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Graves 1
Harry Graves
Paper #1
November 7, 2004
Christmas in Northeast
A light wind blows from the north, swirling large snowflakes as I walk east
on Independence Avenue, which, if Kansas City were a Monopoly board, would be
Oriental Avenue, in my estimation—a bit more upscale than Baltic or
Mediterranean but not as chic as St. Charles, States, or Virginia. The air itself
smells cold, and the breeze carries the homey smell of smoke from the woodburning stoves and fireplaces and the pungent odor of amphetamines simmering in
the neighborhood’s many meth labs.
I hear a customer placing his order at the McDonald’s drive-through: “Yes,
I'd like a number three value meal supersized with a large Coke, a nickel-bag, and
a speed ball.” In Northeast, even the drug dealers are so poor that that have to
work at McDonalds. The good news is that this provides handy one-stop shopping.
After a few second’s delay, the speaker crackles, and then a voice replies: “That’s
a number three value meal supersized with a Dr. Pepper, a nickel-bag, and a speed
ball?’
“No,” the customer says, somewhat wearily, “a number three value meal
supersized with a large Coke, a nickel-bag, and a speed ball.”
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Moments later, the speaker crackles again, and the voice from within says
“It’ll be just a couple minutes on the speed ball. Pull over to the curb, and the
manager will bring it out to you. Please pull forward and pay at the window.”
Across the street a pair of female police officers are masquerading as
hookers, though they might as well be wearing their uniforms, as they’re not
fooling anyone. They have teeth, shoes, and no visible scars or tattoos, and they
look as if they eat on a regular basis.
There are nineteen tattoo parlors in Northeast. There are no dentists.
I turn north on Hardesty, and I see a variety of colorful Christmas displays
glowing cheerfully in people’s front yards. The first one is an upside-down
shopping cart with a crucifix sticking up from it, all intertwined with small white
lights. In the next yard illuminated figures of Joseph and Mary look down from a
Price Chopper shopping cart; the three wise men look down from an Apple Market
shopping cart; and a camel, sheep, cow, and donkey are crowded into an Aldi
shopping cart. All gaze adoringly at the baby Jesus cradled in a Family Dollar
shopping cart stuffed with straw and a white sheet left over from the Halloween
display. In the next yard is a twenty-foot pole mounted on a tripod base, around
which are four pink flamingoes festooned with garlands of Christmas greenery
decorated with red balls and bows. At the top of the pole is an unidentifiable
shopping cart outlined in small white lights and set at a rakish angle as if it’s taking
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off toward the North Pole. In a yard across the street are the wire frames formed
like deer outlined in small white lights. The display fills me with serenity until I
notice the deer are positioned so that one is mounting the other, and I wonder if
this conveys the proper Christmas message or if it’s appropriate for children to see.
As I walk, I glance up and down the side streets and notice the power lines
are festooned with pairs of shoes, all kinds of shoes, enough, I would imagine, to
shoe the entire barefoot population of Arkansas. This hanging of shoes from the
utility lines is a local custom, as I learned from a neighbor, who makes his living
tossing the shoes over the lines, which is no easy task and for which he is paid five
dollars per pair, fifteen if he provides the shoes. I notice that some of the shoes
have colorful Christmas balls hanging from the laces while others have tiny silver
sleigh bells which jingle softly in the breeze, evidence that those who wanted the
shoes in front of their houses, like everyone else in Northeast, apparently, is filled
with the spirit of the holiday.
The pavement, where it is visible, sparkles with broken glass from car
windows that have been broken out, not by thieves necessarily but by young
people expressing that joy and vitality of youth, who magically transform every
night in Northeast into Crystal Nacht.
Along with the sparkle of the broken glass I see the occasional gleam of
needles from syringes in the gutter. Apparently there are many diabetics in
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Northeast, and while I feel sorry for them, I wish they would dispose of their
needles in a more responsible and sanitary manner, though that would deprive the
local kids of a favorite amusement: playing doctor with the needles and giving
each other shots.
Through the snow-filled air I hear the bells at Holy Cross church chiming
and the usual sporadic gunfire in the distance. As I pass one house, I notice several
men bent over in the driveway, their heads stuck beneath the lime-green hood of a
black 1988 Ford Escort LE with one yellow and one red quarter panel. On the
back window is a decal that says “Bad A** (Armenian?) Boys Drive Bad A**
(Alpine?) Toys.” The doors of the car are open, and from the stereo I hear
Christmas rap: “Yo, Homies! Listen up to what I’m laying down! Better not jump
ugly! Better not cop an attitude! I’m rappin straight to y’all! M * * * * F * * * *
(my friend?) Santa Clause is comin to the M * * * * * F * * * * * (moderately
friendly?) hood, know what I'm sayin, N * * * * ?! (neighbors?)” Nailed to a
utility pole is a handmade sign advertising a yard sale from last fall, with the drugs
and their prices listed in a black magic marker scrawl with many misspellings.
I look across the street into Budd Park. The streetlamps cast a soft glow,
like a scene from a greeting card, and I see that the sparkling snow, as well as the
pool pavilion and the circumambient houses, is spray-painted with gang graffiti in
a variety of festive colors.
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In Northeast, even the wild animals have tattoos and belong to gangs. For
instance, “The Tree Posse,” which includes the squirrels, birds, and possums,
controls Budd Park, whereas Gladstone Boulevard, the reservoir, and Cliff Drive
are definitely “The Gutter Boyz” (the raccoons, foxes, and stray dogs) turf.
A pair of spotlights shine through the falling snow, casting small, dancing
shadows on the large American flag waving majestically on the roof of the
Northeast post office, which is housed in “Brother Hood’s” New and Used Guns
and Ammo, Indoor Firing Range, Reloading Supplies, and Survival Gear; We BuySell-Trade War Trophies; Viet Nam Veteran Anger Management Clinic and
Employment Office; Beer, Wine-Making, and Bow Hunting Supplies; Deer
Processing, Camouflage Clothing, Organic Anti-Depressant, and Live Bait
Boutique.
I turn right on St. John and continue past Barrio Burger, Mafia Cuts hair
styling, El Pollution y Carbon Taco-teria, and Northeast’s only legitimate industry:
“Fresh out O’the Tap” Bottled Water. As I reach the bottom of the long hill, I
smell irresistible odors of cooking from Mohammed Nguyen’s check-cashing/
pawn/ payday loan/ coin-operated laundry/ dry cleaners/ tattoo/ psychic palm
reader/ acupuncture/ beauty/ nail salon/ discount liquors/ quality used cars and
front end alignment/ day care/ cell phone and pager/ Northeast Democratic Club/
license bureau/ notary public/ immigration legal services/ bail bonds/ pet store/
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rent-a-center/ Vietnamese/ Chinese/ Thai/ sushi/ Cajun/ Tex-Mex restaurant and
carwash with its four slogans: “We are Vietnamese if you please; but by the same
token, we are Vietnamese if you don’t please,” “We wok your dog!” “Se Habla
Espanol,” and “We accept food stamps—50¢ on the dollar” in purple and green
neon script. In the front window is posted the daily special: my choice of Kung
Pao Peek-a-Poo or Moo Goo Gai Calico with fried rice, Rottweiler Rangoon,
gerbil-drop soup, and fortune cookie for only $3.75. This sounds too good to pass
up, so I walk inside, order the Moo Goo Gai Calico plate and pay at the counter,
receive my change in pesos, food stamps, and yen, and slump into a booth by the
window. Soon Rosa brings the steaming food to my table. “Quatro sir vesa.
Dondey estay la bibliotecka, see voo play moochachose,” I tell her, sliding the
food stamps from my change toward her as a gratuity (most of us Nor’easters are at
least nominally multilingual, as even the briefest visit to O'Reilly's at Van Brunt
and Independence Avenue will prove). She smiles and nods, slipping the tip into
her apron pocket. The food is rich and salty—delicious! After cleaning my plate, I
open my fortune cookie and see that the fortune is written in Swedish, Swahili,
Sudanese, and Spanish. I ask Rosa to translate for me, and she tells me that
according to my fortune, I will die at 4:36 tomorrow afternoon.
Full and warm, I lean back and look out the window to see a commotion in
the intersection of St. John and Topping. Soon I realize that two armed men
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involved in a road-rage incident have inadvertently interfered with a carjacking,
and the various parties are noisily trying to sort things out. I sigh with
contentment. All is well—Christmas has arrived in “The Hood.”