Becoming Viola

these are the people of my neighborhood

I’m pretending this place where I’m at is not forever, but just for now, a temporary bridge before what comes next; a lull in the story, hopefully, just before the story gets good.

To be honest, I’m pretending. This may just be the entire story.

I live in a transitional neighborhood, first of the month brings new neighbors, except for the old old neighbors, who I fear, once upon a time, thought this a landing pad before the going gets good, only to find here they still sit in condos too small, walls too thin, neighbors too sketchy, cops called too often.

And yet, here I am.

Viola was the old lady in unit 9, ground floor of our modest two-floor complex, kiddy corner to my ground floor flat. Without fail, Viola stood in her condo, framed by her glass storm door, no matter the season or weather, throughout the day and always during rush hour – early morning and early evening – waiting for us dog walkers to pass by so she could get in some pets of the neighborhood canines, and give her favorites a treat or two.

I asked her once why she didn’t get her own dog, and she confessed she was more of a cat lady, and at her age, it’d be irresponsible to get a cat – “It’d outlive me and then what? That’s not fair to the cat. I’m content petting dogs – come here little one,” and she’d bend to give my older than life blind and deaf maltese mutt a tiny treat.

My dogs still pull me to her unit, wondering where she and the snacks went, but after several decades, she’s now in assisted living in Maryland or Virginia or some state far from home. I wish she died right in her doorway, smiling and waving to the neighbors, and calling to our dogs with treats.

My dad once said there’s no better security than a nosy neighbor, so I appreciated Viola’s constant face in the window. My adjoining neighbors dabbled in illegal pharmaceutical sales, and upon alerting the condo secret police, the HOA said I had no proof: “Did you see drugs exchange hands?” and when I said yes, every day, multiple times a day, front door and back. Their response: “Drugs? Are you sure? It could be candy or cookies, you have no proof. Take pictures.” Despite my years of binging Law & Order, I was not Olivia Benson and had no intention of becoming her, despite Little Miss HOA telling me so.

Thanks, but no thanks, these are my neighbors, and I gotta live here. So I smile and nod, and lock my doors. And windows. And car. Keep the curtains pulled. It’s like I don’t live here at all.

The revolving door of not-a-business of baggies and backpacks and literal strangers in the night knocking on windows and doors, 24/7, continued. The local cops, with experience mostly limited to expired registrations and shoplifting, were here three or four times a week, often from my 911 calls, since not-a-business was booming, and fighting and violent discourse often erupted, probably over the wrong popcorn order. And I live right next door and was more than a little afraid.

HOA pretended it wasn’t happening – “Where’s the proof? You don’t know what they’re selling” – I was scolded when begged for support. “Call the cops, what do you expect us to do?” So I did. Often, turning off the lights, and peeking through the blinds, and listening to them bang on the door – just like on TV – and the noise level suddenly drops to zero.

Living right next door, I was abundantly aware it was a drive through heroine dealer, which I surmised after googling what a meth lab smells like, and decided in my own CSI investigative skills, a pretend Nancy Drew, definitely not meth. Very relieved I probably would not blow up Breaking Bad style. But when delivery day hit, customers came out of the woodwork, or the woods right behind me, and often wandered onto the wrong porch, knocked on the wrong door, never intending harm, but scared me sleepless nevertheless.

Little old Viola saw it all, kiddy corner with a full view, and was retired for many years, and home all day, like me, unlike our essential working neighbors who leave daily, working sunrise to sunset – leaving retirees and work-at-home me susceptible to the elements.

So Viola called the cops if screaming got loud enough for her to hear across the way, or cars drove too fast, or undesirables camped out too long. I called too, several times a week or day when business was thriving.

Here’s the thing: I’m not gonna pretend that if said neighbors were black or brown or anything but the stumbling, leaning white zombies with questionable dental care, I would never have called, not even once. If they were brown or black, I’d had left the cops out of it – because the punishment would never ever have fit the crime.

I remained forever fearful for what a suburban quasi-cop would do to catch the bad guy, especially if they were “really bad guys.” But they weren’t. They were addicts. And dealers. And squatters. And I didn’t want them dead, I just wanted to sleep through the night unafraid.

I heard from long-timers that this situation, this business du jour, wasn’t unique. “So?” was the general response from people not directly next door or upstairs or listening to fighting from the front row. Most of my neighbors shrugged and went about their day – I think because their days are off-site and mine ringside.

More than one previous tenant was taken out in a black body bag, and upon hearing that, I felt sick. I was compelled it wouldn’t happen again. These were somebody’s somebody, so I begged the HOA for support, to contact police on our behalf, to reach out to unit owners/tenants and tell them to cut the shit. Yet when I emailed HOA I heard about previous body bags, the response was: “That was a completely different situation.” End of discussion.

Yeah, they probably died from a popcorn overdose.

I wanted my neighbors gone, but not dead due to an overdose or overzealous cop.

After two years, finally, tenants evicted, locks changed, and hence, addicts, dealers, and squatters now gone – the unit cleaned, renovated, and sold.

The new people are never there, which is fantastic. It’s so quiet, it may in fact be vacant; I’ve only seen them once or twice.

Yet when there’s a need, capitalism fills the void, and from my office window, and when I walk the dogs, I’ve noticed traffic pick up in a unit across the way – and even recognize some of the people who used to frequent my building. This is different though, quieter. Less business-oriented, and more flop house. Maybe it’s the economy, I don’t know.

I stand in my storm door when foot traffic picks up, in this bedroom community, and as I round year three or four at this temporary home, I fear I’m the new Viola, petting dogs and watching from the storm door at the comings and goings, who belongs and who does not, pretending this isn’t forever, but just for now.

nice neighbors made Viola a calendar of all the dogs she loved to pet