[Revision of a story published in 2016]

You can take the queer out of the city, but you can’t make the Navy town on the peninsula seem anything but off. Vestiges of the city follow, the seedy bits. Perhaps it’s the military presence that encourages seamier behavior. If that’s the case, I have yet another reason to be discomfited by anything military. & here I thought the purpose of war reason enough. Silly me!

As a child my room was on the 2nd floor of the house, facing the backyard. Most of my adult life I’ve lived on upper floors, in secure buildings with no random public access sans outer door key. I prefer seating that puts my back to a wall rather than a window. Get an inward cringe when having to take a seat in the middle of a room. There may be a fine line between being cautious & a wee bit paranoid. In my mind, where it’s never quiet, intrusions of the outside world can seem sudden while I’ve been mentally fiddling around with wordings or composing the shapes of a current painting. I may be physically here, often not wholly present.

The first thing I did upon moving into a street-level apartment in a slightly ghetto-y section of this forgotten burg was slap some blinds & curtains on those giant fishbowl windows. I’m not big on observation by any passing schmoe. If someone’s gonna spy on me, they gotta fucking work for it. Have cutting-edge tech. Pay exorbitant bribes. Have the NSA in their pocket. Basically I want the surveillance of me to have an air of intrigue, espionage. Not just some creepy looky loo. If I’m being watched, I want to have the satisfaction that somebody somewhere has gone the extra mile & deems me dangerously subversive. Doesn’t much matter if it’s not true. I like to feel special. & the twofer: while the deeply misinformed agents are wasting their time & resources watching me, actual dissidents are getting away with whatever Resistance-y things they’re doing. Wait! That might prove I am indeed subversive. Albeit by proxy.

My new career could be decoy. I love these passive roles. Gives me a sense of accomplishment while lazing on the couch with a novel or eating lunch in front of the tv. A multi-tasking sort of feel, napping at the same instant as committing eco-terrorism. Who could ask for anything more?

My new abode’s front door in sailor town was literally 4 ft from the sidewalk. The building was a small neighborhood storefront built in the 1920s. I had never lived in a place where wandering passersby could knock on my door & just… ask for things!?!

I’m not talking about legitimate salespersons. Nor Girl Scouts selling cookies (though after I’d lived there awhile a pair did stop by. Their mother parked & watched from the curb as these two 6/7 yr olds sang a little song & danced. It was adorable & I bought 4 boxes. I don’t even eat sweets). Nor Jehovah’s Witnesses, who have the audacity to ask not for money but one’s very soul. At least they give you short, amusing graphic novels. Nor campaign canvassers. Not any of those welcomed me to the neighborhood. But people I’d never set eyes on before knocked on my door & asked for: Cigarettes. Odd jobs. Outright cash! [Does this approach work? I should rethink my views on dignity. Perhaps they’re why I’m not financially flush.]

It’s as if I took up residence where you needn’t leave the comforts of your own home to be hit up. Begging goes door-to-door here. They don’t bother with cardboard signs & melancholy faces in the rain at busy intersections. Nope. That’s crazy talk. They’re hands-on in this town. Bringing the panhandling right to you, no waiting!

I think of movies with something similar in parts of towns next to train tracks. Then it strikes me: what is this, 1930? FFS! I moved to this area thinking I’d experience some urban withdrawal. Instead I went back in time. I stepped outside my door, examined the jamb, searched the siding for hobo code. Nothing. Could it be my Tibetan prayer flags draped over the porch? I merely wanted to stand with the Free Tibet movement, not hang a Lady Liberty banner proclaiming ‘Bring me your hoodlums, your scammers, your pickpockets yearning to free those from their wallets…’

My first few visitors upon moving in had been seriously sketchy individuals bearing grubby, crumpled coupons for carpet cleaning, peering nosily around my shoulder at my decor. I was informed later that crews of thieves case houses in this manner. “In THIS area?” I asked, incredulous. I glanced around at my stuff & even I didn’t want most of it.

Personally I believe if you don’t know the principles of thieving, you should leave it to the professionals. Like investment bankers, forgers, safecrackers, etc. Going to the bad part of town where all the yards are scabrous & the houses in disrepair, attempting to ply your trade on the unfortunate inhabitants therein, makes me feel you should rethink your line of work. You may not know it, but a large part of thieving is stealing things that’re actually worth something. In case you weren’t informed, poor people buy cheap shit that carries no semblance of resale value. Thus an inefficient expense of energy for little return, exponentially increasing your thieving time to where crime simply doesn’t pay. You have now entered the twilight zone of the entire service industry payday, as well as much of the blue collar work force. Congratulations– you can steal & still retain the cachet of the working poor! (Same perks & healthcare benefits apply.)

I wondered if I should keep Chamber of Commerce city maps on hand, maybe in one of those pocket things for brochures, & a red Sharpie by the door. The next time they come a-calling I could direct them to the better part of town. Everybody needs a little help sometimes.