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Chapter 2: B
Black, Orange
To Whom It May Concern:
Though
I will never meet you, I want to thank you for your help.
I will provide the necessary information below, but
first I would like you to understand why I have been driven to these extreme measures.
Have you ever worked hard,
so hard, so impossibly hard, for something? Have you saved your money for decades, going without vacations, cars, and even
meals so that you could purchase something that would last you a lifetime? And then, after you've worked and slaved, someone
comes along to ruin everything?
That is exactly what has happened to me, and I'm not going to put up with it.
I have worked too hard for too long, and I'm not going to sit by idly while one man destroys my life.
Please understand,
I am not a cruel, malicious, murderous, or evil person. But I have decided to stand up for myself. To fight for what I worked
so hard for.
For the first six decades of my life, I lived in a tenement building in New York City. In the old
days, it wasn't so bad. All of the apartments were filled with immigrants whose children were the first to be born in America.
None of us had a lot of money (nobody did after the Depression), but the building was always clean and safe. But over the
years, the building and the neighborhood changed. For the last two years before I left, I used to literally nail my front
door shut each night. Everyone else who lived on my floor had been mugged or robbed in the previous twelve months, and I
couldn't let that happen to me. Because my way out was hidden in the apartment, and I was terrified that someone would take
it from me.
My father died when I was still quite young, and for a few years my mother made ends meet by working
at a local factory and doing part-time work as a maid. But she'd never been healthy, and when the factory increased her hours,
she kept collapsing on the job. The maid work lasted a few more years (at least until I was able to finish high school),
but then Mother's arthritis kicked in. She was bedridden within a year.
There were fewer choices back then. I had
to go to work, and I started cleaning houses, too, because I could hide some money from the government that way. For a long
time, Mother wasn't too bad, so I was able to take some classes that helped me get a decent full-time job that paid enough
for me and Mother to live on. We didn’t live high, but we survived.
I got small raises every year, usually just enough
to cover the rent increases. Maybe you can imagine my frustration at seeing the price of the apartment increasing as the
neighborhood got worse. But there was nowhere else to go, and Mother's health was declining.
I was fortunate that
Mother was so kind. She appreciated everything I did for her and lamented that I should be getting married, that my life
shouldn't revolve around her. But the truth is, it did. In the big scheme of things, I really didn't mind. I'd dated a
little in high school, but I never met anyone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Maybe I would have met that someone
special if I'd tried harder or gone out more, but we couldn't afford it then, and it's too late now. My only regret is that
I never had any children. I would have been a good mother, I think.
One thing that Mother and I used to fantasize
about was space. That may sound odd if you didn't grow up in an apartment. We'd watch TV and see how the beautiful people
lived, with their mansions on rolling acres of gardens and wilderness. We longed to sit outside in our own backyard, to cut
fresh flowers from our own garden, to drive a car we couldn't afford into a garage that we'd never own. Instead, we had four
grimy walls in a walk-up building, with a view of the Broadway el on one side and a decrepit playground on the other.
I
don't know precisely when the idea started to form…I think it was when Mother was about 60. She innocently said something
like, "Some day, I'm going to die in this apartment. It's both comforting and depressing." That same night I vowed that
I was not going to die in that apartment, too.
I started saving my pennies, little by little, everyday. It's amazing
how cheaply you can live if you’re willing to deprive yourself of everyday things that are nice to have but not necessary
for survival. Mother still got everything she needed, of course, but I did without.
After only a short while, it
didn't feel like sacrifice. Staying home and watching TV all night costs no money, except for the electricity, and we were
always careful to turn off all the lights while we watched the big black box.
I should have put my money in the bank,
I know. But Father had lost everything in banks in the Depression, and my family had never trusted them. So, all my pennies,
nickels, and dimes (and later dollar bills) were hidden in the apartment. I was so terrified that we'd be robbed that I had
more than forty different hiding spots. I didn't keep a list of them because I was afraid someone would find it. I didn't
need to, anyway. I could have found each and every one of them in my sleep.
Every once in a while, I'd get a sudden
windfall, like a small bonus at work or a check from my Aunt Stella, and it would all go into my sock, or my doll, or my hollowed-out
book, or behind my picture frame, or underneath my shabby area rug. And over the years, as I became gray, my stash grew.
I did my one selfish thing when Mother died. I had the money to spend on a nice casket for her, but I didn't. I
couldn't spend part of my life savings on a box that would be buried in the ground, never to be seen again. So I had Mother
cremated, telling myself that she would have wanted it that way, that she wouldn't have wanted me to spend all that money
to bury her. And I truly believe that those would have been her wishes.
Things did get a little easier in the years
following Mother's passing. I missed her terribly, but life went on much as it had before. I kept saving and thought that
in another decade or so I'd have the money I needed.
And then a miracle happened. Two years after Mother died, I was
struck by a taxi cab while crossing West 230th Street, and my right leg was broken. It was the greatest thing that ever happened
to me. The leg healed quickly (it was strong after all those years of climbing up and down the stairs to the apartment),
but the man who’d hit me had been driving drunk. I got more money in the settlement than I'd ever seen in my life.
As
soon as I could walk again, I started looking. I knew exactly what I could pay. For years I'd been researching towns and
neighborhoods, and I knew where I wanted to live.
In the third month of my quest, I found it: the sweetest little
Cape Cod any person could ever hope for. It was summertime, and the yard was full of hollyhocks and sunflowers. Every one
of the four bedrooms had at least two windows. There was a picture window in the kitchen, and even a window in the bathroom!
The basement was pristine; so was the attic. I could walk to the bus stop and be at work in a little more than half an hour.
I moved in three months later. The down payment took almost all my savings, and buying used furniture took the rest.
The next few years were a dream. Through watching home improvement shows for so long, I learned how to make a house
look pretty and new on a budget. Nothing like a fresh coat of paint with some faux finishes, which I learned how to do at
a free class at the Y. Living in an apartment for so long, you learn how not to accumulate junk, so my basement, from the
beginning, was clean and uncluttered. To have your own washing machine and your own dryer in your own basement! That alone
was worth the price of the house.
My street, my neighborhood, and my town were everything I'd hoped for. The neighbors
are friendly and watch out for one another, but we also keep a certain respectful distance. We have a mix of older, established
families and younger people who are just starting out. In the summer, lawns are mowed promptly every Saturday morning, and
in the winter, snow gets shoveled as it falls. Best of all, my house (yes, my house!) is on a dead-end street, so there's
very little traffic and noise.
Mother and Father would be so proud to see what I've accomplished. I'm proud of myself,
too. For the first time in my life, I have a little extra money to play with. I hadn't expected the tax advantages of owning
a house, and now I get a tax refund from the IRS every year. With the money, I get to treat myself to new clothes and shoes,
and restaurant meals on weekends.
I've gotten used to the peace and tranquility of my wonderful, modest home. I expected
that the joy would go on forever. I was wrong. It all changed six months ago when he moved into the neighborhood.
His
elderly widowed mother had been living on the block for more than sixty years when she died. None of us even knew that she
had a son--we'd never seen him before. A week after she passed away, a U-haul truck pulled up and we watched as a slovenly,
straggly-haired man of about forty took out a key and unlocked the front door of Nora's house.
That same night, trucks,
motorcycles, and vans from three states descended on our quiet block and plunged us into misery. The music blasted from outdoor
loudspeakers until the wee hours. We shut our windows and turned up the air conditioning, thinking that it would all be over
the next day. But it was just the beginning.
We know that he sells drugs. Cars pull up in the middle of the night
and leave after money is exchanged. Four of the houses on the block have been robbed; two neighbors lost precious heirloom
jewelry that had been in the family for generations. One of the drug addicts who buys from this man smashed his car into
a tree. The tree toppled onto the home of an elderly man who was nearly killed when it crashed through his bedroom ceiling.
The noise never stops, and the police can't do anything about it. As soon as they leave, the music starts up, louder than
before.
And the very worst part: The children aren't safe, either. One of his "friends" was driving an SUV too fast
and struck down a three-year old boy who was playing kickball in front of his house. (The boy lived, thank God.) The pretty
teenage girls have been leered at, gawked at, propositioned, threatened. They're afraid to leave their houses without their
fathers, brothers, or boyfriends.
A few us formed a coalition and decided to visit him, to ask him to please show us
the respect we show him. He withdrew into the house and returned with a gun, waving it in our faces and threatening to "blow
our fucking heads off" if we ever trespassed on his property again. He ended his threats by calling one of my neighbors,
a nice man who teaches science in the high school, a "fucking faggot," then pointing at me and telling me to get my smelly
old cunt off his front steps. I snapped and slapped his face. He slapped me back. When I cried, "Please, just leave this
neighborhood," he replied, "I'm not going anywhere, lady, so get used to having me around."
Each day brings a new nightmare.
We're powerless to do anything. Or I thought we were, until I saw the ad in The Clarion.
Here is the information on
this animal:
Freddy D'Arget
145 Mine Springs Road
Bloomfield, NJ
973-555-1019
He
does not work. At least, not as far as I can tell. His house is always busy at nights and on weekends, but I rarely see
people visiting the house on weekdays. He drives a white van that's so dirty it looks gray. It's usually parked backwards
on the street in front of his house. It has California license plates; I'm not sure why. I have enclosed a picture of him,
which appeared in the paper one of the times he was arrested. (He’s been arrested several times, but he’s always back a couple
of days afterwards.)
When you do it, please be careful. Don't forget that he has at least one gun in the house. I'm
not sure if there are more. There probably are.
I wish you the best of luck. My thoughts, prayers, and thanks are
with you.
B
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