...we are floundering in our attack on the...conditions that add up to the slums. ...domestic problems of poverty, ignorance, racial discrimination, alienation and physical decay...are the essence... ...race itself has become even more an element to be reckoned with. ...to increase the competence of the poor to participate in the social and economic system. These...are essential underpinnings... ...we are...not...helpless before the gaze of a Gorgon, however. ...slums...fail to produce the skilled manpower required to operate an increasingly technical economy. ...a way of life that in most cases can hardly be called civilized. They are equivalent to new world ghettos. A city...is in danger if the slum's...changing the essential character of the city itself. ...people are replaced in the city proper by people of lower...future expectations. ...an area...taken over by...beauty shops, and auto parts stores. ...neighborhoods comprised of various minority groups...are now designated as "culturally deprived"... - the slums, by D. R. Hunter, 1968
...an average of 4,000 people moving to Denver County each month... Finding a room as an older man was... "Next to impossible. If you are over 60, then the younger landlords think you are dying or a couch potato hermit... The 420 dreamers that are coming to Denver from all over the world to get rich will find that the market is already sewn up." "...at a 'showing'... I arrived and believe that about 15 people did as well... ...there's no shortage of crazy." "It's a nightmare. ...if your budget is less than $1,000, unless you are comfortable living in a studio dump... - Westword, 10/8-14/2015
It was the heyday of European imperialism; an advanced and dynamic continent competed in the conquest and penetration of backward lands. Force, in the service of civilization, did not seem...reprehensible...in...if not a 'plague-ridden blighted corner'...to which...'as representatives of Western civilization', would 'bring cleanliness, order, and...well-distilled customs...' As for the natives...the new settlers should 'gently' expropriate their property and 'try to spirit the penniless population across the border by procuring employment for it in the transit countries, while denying it any employment in our own country. The property-owners will come over to our side. - The Gun and the Olive Branch, by d. Hirst, 1977
8:20 PM. I'm on a train after work, with three young women sitting together. College types. One is an RA, or a Resident Adviser. She's in charge of a wing, or perhaps a floor of a campus dorm. "I love my residents," she exclaims. After four days without enough sleep, I'm dead tired. A couple of stops later, the ladies get out at the stop where I get on five mornings a week, before 6 AM. The following stop is where I catch the bus back to my neighborhood. It's a train station which has been transformed by the fact that a developer sits on the transit system board of directors. This station used to be an intersection for people on their way to work, or groups of couples on their way downtown to dinner, as well as gang bangers, drunks, and the general unwashed. A brand new condominium sits atop the former parking lot and drive-thru for the buses. This evening, on an outdoor deck, some condo residents are out for a social gathering. A few yards away, a tall and thin middle aged guy is on the train platform. In his Hollister hoodie, he looks at me with a stare which goes through and past me, out into the dark. I hear the voices of the party-goers echo off surrounding buildings of a tool and dye company. Their voices are a new addition to this plot of space. A new demographic has arrived. The street lamps at the bus gates are not working for a second night in a row. I watch as a resident crosses the street with a tiny dog. A male reveler makes a barking noise. Woo Girls go "woo!" A chill in the air rests under an overcast sky. When the bus back to my neighborhood arrives, I get on with a couple of women from Africa. They discuss shopping at the K-Mart next to the train station in their native tongue. I wonder about the relationship to condo living and the shopping center next door. A third young woman gets on, who knows the first two. She had to go to the art museum "for school." She and one of the others discuss in English both school and work. One of them says school is going "okay for now." They have a mutual friend who is "paid well" at work. They switch back to an African dialect, mentioning the Sam's Club in the shopping center, and another supermarket. They are laughing about them.
Saturday. Ten to six AM. Tonight, I hope to catch up on some long lost sleep. This is how my schedule has been going for this the third week. On Saturdays, I wait for the bus at a different stop just down the street from where I live, which appears to be a 'transit system-rich.' Looks as though it rained overnight. It's a quiet early morning. I stand on a corner so I can watch down the street for the bus, which will turn here. On the other side of the street is Section 8 Housing. From the outside, they are nice-looking row homes. In the summer, I've seen clothes out on lines in back. This morning, the in ground sprinklers are spraying a cloud of water vapor, which slowly wafts across to the other side of the street. Jesus, it's a quiet morning. The bus arrives and whisks me off to a train, which drops me off at my last bus stop to work. Here, each early Saturday morning since my insane schedule, I have seen the same guy. He usually has a newspaper and a coffee, and has asked me with bewilderment when the bus will show up. He hasn't, however, had any trouble with getting onto the bus. Until this morning. He appears to be without bus fare, as well as his paper and coffee. After inquiring as to his destination, this driver will let him on. Which is generous, as it's at the driver's discretion. He stands at the front and stretches, headphones around his neck. He apologizes to the driver and promises to have his fare the next time.
Eleven and a half hours later, I am headed to the bus stop. A pickup truck is pulling out of the shopping center. It has monster truck-sized tires and a fifth enormous tire which takes up the entire bed. As it pulls out onto the road, a metal plate slides out of whatever room is left in the bed. It hits the road with a clang. The truck rocks on. When my bus comes, I get on and sit across from a little guy with long hair and has a black motorcycle jacket on his seat. He is searching without patience both a box and a backpack. "Fuck," says he. A woman sitting behind him offers a word of solace. He stands up, puts on the jacket, and grabs the backpack. Something falls out of it onto the floor. "Was that me?" he asks rhetorically. The woman behind him tells him that his pack is open. "I loose more stuff that way," he explains, and with this he disembarks. Fuck. The bus drops me at the train, where I grab a train for a few stops. I get out to see my bus pulling out. I wait for the next train back to another station. To the west of the platform is an expanse of dirt underneath three train tracks. Beyond is a chain link fence separating the tracks from the rest of civilization. I watch a guy come straggling across the tracks. Though I see no phone, nor bluetooth, nor wire with any speaker, he sounds as if he is conversing with someone else. He complains that he has new pants on and, having hopped the fence, "the fence started fucking ripping my pants." He came over the fence, "because I was right behind" [the train station] "and I didn't want to walk four fucking miles."
And... this could be it for who knows how long. I began this blog at the end of 2008, when I stopped riding my bike to work and began riding the bus. I became witness to the parade which I have been describing here. Working open to close, and primarily having to wait for an hour after work for the bus to come each evening, I realized that I could make it home in time to get more sleep than I have been. The following day, I jumped in with both feet and spent $500 on a brand new bike. Among the old, gear which has been on a shelf in my home for the past nine years, were two working lights and gloves. The speed with which I made this decision surprises me. Apart from making my new doctor happy, we shall see where this return to the trail leads me. I suspect that, as I began this blog in response to encountering part of a population which I hadn't seen when I was on my bike, I won't encounter this population while I am not commuting by transit system and its stations. And yet, on a bridge along the bike trail this morning, there in the dark, were a couple of guys who immediately appeared to be homeless. One had a walker with plastic grocery bags... On the way home, around 7:30 PM, I passed the first of four school football stadiums with lights on. This one had a marching band on the field. While I was groping along in the dark, under an overcast sky spitting rain, this was like another scene from Apocalypse Now. This morning, around 5 :30 AM, I passed under a bridge along the bike trail. On the bank was a bike with a U.S. flag on the back. I couldn't see in the dark, but I that assume someone was asleep next to it. To get to work, I turn off one trail onto another, which travels behind condominiums and has people with flashlights who walk their dogs. Perhaps an hour later down the trail, I pass a walking his big brown dog in a field in front of a condo complex. "Mornin'," he said with a Texas drawl. The dog stands up on his hind legs. Holding the leash, the guy says, "Oh now, Rainne, stop that." On the way home, sometime around 7:45 PM, I am coming back up from under an overpass. It's spitting rain again this evening. I don't remember the last news report I heard or read about an accident on the bike trail. But coming from under this overpass, I see someone at the top of the ramp. He's on a bike in the left lane, stopped on the trail. Not ever a good idea, and even worse in the dark. And I don't see him with a single light. Why would anyone volunteer to be an accident waiting to happen? As if this is not perplexing enough, here's a guy on a bike stopped on the trail with no lights...and his right hand is resting on...an empty shopping cart. It appears as if he's been riding along dragging a shopping cart with one hand. Hey, he's doing more work than I am. I wonder what Rainee would do.
Anyway, the next morning, I'm back on the trail to work. It rained overnight, and a light fog hangs in the air. I pass another someone walking their dog. Both man and dog appear to be completely unaware of the coyote which sneaks out of the weeds behind them, and quickly crosses over the trail to the opposite weed patch. I pass a skunk, and another coyote before I get to work. Some fourteen hours later, I'm on my way home. Where the trail goes along one of two golf courses, I hear someone in the dark blowing a fucking whistle. A middle-aged couple, their daughter, and the family dog are jogging long, coming onto the bike trail from an adjacent path. Dad has the whistle, and sounds as if he is imitating a drill sergeant's voice. Mom has something with four small blue lights in a row. The only one who notices me is the daughter, who alerts her parents. I mention to them that I'm "On your left..." No response. "On your left, guys." I have to slow down to a crawl. Only when the daughter mentions that I am here do Mom and Dad move over. Dad continues to bark the occasional order. The next morning, I am headed down the street to the bike trail. Coming toward me in the dark is at first what I think is a fire truck. It turns out to be a big camper. Much further down the trail, in the weeds on the bank of a stream, is an empty shopping cart. I'm convinced that it can't belong to the guy from a couple of days ago. Evidence of homeless are present along the trail. It's a lonely gig riding to and from work through these dark and empty woods and pastures. When I turn onto my own street, I'm in a park. Along one street are parking spaces, where a line of cars are assembling and Spanish-speaking teenagers are assembling.
It's a couple of days later, and I am out on the trail to work. All the way down, almost all the way to work, is the condo complex where Rannie likes to stand up on his hind legs. Silently, slowly stepping along. A couple with a small dog on a leash creeps down a drive next to a fence. The guy has a walker with plastic grocery bags hanging off of it. I wonder if this is the couple I saw on Monday, further up the trail on a bridge? Mostly though, the trails during the morning appear to be dominated by those with high beams, both headlamps and on the front of their bikes. After 7 PM, the trail is empty, save for dogs with lights on their collars. Or the occasional running family with the drill sergeant dad who has a whistle. Or younger guys on skateboards with lights, or on bikes with no lights riding with their hands off the handlebars. Or guys out for a stroll and a smoke. Or the occasional guy with a stolen shopping cart. Out in the dark, on these concrete trails, the morning belongs to those with schedules and expectations, and what Phyllis Schlafly refers to as private property. I think that Marx may also have mentioned it in passing. The evening however belongs to those with hope, and with freedom.
Friday evening, I'm off the first short trail on the way home, headed for the next trail head. It's not difficult to find. I just follow the cheers of parents at a football game. They fill a stadium with players at one end of the field and the flag team at the other. The lights shine off of the water in a stream along the trail. I ride through the park, past the cars of high school kids, down past the gas station across the street from where I live. Out of the alley walks a guy on his phone, speaking to who I presume is his better half. better ask him though. "That's 'cause your daddy pays for your fucking phone!" he exhorts. Sue, that's what they all say coming out of an alley. On Saturday, I'm headed to the bus stop at a quarter to 6 AM, just a couple of streets from where I live. A couple of dogs are running around by themselves. The bus whisks me off to the train station, where a middle-aged couple is receiving directions from a guy with a voice of pure gravel. A bus is pulling out as someone yells, "Hey, yo! Yo!" It comes to a halt as one more passenger gets on. The couple gets on my train. The guy has an earring and the lady is in a white hoodie. With her bleached hair, she looks like a college student. Her name is Kelly.
On Sunday, I head across the street for dinner. I can see down the street that a telephone pole is leaning over. A fire truck and a public service vehicle have the entire street blocked off. On a tow truck is a police car. On the way home, I hear someone cracking open a can. Standing between a bush and a low wall is a grey-haired guy. He has a tall can of beer. On Tuesday, I am on my way to work on the trail in the dark. I see a woman walking her bike. I wonder if she has a flat tire. IO pass her slowly to give her a chance to ask me for help. instead, she says to me, "I'll see you at the Red Lion." Or the red line? or red wine? Is she talking to me? I don't see her on a phone. Coming back home, on the trail, I am a couple of streets south and several blocks east of where I live, shortly after 8 PM. Coming down a hill, I see emerging from an alley a running police officer. We both turn the same corner. Past the light up the street are converging police cars with their lights on. I turn at the light, down a major avenue. Up a hill is a police car parked in one lane, facing the wrong way. It's lights are off and it's empty. Across the avenue are a couple of apartment complexes, and some families are out on the sidewalk, as if the were just witness to something. Wednesday. I am down the street, on my way to work around noon. In front of me is a guy pushing a stolen shopping cart down one lane of a residential street. In it are what appear to be construction tools of some kind. Around the corner is a bicycle lying in the street. Around the next is a stretch limo... An absolutely beautiful day for a ride. Since returning to the trail for the first time in eight or nine years, this is the first day I am riding in sunshine. It sparkles off the streams.
The following day, I am pulling another open to close at another store. I stop into a Chick Fil A for breakfast shortly after 6 AM. It's a neighborhood of opulence, and the manager is giving me the eye through the window. I'm glad that I understand that all these employees are Jesus crispies, or else I wouldn't get it. The manager takes my order. He's the male here this morning, a middle-aged guy in suspenders and moussed spikey hair. Every sentence he speaks ends with a "sir." In his black button down shirt and pants, he almost looks like a magician or a hotel clerk. Early in the afternoon, in the parking lot in front of where I work, two young women are parked in a small car, with a couple of black SUVs parked behind them. I watch as an an officer argues with the driver. They both get out as another officer brings a big German shepherd out to quickly circle the girls' car before returning to one of the SUVs. A third SUV shows up, and a grey-haired officer writes a ticket to the driver. The K-9 unit takes off. The girls are gone. Their car is left, with two officers sitting in the third SUV. I have never seen a K-9 unit in my own neighborhood. I get a call from the boos ten minutes before we close. I will be back here tomorrow. Same time, same channel. The next morning, I am back at Chik Fil A. It's a cleanly designed and decorated place. An advertisement lets me know that this one does catering. The image displays a glass pitcher each of lemonade and iced tea, full of ice, as well as glass tumblers. A plate of chicken nuggets and what appear to be pepper strips, and flowers in glass vases, all against a background of white. It's as if I've gone to heaven. It could be an ad for catering your next wake. Another advertisement is posted on a tastefully colored wall. It shows smiling, laughing, running children in face paint and Lorax T-shirts. It's an announcement for a kid's camp, to "build character and help them grow in their faith." The guys behind the counter are in the same black uniforms as yesterday. They are young and up early. The one taking my order sounds caffeinated, but everyone here is quiet and composed. The entire place is quiet, with music that three decades ago may have been on Windham Hill. Both guys answer my 'thank you' immediately with "It's my pleasure." The manager this morning looks like a character from the Pink Floyd The Wall movie. Seven hours later. As the Autumn shadows stretch across the parking ,out front of where I work, are a couple of bald guys in shirts, ties, and slacks. For something like an hour, they stand in the exact same spot and talk, looking toward a fast food place. As the set sets, they finally decide to be on their way. The space next door is being used for karate classes. Yesterday, I listened to 12 hours of some kind of construction noise. Today, it's 12 hours of kids with gym bags and karate outfits being dropped off.. It's chanting, the sound of swift physical activity, and what sounds to be a television. Or perhaps an instructor who sounds as if he is doing a Monty Python sketch. All this on a day when I find out that my health insurance is through a co-operative which has been decertified by a state agency. After work, the bus drops me off back on my street. Across the boulevard from where I live, I am going to stop into the gas station for the first time since I began my diet in July. It's around 8:30 PM. Outside is a single clerk working this shift. He lets me know in threatening tones that neither I nor anyone else may go inside until his break is over. The following evening after work, it's around 6:30 PM. I am coming home on my bike through a street just to the east of my own neighborhood. On one corner is a home with a yard which has an enormous Halloween display. There is a huge lighted pumpkin on some kind of horse-drawn wagon, along with a collection of Tim Burton characters with one on a swing. A sign on the chain link fence reads, "Drive like your kids live here."
The following Monday, I am back on my beloved afternoon schedule. I'm in a bike lane headed for the trailhead. I have to get out of the bike lane. headed toward me is a woman pushing a shopping cart. It's filled with stuff, including a suitcase on the bottom. After I am on the trail for a short time, I find myself behind someone else pushing a shopping cart down the trail. I don't see everything inside, but on the bottom is the lid to an outdoor grill. You never know who you will see out here. Coming home last week, I watched a trio of homeless folk come up the bank from the river, which the trail follows. One woman had wet hair, as if she just had a bath in the water. As usual, I come home in the dark. In order to see the trail, I must block the lamps illuminating the surrounding slag yards and stadiums along the trail. Saturday afternoon, I came home in the daylight. I had to keep my visor down as I kept riding through swarm after swarm of gnats. Tonight, the moon illuminates the trail. The following evening, it's the ambient light from an overcast sky which lights the way. To the west, from north to south, are silent lighting flashes. The news reports lightning strikes in the foothills.
On Friday, I turn a corner between trailheads. I hear popping sounds from rooftop level. At first, I think it;s a nail gun. As I pass a pole, I can hear the sounds coming from a transformer, along with periodic humming noise. A plume of black smoke rises from the transformer. The next morning, I am on a bus to the supermarket. In a seat is a guy with a hole in his jeans. In my neighborhood, this is not a fashion statement. This could be his only pair. A few hours later, I am back at a shopping mall down the street from where I used to live. It's one of the most popular tourist attractions in the state, and and has been an uber fashionista destination for the sixteen years I lived here. I should have been photographing these people. One middle-aged woman is in Capri jeans with one leg mangled with holes, to match her designer blouse. She appears as if she has just had her hair done. Amid the throng, a young guy with shoulder-length, bleached hair whistles as he walks. A few hours after this, I come out of a movie and at a bus stop. Someone I wait has a cigarette hanging from his lips. He peeks around the shelter to tell me, "Bus's comin'. I knew as soon as I lit a cigarette..."
Monday. I am headed down the street to work around noon. I come up behind an elderly guy in a denim jacket and jeans. He is pulling some kind of a metal cart with parts in it down the middle of the residential street. An SUV coming the opposite direction pulls to a stop as the driver asks him something. The SUV pulls up to where I am stopped. The driver is looking for a particular steak house which I have never heard of. It may be on the opposite end of town. When I get on the trail, I pass a couple of guys in orange vests. Each is picking up trash and tossing it into a couple of shopping carts. In the evening, I ride home watching the moon come up behind some clouds. When I reach the Platte River, it shines off the water. The following early afternoon, I'm down the trail almost at work. Coming uphill is a middle-aged guy in slacks and a buttoned down shirt...on a skateboard. Wednesday morning, I'm at a gym with a collection of seniors. One guy is talking about someone who passed away. I'm reminded of an artist co-op I was a part of almost twenty years ago. Out on the trail, I am approaching an underpass when I see a thin guy in a hoodie coming out from under it. His right arm hangs down as if it's broken.
Halloween morning, 6 AM. It's a chilly ride to work this Saturday, with the moon above the head of Orion, and I put my new mittens on for the first time. I must wait to see what these stars foretell... On the way home, the sun is down. On a street to my neighborhood, I pass the first trick or treaters I've seen in years. Past a big inflatable, interior lit Yoda, past a house with a yard covered in spiderwebs and a house with a fifteen foot purple spider on the side. When I cross the boulevard which is the eastern border of my own neighborhood...the children have vanished...
