M. had a little too much fun tormenting my non-conforming soul tonight. Tonight, they closed the main street again for a summer block party. Booths, vendors, Kiwanis hotdogs, antique fire engine, fundraising. All very middle-America, middle-of-the-road, middle class. Actually upper middle.

We ran into our own personal neighborhood constabulary. Officer J., who had taken my stolen bike report, and who we run into far too fucking often.

Imagine the tableau, M. and me and Officer J. chatting on the tree-lined main street among live music, balloons and well-scrubbed families. Chatting. Me, and the good po-po policeman.

We mentioned our nascent efforts to house hunt in this here town. We asked a bit about neighborhoods, including the one we like on the border of one of the statistically less desirable neighborhoods. One street in our price range looks great, shares services and actually fits into the “good” school district and other positive resale economic metrics. It’s near the proverbial tracks (or in this case modern freeway) but on the “right” side.

Officer J., though, his brow veritably furrowed. We mentioned the street and he wanted to home in on the exact block, cross road and whether left or right. “Hmmm.” He paused. “Yeah, you could do that. But, it’s still the ‘jungle.'”

For my own piece of mind, I’ll imagine that was a comment on danger not ethnographic demographics.

But, to M., I am now fully the “us” in “us” and them. The establishment. The white bread complacent society.

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