd just taken. Last time I'd gone that way, there was nothing, save some spray paint symbols that the utility company used to mark something they'd installed underground. Had he mistaken me for PG&E?

I said, simply, "I don't know what you're talking about." This couldn't be truer. His rage seemed to be turning psychotic.

He said, "Your writing is all over the walls, all over the sidewalks. Everywhere!"

This is a surprise to me. I've never written on a wall, nor haven't I seen writing on walls around our neighborhood. The last wall chalk I'd seen had been painted over with dark gray anti-graffiti paint in 2012 in a dramatic flourish that left the wall blotchy. Water would have done the trick.

I said, "Please tell me which wall you mean. I've NEVER written on a wall." Now I was invigorated by anger too. Any sympathy I'd felt for him vanished.

He drew himself up to his full 6'3" CEO-ness and said (and this thoroughly shocked me): "I want you to stop walking in this neighborhood. Go walk your dog somewhere else."

Now I was confused and offended. I don't have a dog. Was he telling me that I'm ugly? There was a tinge of racist hate and entitlement to his voice. The last time someone told me to get out of my own neighborhood, I was a child. That time, the speaker was worried about an influx of Jews, and he thought a couple of 12 year old girls were a threat. Mr. Angry CEO was just worried about rubbing elbows with the poor: if I wasn't a homeowner, I should get lost. And I clearly didn't own a home in HIS neighborhood.

I walked away quickly, shaken, taking an alternate route home lest he follow me further. I stuck to the shadows and turned left, then right, then right, then right again.

There hasn't been much graffiti in this part of town, not in the last 25 years or so. And... we live in a city. It's one of the reasons I moved here. You used to see cool sidewalk stencils. You'd see chalk drawings and cartoons. You'd see all kinds of stuff on the sidewalk (besides gum, phlegm, and urine). But not anymore. There are lots more angry men like this angry man. Entitled guys used to imposing their own will on everything they see.

At this point, I wish I had a punchline for you. I wish I'd gone back the next night and... and... and... what? Written on the sidewalk? Spray-painted on the wall? Defecated on his doorstep? Or just gone for my walk and confronted him, if just to say, “I live here too, Buster.”

In my mind's eye, I walk my normal route, see him again and say to him (as I walk through swirls of fog and darkness like Humphrey Bogart), "You know sweetheart, you're beautiful when you're angry."

Don't succumb to the temptation to reverse it in your mind's eye. I'm saying this to him. He needs a quick burst of role-reversal. He needs to spend some time as a small woman, when his rage would be empty, impotent, perceived as ridiculous, the stuff of YouTube videos. 

Then I start to wonder: Was he the same man who had yelled at me several years ago for refusing to cross the street in front of his car at night. That man—maybe the same guy—had stopped at a stop sign near his hill. I was standing on the corner; I couldn't tell whether he saw me or not. So I stayed on the sidewalk, waiting. And he rolled down the window—no, that's wrong—he pressed a button and the window silently slid down. And he yelled at me with conviction (and not even a hint of humor) "Cross. Cross! Don't you trust me? Cross already!" I stood on my corner and didn't budge. After a few more seconds, he drove by, furious.

If he said any more, I didn't hear it. When his car had gone through the intersection, I crossed the street.

Of course, I do live in this neighborhood; I own a house too. I've lived here a long time. I've paid my fair share of property taxes. It's true that I could no longer afford to live in this neighborhood if I hadn't bought my house many years ago. But it's too late, Mister: I already live here. On your hill, in your neighborhood.

And what about that sidewalk graffiti, missy? I step outside of myself, turn 180 degrees, face myself with a stern expression, and ask myself that. What's the deal with sidewalk? Can't you leave it alone?

It's a tic. I'm always doing something while I'm on my walk, some kind of strange project. It might involve counting things, planting things, weaving things, or—as now—periodically making a small mark on the sidewalk. During the rainy season, the marks on the sidewalk disappear almost as quickly as they are made. I don't expect them to stick around. My marks, the marks of the hashers, the kids' hopscotch games, a drawing of a macaw: they all swirl down the storm drain to the sea. But they've stuck around recently. It's been a drought year.

A stick of pink sidewalk chalk taunts me from my desk. But I've parked it there for now, waiting for the rainy season.