A Tale of Two Cities

I live in a neighborhood of mixed intention. There are houses owned by attentive, meticulous people who drive Cadillacs and nice Nissan SUVs, there are houses owned by well-meaning landlords who just aren't willing to paint or trim the bushes, there are houses owned by absentee landlords who rent to college kids, there are houses that are old and houses that are new, and tenement houses and single-family houses and friendly neighbors and neighbors who just put their heads down and walk inside, pretending to have never seen you.

It's not like some neighborhoods, where people have decided to congregate because they have a certain income, taste level, or geographical favor. My neighborhood is a mixture of young, old, rich, poor, renters, owners, black, white - whatever. We're all here because of every reason and no reason at all. And I like that about it.

I don't, however, like defending where I live to people who don't understand the city. The city of New Bedford is a lot like this neighborhood. It's full of homes that are architecturally ahead of their time, because they were built when the city was steeped in money courtesy of the whaling industry, but they're mostly run-down examples of what once was, owned by people who either don't care or don't know - the historic shingle marking the home's antiquity on the exterior of the house is an afterthought, something they've never considered to be important or relevant.

Once, a relatively intelligent friend of mine told me that he would never live in this part of the city. Maybe one or two blocks away, but he would never, ever live in this neighborhood. It was a bad neighborhood. Bad, bad Neighborhood. (Neighborhood walks away with it's tail tucked between it's legs.) At the time, it was really hard to say, "No, it's not," because recently - maybe one or two days prior - a man was shot in a driveway two houses away from mine. My street was taped off with caution tape, the police were everywhere, and the neighbors - young, old, rich, poor, renters, owners, black or white - stood on the sidewalks, mouths agape.

So, during that conversation, I just had to shut up. I had to say, "Okay, you would never live in my neighborhood," and I had to walk away, smiling but knowing that my confidence in my neighborhood had, indeed, been challenged that night.

Last night, I got home around five o'clock to meet my mom, who had just done some grocery shopping and arrived back to my apartment. She's visiting from out of town, and had been out house hunting and errand-running all day. The plan was - stay in, cook dinner, have a low key night.

So, I got home, I went in the side door with my friend Eric, who left moments later via the same side door. About an hour later, my roommate Cecily left via the front door. About twenty or so minutes after she left, my friend Karin arrived at the side door. During the course of the evening, my landlord was in and out of his apartment on the second floor, leaving by the front door and then coming back in again several times.

Karin, my mom and I cooked dinner, chatted, ate, and then around nine o'clock we left the house via the front door - my mom stayed home. Karin and I met our friend Jenna for dessert at a nearby restaurant. At some point, during our departure from the house, Cecily arrived home. Karin and I arrived back at home around midnight; I left the car, waved "bye" to Karin and headed towards the front door when something on the sidewalk caught my eye. I bent down to see what it was, glimmering in the dead leaves that litter my sidewalk...

My mother's wallet and keys.

My mother's red leather wallet and her set of keys had been sitting on the sidewalk, mere feet away from her car and the door to my house, since five o'clock that evening. It was midnight.

Midnight.

Everything was in the wallet. Money. Credit cards. Everything. Her life. Intact. And the car, still there. She had no idea it was even missing; she was sleeping soundly when I walked in, brandishing the chilled wallet.

So, take that people who don't believe in my neighborhood. Take that, people who don't believe in luck or miracles or New Bedford. Take that, life. And, thanks.