...shocked at how seedy the old neighborhood looks, I feel a pang of survivor’s guilt over my own relatively comfortable life now.
Through the open door of the apartment, I can see that our old neighbors are sitting down to dinner. I’m stunned for a moment to find that the little boy my son used to play with is now a paraplegic. I’m already regretting the visit as I knock.
Shuffled of chairs inside, dishes and silverware clatter on a tabletop. I’m interrupting dinner. Idiot.
The husband opens the door, still chewing.
I’m puzzled by a poster of an old comic book character on the wall behind him.
He’s puzzled by my visit, doesn’t recognize me at first. Then his eyes light up and he calls his wife out to say hello. He tells me to wait for a moment, that he’s got a gift he’s been saving for me. I do my best to demur but he’s already rummaging around in the chaotic jumble of old toys and rubbish in their little apartment.
At the door, his wife asks about my kids. We trade polite pleasantries for a few minutes. She tells me that crime in the area has made it almost impossible to raise a family. Uncomfortable, I joke about dressing up like Batman and clean things up.
In the stairwell behind me, I hear a door slam. Mutter of voices, a low level of panic. A woman cries somewhere up above.
A man with a handgun makes his way door to door, collecting this week’s rent and/or protection money.
She does her best to hold on to her fear. I do my best to hope that the thug didn’t hear my ridiculous crimefighter comment.
Her husband comes out into the hallway to confront the thug. I can feel the anger building in his wife, that he would jeopardize their safety with this pointless bravado.
Things get complicated, convoluted . . . the sands of dream shift under my feet and slides into another, disjointed direction...
