Scrapper

There are secrets in this neighborhood. They scurry on the sidewalks and in trees. People here have wobbly confessions caught in their wind shield wipers--swallowed by rain. There are more Birkenstocks and natural deodorant per square block here than any other neighborhood I’ve lived. My two neighbors cut their grasses together. I sneeze every morning and consider water. I think of the swimming pool that closes around my sweaty, riffed insides. A large body of water that surrounds me in a condensed milk of weightlessness, while the oxygen of questions and worries leak out into folds behind me. Like a bridal train—like something bunched and almost abandoned. I prepare for my daily swim when I hear the knock at the door.

The neighbor, the grass cutter, on the other side of my house; that I gave two dollars to a few weeks back—today he asks for seven dollars. We get taken advantage of once, maybe twice; and then no more. His story is always the same, “his kids aren’t home, he needs his medication.” My neighbor on the other side said to me last week, “Oh him. Didn’t anyone tell you? He's a gambler. We’ve all been hit up. You’re just new blood.” Perhaps he took advantage like this early, never stopped, and now into his sixties he cuts the same sentences, the same promises, the same grass over and over.

Sunday morning, 8:29, the church bells ring from in the Catholic church a block away. People shingle the streets—their cars, shiny and glued together like a centipede. They are putting their road rage aside. They walk in a sort of dazed, space economical way—making room for one another in foot traffic. They are open-mouthed inspiration receiving, patent-leathered shoe people. They are scrapping for something to feed them the clear eyes of a child, the heart of a dog, and smiles at one another that are fundamentally natural. Scrapping for band-aides for their blistered feet, caused by shoes that are worn only on Sundays. They want something white, pillowy, soft skinned that leans into their goodness. Something they imagine can be absorbed into their bodies, in the prism of the stained glass church windows—something, God gives. This church has a progressive God, a man God, a Lone Ranger God who will take everyone home. Everyone, that is, who scraps and sacrifices, everyone who gives their name to him. And in this neighborhood this is no secret.

I take my swimming flippers and water resistant backpack with all my gear to the car. The streets are filled with green; filled with fluorescent light. The dogs bark into it, at people; the cats show off; roll down the gardened, bulky, sinewy yards full of sunflower and Irises. As I open the car door a squirrel drops walnut shards on my head. I look up at the king of the scrapper world—the squirrel. It looks at me, challengingly, like, yeah, what are you going to do about it? The squirrels have the most fun here in the neighborhood. They don’t go to church, they aren’t working for progressive ideals filled with inherent contradiction, they make a profession of taking advantage of us humans—they laugh at us. They are always chomping like otters on something; corn husks, sunflower seeds, roasted almonds from Wild Oats Food store provided by amused, gullible humans. They look at you blankly, like what do you have for me today— like it’s expected, like it’s the best thing you could do with your useless human life; to be taken advantage of by the neighborhood’s fat squirrels. They weigh nothing, give you nothing and expect everything. We give it to them.

As I drive to the swimming pool I see the neighbors are having a neighborhood yard sale to save the trees. Neil Young plays from one of the houses, windows open wide. There falls a dusty rain; so light it can barely be felt. I stop to give them five dollars to help keep the woolen tree tops going. I cheer for the fluorescent green, that like the stain glass windows in the church, give me a sense that god is everywhere. Someone asks for my email address. The homeowners, they need volunteers. “Speak! Help us!” they say”, a large market is moving into the neighborhood. Save us from the cars.”

The water. I enter it, grateful for it’s stubborn, pushy resistance. Something to push into. Something already collected, that moves when I move. I see something shiny on the bottom of the pool. I think maybe it’s the citron earring I lost last week. My ears fill with a stinging pressure as I scrape and scrap at the bottom. Is there something here that the water has saved for me for a whole week? Something preserved, unmoored, untouched that is mine, there, at the bottom of the dark blue? The silver candy bar wrapper buoys up as my weight moves the water. I rush up to the top to get air. I sneeze immediately. A man asks me if I would time-share my goggles, “take turns?” he asks.

Here, they are yours. I think this is what I will say. This is what I would normally say. I think of those squirrels in their selfish joy. No community to make, no trees to save, nothing to do but eat, eat, eat. The water is my food. I reach for the goggles to give to him because it’s the right thing to do. But then I push the goggles deeper on my face and dive back into the water—into the deep promising sound of no sound at the bottom of the pool.