He sat down on the white plastic lawn chair, leaning forward on his walking cane with his hands crossed on top of the handle, and looked at me through his sunglasses with his intentions hidden.
“So, uh, which po-lice station you work at,” he said.
This brought out a good laugh from the one other guy who was listening. The rest of the guys drinking beer and sitting on lawn chairs or milk crates in the alley between North and Le Moyne basically went back to doing that and not paying attention to me.
“I don’t work for the police, man,” I responded with a grin, hoping he was joking.
“Yes you do. You saying you ain’t the guy who arrested me around the corner in ’72?”
“Shit, I wasn’t even alive in ’72.”
“Man, I’m just fuckin wit you.”
That was good to hear. Only a few minutes into my first neighborly act of goodwill, it didn’t take long for the obvious joke to pop up: I’m white, therefore, I’m po-lice.
This was about a week after moving into our new place in Humboldt Park. We were still getting settled and were still getting used to the neighborhood, which was described in real estate talk as “changing over” or “in transition.”
Adjacent to all the fun shit in Wicker Park and Bucktown, Humboldt Park has a lot of great things to offer in terms of location and the park itself is amazing, and only a few blocks away. There is still gang activity with all that has to offer. There is a general lack of respect for communal areas with trash dropped seemingly where the fuck ever. There are market rate homes next to boarded up crapshacks and subsidized apartments.
This was not unexpected, but as part of the gentrifying horde spreading its way west of Western Avenue, I am not feeling the shitty parts of the neighborhood. But whatever. I do feel uneasy in terms of being the carpetbagger, outsider, invading presence, etc. This is a self-imposed feeling I believe, for the most part, as all my new neighbors have been courteous. All have said hello when I said hello. All waved back when I waved.
But the cable guy, who said he used to “run the streets over here”, said he had to move to the South Side because it got too wild over here “in the old days.” He also told the joke/truism that back in the day if you saw a white person running through the park the homeboys would look behind them to see who was chasing their ass. “Now it’s people jogging and walking their dog, crazy.”
So when I stepped out of my front door on the first morning we lived there, with my inlaws in tow, I took it in stride when I saw three cars with their windows busted out and two with all four tires slashed. They weren’t our cars. This was obviously a personal beef, so we said “look at that” and went up to Logan Square for breakfast.
This hypothesis about personal beef was confirmed when the grapevine told me that another house had an arson fire in its garage a few weeks prior, torching the owner’s classic car. Seems fair enough.
When I got a text message from my upstairs neighbor that said “Did anyone call an ambulance?”, I simply responded “Not us” and didn’t tell my wife.
When I got the mail a few days later and saw the Cook County CrimeStoppers poster asking for info about a murder that happend last fall a few blocks away, I looked at the victim’s photo and though how sad it was for a kid that young to be dead. Later that week I saw several of these posters ripped in half or defaced along North Avenue, telling me not everyone around the way feels so sad for the kid.
For the first few days in Humboldt Park, I waved to everyone I passed in the alley or on the street, walking or driving. The ones who recognized me the most were the boys in the alley. Just north of LeMoyne, they hang out most all the time, sitting on both sides of the speed bump with their plastic chairs and cheap beers.
When I cruised past that first Saturday morning, I was heading to the South Loop to pick up the dry cleaning I left there before we moved. I said hello at the speed bump and was greeted by one guy on a bicycle who asked me for money.
“I’m not going to lie, man, I need a beer.”
“Nah, man. Tell you what though, I will be drinking beer later anyway, and I will stop down and have one with you,” I responded, feeling a little offended that I was getting the tourist treatment
They weren’t buying that story, but said “OK have a good one, son.”
When I got back, I took the six-pack of Budweiser I picked up along the way and walked down to the boys. Before I got down there, I ran into a couple of the boys. Holding up the sixer, I greeted them and asked with a smile where they were going.
Cowboy said he had to go finish up a piece of cement work. “Got to make it pretty to get paid,” taking a pull off his Natie Light.
Tall — at least 6-4 — and with high pants, Cowboy has catchers gloves for hands and an even bigger grin.
“Go ahead down there with Gary and them. That’s all family down there.”
Peeling one off the plastic for Cowboy and one for myself, I have never thought of Budweiser as a high dollar brew, but I got to say, I was showing class that day. Above the surprise of my return (He came back, yo!”), there was the quick yes please to the King of Beers.
“Bud, oh shit, I’ll take one of those.” Six pack gone.
The boys ranged in age from later 30s, looking like 47, to early 60s, looking like more than that. “I’ve been knowing Cowboy for more than 40 years,” said one of the old heads, who had lived in Humboldt Park on and off for most his life.
They asked me where I was from and how old I was, but when I went to say which house I had moved into, they stopped me short and said they already knew. “Across the way from Ken and them…”
When the beer was gone I stomped my can and tossed it behind the fence, as Jerry kind of scolded me for actually putting it in the garbage can the first time. I had lived in a South Loop high rise for three years and not shared a beer with a single person in that building. I don’t think this simple act erased my outsider status, but it did make me feel like I was their neighbor.
This was validated a few days later when I was going to the park to run and saw Gary across the street. He smiled, and waved before calling out to me.
“Hey Mike, howyadoin?”
My name’s not Mike, but whatever, that was good enough for me.
