Tonight, my children–my son, at least–learned a cruel and invaluable lesson; though one may *seem* nice, one can still be a cruel, mean and hateful son-of-a-bitch.
For years I have kept myself and the children trapped within the walls of our apartment, out of fear and mistrust of the neighbors surrounding us; many times, this safe prison I created led to further madness and destructiveness of demeanor, character and overall morale in the family–though best intentions were always at heart. I couldn’t trust my children to go out and play in a neighborhood filled with alcoholics, drug-users and cheap thrill-seekers; what kind of parent would I be? I’d be no better than those I wished to protect the children from…
…as the years have passed, many changes have taken place in our family; the un- –though, honestly, somewhat–intentional imaginary prison walls I erected were quite maddening for all of us, and led to our joining the likes of the riff-raff across the way. I grew angry, Diana grew distant, and our family fell apart.
Since that time, we’ve been able to repair the damage done, and have grown much closer than ever before–moved beyond our pasts, moved beyond our differences, and moved into a brighter looking future; if only we could have moved our residence as well.
Over the past few weeks, through gaining better belief and trust in our son’s knowledge of right and wrong, as well as his new-found abilities to recite in a more common and succinct language what boundaries, rules and expectations are requested and required of him, I have allowed Taron the random occasion of going out alone for a short period of time to ride his bicycle–just as any young boy should be allowed to do. These occasions had even been allowed to come more frequently, once he showed an understanding of the sky and his ability to forecast–within five to ten minutes, mind you–rain showers; a small achievement many might think, but for this boy quite a grand one, where he had once not paid the elements any credence. And, finally, extensions such as these were being granted where it had seemed that the neighborhood children had stopped being raucous, vicious; likewise their respective parents and/or guardians had seemed to drop some of their inane, uncouth qualities. So, I thought.
Taron came in tonight, complaining and questioning about a person telling him that he wasn’t allowed to enter a certain area of the block, otherwise he might face having his bike yanked away from him and his tires slit. At first, Diana and I thought he was rambling nonsense about one of the vile little girls across the street–perhaps they hadn’t outgrown their mean-spirited idiocy; soon, we realized that he was going on about the devil living in 108 or 110–I cannot remember which–that frequents his stoop topless, can of suds in hand, cursing away with every breath of whatever tale he shares with the others around. In my gut I felt that this couldn’t be good. In as much time as it took for me to grab my radio from the charger–I felt that there might be trouble, and if there were, depressing a key worked faster than dialing 911–a loud and reverberating series of banging knocks rattled our door.
I’ve never been one for confrontation, and believe that I never will; Diana, on the other hand, inherited that gift. Thusly, she answered the door. After a few minutes–more like one, possibly two–the exchange between the two adults began to get heated, and I found myself calling dispatch for an officer as it seemed apparent that this dude would not let his dander down. In the process, however, while his accusations were flying, we learned that Taron had allegedly come close to running over his three-year-old child.
I cannot say as to whether our son did put a child in the path of his bicycle, neither Diana, nor I bore witness to the event. I can say that it is very well within the realm of possibility–especially given the testimony supplied by the hot-headed, undressed, tattooed devil. Allegedly, Taron came close to the child warning them to get out of the way, otherwise he might run them over. I must admit, this does sound like my son, as this is how he behaves around our three-year-old; unfortunately, Taron doesn’t realize that his sister might have more brains in her pinkie-finger than anyone else of her age in this immediate area. Given the remaining incoherent babbles by the neighbor, I assume that Taron managed to swerve out of the way, merely frightening the child. Still, the walking codpiece had some fashion of a mind to give our son and us as well.
After the police arrived–which must have been the full force for the night; three in all!–and the matter settled, Taron was found repeating to us that, “He seemed like a nice guy; I thought he was a good person.”
Taron, naively, had believed that this odd character was genuine; where and how Taron framed this thought is beyond us. Perhaps it was where the dude seemed to have some sort of zest for life–surely one speaking so loudly and brash in a group of people must be a great man. Maybe it was where his children–if they are his–are allowed to run the gamut on there area of the street, whereas I keep mine in close view–this past week and tonight being the exception. Instead, Taron has now learned that, no, that certain je ne sais quois he saw was merely an I don’t give two flying fucks and an I will hurt any motherfucker that crosses me.
Taron has now been faced with the fact that other people can be–and, sadly, usually are–complete dick-heads.
Taron has also now learned that the walls which I had lowered for him had originally been erected for his protection.
Unfortunately, I must say that tonight’s experience has left Diana and I in odd spirits. Never have we interfered in neighborhood matters, beyond the blatant violation of this particular community’s ordinances. Never have we called the police against a neighbor–outside of the one time where the boyfriend of the vile little girls’ mother threw her against a car. Never have we felt as angry, scared, shocked, disappointed, etc.
We are now looking–likely without avail–for somewhere else to call home. Somewhere that our son might be able to play without receiving threats from adults; somewhere that adults may be civil, rather than confrontational. Somewhere that likely no longer exists…
…should you know of any such place–be it town or country, preferably Harrison County–where rent is affordable–or better yet, you wish to make a contribution toward the down-payment of a mortgage!–feel free to contact us. We feel that this neighborhood is no longer safe for our family.
Thank You.
Jeremiah
