The People You Meet in the Neighborhood
a short story about the people I see daily
When I first moved to my neighborhood a few years ago, I was immediately hit with a vibe shift. I’d lived in a family-friendly, but still “hip” eastside L.A. neighborhood for almost a decade, and my new neighborhood, including the condo and townhome complex I reside in was definitely… not that.
Susan and Pepper
The first neighbor I remember encountering was Susan.1 Susan could be anywhere from fifty to eighty-years-old, is always dressed in mismatched clothes that look both too big and too small, and her white hair sticks out in a way that’s not unlike Pippi Longstocking. She lives on the other side of the complex with her adult son, and her adorable black-haired Chihuahua/terrier mix, Pepper. Also, Susan is partially blind— she never seems to recognize anyone, and she occasionally walks with a white cane. However, Pepper is most definitely not a seeing-eye dog. In fact, anytime Pepper sees my son, my dog, and I walking, he goes crazy. Like, won’t stop barking and pulling at his leash, clearly trying to start a fight or get the attention of my dog, causing a total public scene, crazy. This causes Susan— an elderly and most-likely blind woman, to pull at her small dog’s leash and YELL with the rage of a witch enacting a curse. This causes Pepper to bark even harder and bite and tug at his leash with the will of a warrior on his way to war. This also causes some discomfort and awkward feelings for me, but my son, and my small dog walk past all of it, as if everything is totally fine.
This has gone on for almost three years. Last fall, my son started to notice and share my awkward and uncomfortable feelings by asking, “what’s Pepper’s problem?” I didn’t have an answer for him. I’ve walked past Pepper on my own and he doesn’t have any sort of reaction. I’ve also seen Pepper walk past other dogs and be perfectly fine. My son decided to theorize by drawing a comic about the situation. I wondered if Susan thought about it at all.
Every walk is filled with a hope and worry that we don’t run into Pepper and Susan. I used to think I was imagining or hyperbolizing all of this, until one day we were on a walk with my son’s father. He witnessed the uncomfortable exchange with a familiar cringy look on his face.
“Did you see that?” I asked, hoping he’d acknowledge what had been driving me mad for years.
“Yeah,” he shook his head in amusement. “She was practically hanging the poor dog.”
“It’s so uncomfortable, right? What should I do?”
He shrugged and laughed it off. “I don’t know. Just avoid them, I guess.”
So that’s what we do. We try to avoid them. When we don’t, I try to shrug and laugh it off.
The Cute Squad Confrontation
When we first moved into this neighborhood, we’d regularly encounter an older man (confirmed 70’s) who would refer to my son, dog, and I as the cute squad. He’s not wrong, we are all adorable, but it would be slightly awkward to have someone we don’t know say very loudly on a street corner, “I don’t know which one of you is cuter! You’re all just so dang cute!” A little weird, but mainly harmless.
During the WGA and SAG strikes, he’d notice my strike swag, and talk to me about the state of the industry. He apparently had worked in broadcasting and had some thoughts. But he’d always be mainly kind and only a little cringe. We’d say hi, he’d say something about how cute we were, or what show he was watching, and we’d all go about our day.
Cut to November 6, 2024. Mr. Cute was crossing San Fernando Blvd to get to his beloved McDonald’s, when I spotted a red hat perched atop his balding head, nearly blinding me.
“Mother Fucker,” I muttered under my breath. That’s the last time that man gets to call me cute, I decided.
The next day during our morning walk, I spotted him as we rounded the corner.
“I may say something to that man,” I said to my son.
“About how he likes Trump?” My son is so observant, it’s terrifying sometimes.
I nodded. “Just stay next to me, hold my hand, and don’t say anything. I don’t know if I’m going to say anything, though.” My son nodded and my dog trodded along, happily oblivious to the tense political atmosphere taking place around him.
Right as we were about to walk into our complex, our paths crossed. The man wasn’t wearing his MAGA hat, so I had to adjust my opening line I’d been carefully constructing since I’d seen him.
“Did you vote for Trump?” I sputtered, not eloquent at all, like I had rehearsed. Damn it.
The snicker of a smile on his face told me the answer before his words did. “Yeah, did you?” he practically cooed.
“I would never vote for that man, and I’m so glad to know that you did because now I don’t ever have to say another word to you again.”
“But—” he started to protest.
“Come on,” I said to my son. We walked into the complex with my head held high, and I didn’t look back.
“That was pretty cool,” my son admitted. “You were kind of mean, but while still being nice.”
“Exactly.”
We walked into our apartment a few minutes later. The man was still standing outside the gate with a dazed look on his face.
I haven’t had to say “hi” to him since.
names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent