Edgar

A couple of weeks ago as we were returning from some outing, a young man approached our house.  He didn't want to speak to the boys on the porch, he wanted to speak to "the lady of the house".  I was inside getting Papa settled, but I came out as soon as I got done.  He was standing on the walkway looking like he was getting ready to make a break for it.  My son was sitting at the table having a cigarette so I sat down too and invited the young man to come and join us.  He declined.  He proceeded to launch into his spiel a mile a minute.  He had the very uneasy look of someone about to make a break for it.  He explained that he was from Compton and that he was in some kind of program for parolees trying to improve their lives etc. etc.  Hamad and I nodded in appropriate spots to let him know that we were sympathetic and approving.  He stopped and asked me, "What do you think about Compton?"

That's a good question.  I certainly know a lot about the reputation of Compton both from the news and the gangsta rap that the boys listen to.  Most of that is not very positive.  When I am talking to a person who is from a place, I try to think of positive things to say about it.  There is no point in rubbing salt in a person's wounds because they are from someplace with an unsavory reputation.  I'm usually pretty good at it.  You're from Bosnia?  It seems to me that some of the most beautiful men I've ever seen have been from Bosnia.  If I know something that is genuinely good about a place, it usually makes the confessor of origin give an audible sigh of relief.  Thank goodness she isn't going to ask me about the war.  But Compton?  I've got nothing.  So I admit to our fast talking salesman that I really don't know what I think because I've never actually been there.

No sign of relief but a pause of surprise.  He then tells us that some of our neighbors know what to think about Compton and have told him in no uncertain terms to go back there.  That seems a bit uncalled for.

He continues his pitch which mostly involves a litany of past transgressions.  When he gets all done I ask him what he is selling.  He's selling newspaper subscriptions.  I surprise him by telling him that I will buy one.  Now, you would think this would make him relax and make him a little less jumpy.  Nope.  But there is now paper work that I must fill out and he has to venture tentatively onto the porch to hand it to me.

Now here is where something weird happens.  He's already told us that he's on probation, and that he came from a pretty violent background, but now he starts to spill everything that could possibly make us distrust him. He tells us that his father and brothers are in jail.  He looks cautiously at my son who is olive skinned and has a huge Jew-fro and tells us that he was in juvi because he stabbed a black man.  (People often mistake Hamad for an African American.)  He tells us that he wasn't born in this country.  (I guess he was testing the anti-immigration waters of our front porch.)  He tells us that his mother is white, to which I respond by pointing to Hamad and telling him, "This beautiful man is my son."  His eyes go wide with disbelief at that.  Hamad chuckles and confirms it.  Then he tells us that most of his family in Mexico works for the drug lord Chapo Guzman.  At this point he's kind of run out of life points to horrify us with and we still don't seem phased.  Hamad asks him once again if he wouldn't like to sit down.  This time he perches on the edge of a chair that isn't too close to the table.  I ask him if he'd like something to drink and he declines.

During this pause, I return my attention to the paperwork.  Edgar, his name is on the paperwork, finally gives the sigh.  Then he asks us, "Is it always this chill around here?"  Yep.  It's a nice chill neighborhood.  He relaxes enough to look around at his surroundings and then asks, "People of different races just sit around and talk to each other?"  It turns out that that doesn't happen in his neighborhood.  I start to say something cliche about lack of opportunity in some communities, but he cuts me off.  The paper work is all done, the check is written but he lingers for a moment longer.  This time he tells us that he wants to be a lawyer, but that everyone tells him that he's such a fast talker that he should be in sales.  He tells us that he hates sales.  We agree that we aren't all cut out for sales.  He's finally calm as he leaves and we encourage him to go off and be a lawyer.