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Scripps Ranch Daddy Dreams of Kensington
Little white box condo in Scripps Ranch, the starter home among all the other starter homes.
Didn't want to be here. Liked the old place better, in the city. A housekeeper's flat in the back of a Craftsman-riche palazzo in Kensington. We grew baby raccoons in winter, big shimmery spiderwebs in summer. Out back, a pot-bellied stove to burn persimmon leaves. Crazy Mike and his girlfriend Sheila, across the alley. Friday-night fights by the garbage cans, followed by the Saturday-morning truck. In the back alley, of course.
Got a master's. Master sasser.
As my wife and I cleaned out our old cabinets, she laughed and told me: "You realize this will be the last time we can move all our shit by ourselves."
Little white box condo in Scripps Ranch, the starter home among all the other starter homes. We bought at the height of the boom. Everybody's on ARMs, and a black cloud of negative amortization follows us around. Men emotionally stiff-arm each other by waving across the parking spots that smell of fresh white paint, like cancer. Head down, straight to the mailbox, fascinating stuff, then straight to the door. Cold yellow lights. I don't see any old lesbian couples, walking arm-in-arm with their dogs.
Gays make a neighborhood, even though as unrepentant sinners they're probably consigned to hell. Probably.
Here, couples. Newly wed. Or nearly dead. Some of the divorcees, I see. God is not here, but back where the love is still good and the mortar is all jumbled-up and old. Out here, the lines are straight and loyal, the lawn lanterns are bright blue.
Need the trees. Tall, impossibly sunburned big brothers surround our boxes, like playful children and blocks.
I get out the door, hit the 15 back into the city. Occasionally, I stop at the city park, where I used to sit with my wife when we couldn't afford to buy drinks inside the Ken Club.
Then one day: "Hey, hey. I know you."
Meet an old guy who knows a guy who needs some help. Turns out old guy's my old neighbor who knows my new neighbor, another old guy. He lost his license and needs a ride. I call and talk. He hasn't been sleeping well. Those nights when you're the-only-one-left-alive-in-the-world kind of thing. I give rides. I have a purpose. There's that curious intimacy between men who know they'll only be associated with each other for a short time, so it's okay to say things you'd never tell long-term friends.
Three more months, baby Kate comes down the chute. Kate Olivia. Three more months, the reason we moved to this goddamn place is here.
Adam, I miss you, old friend.
What am I going to say to her? I moved up, sold out, lost my favorite place — for my wife's commute to Vista? No, for you, darling. No self-respecting kid is ever going to ask me how my day was.
Today I woke up, above dirt, and I'm yours.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Scripps Ranch Daddy Dreams of Kensington
Scripps Ranch Daddy Dreams of Kensington
Little white box condo in Scripps Ranch, the starter home among all the other starter homes.
Didn't want to be here. Liked the old place better, in the city. A housekeeper's flat in the back of a Craftsman-riche palazzo in Kensington. We grew baby raccoons in winter, big shimmery spiderwebs in summer. Out back, a pot-bellied stove to burn persimmon leaves. Crazy Mike and his girlfriend Sheila, across the alley. Friday-night fights by the garbage cans, followed by the Saturday-morning truck. In the back alley, of course.
Got a master's. Master sasser.
As my wife and I cleaned out our old cabinets, she laughed and told me: "You realize this will be the last time we can move all our shit by ourselves."
Little white box condo in Scripps Ranch, the starter home among all the other starter homes. We bought at the height of the boom. Everybody's on ARMs, and a black cloud of negative amortization follows us around. Men emotionally stiff-arm each other by waving across the parking spots that smell of fresh white paint, like cancer. Head down, straight to the mailbox, fascinating stuff, then straight to the door. Cold yellow lights. I don't see any old lesbian couples, walking arm-in-arm with their dogs.
Gays make a neighborhood, even though as unrepentant sinners they're probably consigned to hell. Probably.
Here, couples. Newly wed. Or nearly dead. Some of the divorcees, I see. God is not here, but back where the love is still good and the mortar is all jumbled-up and old. Out here, the lines are straight and loyal, the lawn lanterns are bright blue.
Need the trees. Tall, impossibly sunburned big brothers surround our boxes, like playful children and blocks.
I get out the door, hit the 15 back into the city. Occasionally, I stop at the city park, where I used to sit with my wife when we couldn't afford to buy drinks inside the Ken Club.
Then one day: "Hey, hey. I know you."
Meet an old guy who knows a guy who needs some help. Turns out old guy's my old neighbor who knows my new neighbor, another old guy. He lost his license and needs a ride. I call and talk. He hasn't been sleeping well. Those nights when you're the-only-one-left-alive-in-the-world kind of thing. I give rides. I have a purpose. There's that curious intimacy between men who know they'll only be associated with each other for a short time, so it's okay to say things you'd never tell long-term friends.
Three more months, baby Kate comes down the chute. Kate Olivia. Three more months, the reason we moved to this goddamn place is here.
Adam, I miss you, old friend.
What am I going to say to her? I moved up, sold out, lost my favorite place — for my wife's commute to Vista? No, for you, darling. No self-respecting kid is ever going to ask me how my day was.
Today I woke up, above dirt, and I'm yours.
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