Winning

As I write, it’s July in Philadelphia. It’s the hottest it’s been all year, day three of a 100-degree weather. Too hot for fireworks and parades—they’ve all been cancelled, which is fine with me¹. The World Cup is here, bringing together folks from all walks of life, and the nation is celebrating 250 years of itself.

On the street outside my house, the gas company is replacing the pipes underground. They’ve torn up the asphalt and filled the holes in temporarily with a mixture of gravel and oil, that is relatively soft in normal weather, but in 100 degree heat, it’s like driving over Hostess cupcakes. I feel the house shake when trucks drive by. Someone is filling in these holes with flagstones, foam insulation, etc. Doesn’t seem like the gas company would adopt the same strategy seven-year olds apply to backyard mud puddles, so I suspect it’s one of my neighbors.

The neighbor relationship is a complex one for me to navigate. Most people are pretty happy with the relationship not moving beyond a slight head bow acknowledging the other’s existence, but I tend to want to become everyone’s best friend in the whole wide world. The trouble starts when I initiate the exchange of names. I’m cursed with a good memory for names, and I don’t struggle remembering people after I meet them, but more often than not my name is quickly forgotten by the opposite party. So I often pretend not to know people’s names so they don’t feel self-conscious.

I know, I know. And it gets sadder.

As an aging adult, I’ve had to make the switch to progressive lenses², a type of glasses that allows for far-seeing lenses up top, and near-seeing lenses on bottom. Now, when you get these made, you can have the top or bottom be bigger or smaller, depending on your sightedness preference. Kim opts for the bottom to be larger, so she can see the laptop in front of her easier. I opt for the top to be larger, so I can see as far as possible when I’m walking, and identify the people walking towards me, so that I don’t accidentally ignore anyone I know.

It’s funny, part of the reason I moved to the city was I loved the anonymity of it, where I could be amongst people but not have to say hello to everyone, and now I’ve lived in the city long enough I’m doing that anyways.

I’ve lived here 15 years now. It was a huge jump to move to the city, a scary jump. But I did it because I hated being scared to come here. When I was a kid and I played traveling soccer, every now and then we’d have to drive past the city. I’d see the skyline and it was so intimidating. That was where all the danger was, or so the TV told me. But as I got older, and most of my friends moved into Philadelphia, I found myself driving there constantly, and thus constantly facing panic. But I knew myself well enough to know that if I lived there, and got used to it, I’d stop being scared, and that’s what happened. But now, as I get older, there’s less and less reason for me to stay here. I used to walk across the city two, three times a week, find a neighborhood I’d never been and set up there, draw a little. Live there for a moment. But now I can’t make it across the city as much. I don’t have the same body, and I don’t have the same money. So I contemplate leaving all the time, starting over somewhere, maybe in the suburbs again, or the country. But I do worry what that would do to my perspective.

Once I was walking down 6th street, and stopped at the intersection just under 676. There’s a spot there where the cars exiting for 6th Street pool at the bottom of the on-ramp. There’s always a person panhandling there—it’s a sweet spot. The fella there this day waved me down as I approached, and I took out my headphones. He asked for change, a not surprising or unreasonable question. But, I wasn’t carrying any, so I apologized and put my headphones back in, but didn’t turn them on.

“Caucasians are the worst,” he replied.

I nodded my head in acknowledgement that I’d been engaged by another human being. Much like my neighbors do to me, now that I think about it.

“Don’t give nothin’. Nothin’.”

I nod again.

“They should all be shot.”

I continue nodding.

“I’d shoot you first, dickhead.”

When the light changes I cross the street, not exactly thrilled with how the exchange went, but understanding that it was probably cathartic for both sides. The man was a white guy, bearded, in his 30’s or 40’s maybe. Pretty much me, if I was a little less lucky in life. It’s important to remember that. And I know myself—I’m not a strong-minded person. If I eliminate these sorts of interactions from my everyday existence, my viewpoint will narrow. It will read as a scary exchange, but it wasn’t scary. It was just me interacting with another neighbor—perhaps the one who hates me the most, but still a neighbor.

Only a few weeks later, I was going down the stairs at 8th street station, and out of the corner of my eye, I realized an older woman was at the foot of the stairs, not terribly mobile, and she had a suitcase with her. It seemed likely that carrying it up the stairs would be difficult for her, so I offered to carry it. When I deposited the bag at the top of the stairs, she said thank you, and I said you’re welcome, and we both continued on our respective paths. That was a good one. I liked myself the whole rest of that day and I hope she did too. I’d like more of those, of course, but you only get what the city gives. Take what you can get.

1. Actually, the fireworks were not cancelled, but rescheduled for two-thirty in the morning, which I must acknowledge did make them much more exciting than usual.

2. Previously the role of bifocals, a type of spectacles invented by famous Philadelphian, Ben Franklin, so he could admire french bosoms at any distance.