It's Not Mr. Roger's Neighborhood

Have you ever felt unsafe in your own neighborhood? Like someone could just shank you at any point for no reason and steal your Bananarama mix-tape? I grew up feeling that way in the inner-Southeast of Portland. Then, when I finally moved out to a small one-bedroom in the city center, and found myself walking home after midnight, it seemed a little more real.

Now that I live in East Portland, damn near Gresham, I don't really get that feeling. It's still scary, but for totally different reasons. It's weird how I encounter more homeless people now than when I lived downtown. Sure the concentration of gangs is a little heavier, but I never feel like I'm in immediate danger.

The early morning of the eighth, I was really thirsty, so I persuaded Nikki to come with me to the nearest convenience store. 7-eleven is about a half-mile away from our house. Being that we are sans auto, we hoofed it at about 12:30AM. Along the way, we saw a man yelling across an intersection at a woman about cigarettes or money or something to that effect. To this, the woman responded, "If you don't want me out here hustlin', then use your own god-damn money." It was comedy in its purest form and all I wanted to do was capture their argument in a glass or Rubbermaid container so I might open it every once in a while to listen and giggle uncontrollably. She unleashed a few more profanities as Nikki stared in amazement and I tried to pull her closer to the store. At this point, I think I asked Nikki if I should go over to her and ask her how much she would charge for a foot rub (my feet were pretty sore as I had just gotten off of work).

We did end up making it to 7-eleven where I purchased some Wild Cherry Pepsi. I was soon home and sleeping, dreaming of Pepsi drinking prostitutes giving a Rubbermaid container a foot rub. (Added for dramatic effect)