Martha's Block

Somehow, Harold had been elected block leader. He wasn’t exactly sure how this happened, as he had been at an important meeting at work during the last neighborhood potluck. He was, however, sure that his wife had had something to do with it.

Old Martha, the previous leader of the block, had up and croaked a few weeks ago, leaving the position empty. She had seemed like an unstoppable force to Harold. A large woman who liked to sit on her sundeck and smoke packs of cigarettes all day, greeting everyone who walked by. She did Harold and Sharon a great favor by taking care of young Harry junior for them after school, on days when they both worked. But now that Harry was in Junior High, they didn't really need Martha to take care of him anymore anyways, so it wasn't so bad that she was gone, Harold thought.

Martha had definitely been a presence on the block, though. Everyone knew her, and there was no one better to bring the block together every few months for the potluck and community meeting. Which usually involved little more than eating mediocre food, and listening to her laugh loudly from her seat. In fact, Harold couldn't think of one reason they needed those meetings, or why they needed a block leader at all.

He tried to suggest to Sharon that perhaps someone else would be better than him in such a position.

"It's not a big deal," Sharon said to him, turning her body toward her husband, the bedcovers curling around her, "Look, you make a living supervising projects all the time. Being the block leader can't be any tougher than working at Shellson."

But at Shellson, his boss told him exactly what to do whenever it needed to be done. What did a block leader do, precisely? What the heck was there to do besides telling people to occupy the same space? All that Harold could remember old Martha doing was cackling madly from the back of her smoky garage.

The music from Harry junior's bedroom suddenly increased in volume, and Harold put his hands to his ears and shook in frustration.

"Look," said Sharon, "When the time comes, just ask if anyone has any neighborhood concerns. That's all you have to do."

Sharon followed this statement by turning away from Harold again and going to sleep, ending the discussion.

The time for the community get-together came, and Harold had to clean out the garage. Harry was no help. As usual, the boy ran to his room and slammed the door immediately after returning from school. Also, Sharon was busily preparing a roast in the kitchen. So Harold had to vacuum all of the dust and set up all of the tables by himself.

He didn't have much time to admire his arrangement before people started arriving, each seeming to judge him as they took seats in his garage. First the eldest came -the two Strazinskys, Mr. and Mrs. Howeson, and Gretta Shrier. Then came Bob Simon and his wife Sheryl, Bob Pratchett and his dog Okie, and Bob Callip and his mysterious hotdish.

Scott Chambers came by with his wife Evelyn. Their eleven-year-old son Corey quickly pulled up a seat at the nearest table and slapped down a workbook full of math puzzles. Scott was a teacher at a junior high school on the north-side. Harold wasn't sure he remembered what subject, though. Scott definitely looked intelligent, though, so Harold decided it must be biology.

"So Harold," said Scott, still standing, "How's little Harry?"

"He's not so little anymore," said Harold, "But he's, you know, at about that age where he just comes home from school and locks himself in with that music of his, and we don't see him again until breakfast. He brings in the good grades though, so how can I complain?"

"I see," said Scott, "Well, I just hope that when Corey here gets that age we can keep him straight-" his wife nudged him, "And well-rounded, of course."

"We just hope we do as good a job as you," Evelyn added.

"I didn't do much," Harold admitted, "Heck, the only thing I remember teaching him was how to play Weebly-Wobblies."

Big Tab Reynolds followed with his toddler running circles around him, and his wife Betty not far behind carrying her special peach cobbler. Their little Joe pulled up a chair next to Corey and tried to bother him. Tab walked directly up to Harold to shake his hand strongly. As Tab congratulated Harold for his new position as block leader, Harold couldn't help but wince a little bit at the man's intimidating mustache. It seemed to crawl directly out of the man's nostrils to reach out at him.

"Thanks, Tab," said Harold.

Once everyone was more or less settled in, Harold leaned on the wall and took in a deep breath. The scene before him was much like his job, he noticed -the talkative groups, the mysterious food. What was missing from the picture was his boss glaring from across the room and tapping his watch. It was time to go. Sharon's arm crept up around his shoulder, and Harold leaned slightly back to accept it. But instead of comfort, she gave him a shove forward. As he stumbled in front of all of the neighbors, he thought of what his wife had told him.

"Welcome to the community night out," he said, “Umm, I'm glad all of you could make it here so does anyone have any neighborhood concerns?”

There was uncomfortable silence for a few moments, but soon Tab sat up.

“Did anyone see that hotdog program on PBS the other night?” asked Tab, who seemed to be addressing Harold.

“No,” Harold said immediately.

After a quick tap from his wife, Harold looked around the garage for other opinions. No one.

“No, Tab,” he said.

“Well, I tell you, you missed quite a program,” said Tab as he arched his back and swiveled on his stool to address the entire garage.

“They say there’s this place in Iowa, this place. And this PBS program said that it’s the hotdog capital of the country. They got this store there that sells ten thousand hotdogs a day. Regular. Can you believe that? Ten thousand dogs a day?"

A murmur from the audience, and Harold tried to think of what he should do if this got out of hand. Would he need to calm the crowd by changing the subject? Or could he simply dismiss them if it came to that?

“Wait,” said Scott Chambers from next to the dessert. He seemed to be counting on his fingers very deliberately, pretending to calculate.

“That’s physically impossible," said Scott, "At a population of –what was it?”

“About twenty thousand is what they said.”

“Well, at that rate, each person would have to eat two hot dogs a day. Isn’t that a little suspicious?”

Tab took a bite from his peach cobbler and gobbled it down.

“This hotdog joint,” Tab said, rubbing crumbs from his mustache, “They have to get truckloads of ketchup each day. Can you believe that? I’ve never ate that much ketchup.”

Scott waited for his question to be answered, but soon gave up and cut a perfect square of brownie for himself.
Everyone seemed to go back to eating, so Harold tried again.

“Are there any other neighborhood concerns?”

Mrs. Howeson shot her rickety hand up from the back table, and Harold pointed to her. She then stood up and adjusted her perfectly circular glasses before speaking.

"I'm concerned about the recent profane vandalism at Delilah Park up on 34th avenue. Kids play there for God's sake!" She started to sit down, but then stood up straight again. "So what can you do about that?"

After she finally sat down and stared disapprovingly at him, Harold was tempted to ignore the issue completely until Bob Callip got up to add something.

"I think I've seen it. Someone spraypainted black letters all over the yellow tube slide thing. Said something like 'lick the taper' or 'taste the leper' or something like that. I don't know what it means, but with kids these days, I'm sure it's something awful."

"Wait," said Tab, "You know, just the other day I had to clean some paint scribbles off my garage. Said 'eat the crib', in black paint like you said. Sick bastards these kids."

"What does 'eat the crib' mean?" asked Bob Pratchett, "Is that some kind of pro-choice thing?"

"No, I think it's more of a hip-hop thing, like hanging at a crib," said Scott, "I don't know what eat means though. Maybe it's something about crack."

"Oh," said Tab, "I thought it's just something about eating babies."

Harold was less than intrigued, but his position required that he at least pretend.

"Does anyone here know who might have done it?" he asked.

"Well," said Betty Reynolds, "We know our kids wouldn't have done it."

"And the next block down is all old people," added Sheryl Simon.

"Maybe some kids from the high school drove here and left them," said Bob Pratchett.

Scott shook his head and removed his glasses.

"That's unlikely. Studies show that kids only write that stuff to convey a distinct message to somebody. And none of us knows anyone who would do that, and I don't tell any of my students where I live, that's for sure."

"So who could have done it?" asked Bob Simon.

Everyone was silent for a few moments, and they started to eye each other. Harold once again became nervous; he could not let this community be torn apart like this. It just would not do to have everyone suspicious. But what could he do?

"It was those DAMNED punks!" said old Gretta, as if awakening from a nightmare, "Those punks that moved into Martha's house."

Everyone remained quiet, but soon started nodding to one another.

"That's right," said Bob Callip, "I've actually seen them around on their skate boards doing stunts, and they fall over doing them."

"We invited them here, we left a flyer in their mail box. I wonder why they didn't come?"

"Don't forget the camera," added Tab, "They got this camera they bring everywhere. I think one of them got a clip of me falling off my ladder on Tuesday. Nearly broke my hip. I bet those kids'll sell it to that video show on NBC..."

"RealBloops?" asked Scott.

"No, the one with clips."

"One of them even has dreadlocks," said Mrs. Howeson, " I saw it with my own eyes. Looked like some gang member's hair -but scarier because he's a white."

"RealBloops does have clips," said Bob Callip.

"That's nothing," said Scott, "My son says one of them tried to tell him about the devil. The devil! Can you believe it?" He removed his glasses again for effect, having put them back on before speaking.

At this point, something happened to Harold. First, he visualized seeing those kids for the first time, the previous week. They did indeed have skateboards and a camera. He'd figured that they must have been relatives of Martha, helping clean out the place. This was no longer the case. These punks actually lived here, in Harold's neighborhood -and they were wrecking his newly inherited realm.

And what was this? They were trying to get small children to worship the devil? They were exploiting poor Tab's fall from his garage? And they were posting their propaganda on any old wall they choose? This was unspeakable, and suddenly Harold was affected in a way he hadn't been before: he suddenly cared for the neighborhood.

In a moment of clarity, while everyone in the garage was still talking, he came to a distinct thought of determination. As block leader, Harold would make it his mission to get these kids -law or no law. He felt the presence of Old Martha surging through him. He was an unstoppable force for bringing the neighborhood together, and preventing it harm. He focused on his memories of her laughter, her smiling face, her beady eyes looking after everyone. Taking care of their kids, ensuring the community gets along. It all made sense now, her position and its importance.

Drawing quickly from his work experience, he realized he had a very specific task on his hands: catch the punks redhanded and save the neighborhood. The first step was to assemble a team. It was clear that Harold would be the leader. Which meant he would need two other people to do the rest.

Since this was vigilante justice, he figured he needed someone strong and someone clever.

Harold got the attention of the crowd and explained his righteous plan. They would need to infiltrate the house and acquire evidence of wrong-doing, most likely from the infamous video camera.

The majority seemed to favor the plan, and nobody openly opposed it. There was a general consensus that law enforcement officials could not help. Bob Callip suggested that weekdays would be good for the raid, as the last of the four punks left the house by eleven, and none returned until after three. Mrs. Howeson offered up one of old Martha's spare keys, which would no doubt still unlock the door.

No sooner had Harold asked for a strong man than Betsy volunteered her husband Tab, boasting of his superior power. While he was more hefty than brawny, he had that scary mustache and a gruffness that suited his role appropriately.

When asking for someone smart who could deal with the camera, Evelyn similarly volunteered her own husband. Scott refused at first, but after some prodding from the wife he reluctantly admitted that he might be good after all. "Well," he said, "I only really have worked with professional cameras, supervising the AV club team. But I'm sure I'll be able to figure out these punks's camera."

It was decided that tomorrow their mission would commence, at eleven AM sharp. Everyone in the neighborhood left Harold's garage with great pride, having seen democracy in action. Everyone also had plenty of Mrs. Howeson's brownies in their bellies.

After folding up the card tables and hauling them back into his basement, Harold retired to his bedroom where Sharon awaited him under the covers with a thick paperback in front of her face. She bookmarked it and turned to him when he crawled into bed.

"I'm proud of you, you know. You're doing a great job. The whole neighborhood is already behind you."
Harold smiled.
"Oh, I just did what you told me to," he admitted.

"There's so much more we can do now," Sharon continued, "After you finish this, maybe we can even get that nutball down the street to take down his conspiracy signs."

He nodded his head. Though he had no problem with the quirky signs, he agreed with Sharon's overall sense of accomplishment, and used that thought to drift into a contented slumber. As he closed his eyes and relaxed, the sounds from the rest of the house amplified. The music playing in Junior's room increased in volume and clarity until it was at last screaming wildly into Harold's ears:

          Succumb to my will
          And I'll finally reveal
          That you can't even feel
          How I want you to kill!

Harold couldn't take it anymore, and certainly would not like to hear the next verse. He got up and hit Junior's door a couple of times and told him to turn it down. Soon enough, the painful drone shrank until it was muffled enough to ignore, and Harold could once again sleep soundly.

***

The next morning, Harold stared out of the kitchen window as he ate breakfast. With an eye on the alley, he was able to see those young punks leave Martha's former house. The first was on a skateboard. About an hour later, two more went by just in their shorts and t-shirts. Finally, around a quarter to eleven the last one biked by, dreadlocks whipping behind him. Harold quickly got up and left, leaving his dirty plate for Sharon.

In front of old Martha's place, Tab and Scott were both waiting nervously when Harold arrived. Tab was decked out in ridiculous blue sweatpants and a sweatsuit with a cheap wig, while Scott had merely donned sunglasses. Harold hadn't thought about a disguise, but it was too late at this point.

With a feeling of secret power, he withdrew the spare key from his pocket. Sure enough, the door opened like a dream.

What Harold had expected behind the door was candles, lots of candles arranged throughout the house. Also: pillows and futons and long, low tables covered with ashtrays. But when the door opened, the only thing waiting was a bright, sterile entryway. In fact, the clear air inside was a welcome change from old Martha's smoky atmosphere.

He thought this might be more difficult than expected, so Harold said they should split up. He sent Tab upstairs, and Scott downstairs. "Look for anything incriminating, guys." Harold himself went to the kitchen.

The kitchen was just as much a disappointment as the entryway had been, Harold noted. The counters were not only clear, but spick and span. Dishes were all washed and drying in the sink. What kind of insidious Satan-worshippers WERE these? Looking carefully for anything, he came across a calendar hanging near the refrigerator. Marked in big black marker letters on several days this month was "WORSHIP". Gotcha, Harold thought. Looking closer, he also noted that each saturday was labeled with "MOVIE".

Scott called from downstairs: "Hey guys, I found something."

The basement was cluttered with boxes, but beyond them in the back corner was the cleared room where Scott was waiting. The sun peered mightily in through a small window near the ceiling, and its light framed an orange computer sitting on a card table in the middle of the room. Attached to the computer was a camera.

Scott was hunched over the computer, trying to make sense of it.

"So can you get what's on the camera?" asked Harold.

"I'm trying, okay?" said Scott.

Scott continued working at the computer, typing on the keys and clicking the mouse. He was visibly growing more and more frustrated as time continued. By the time Tab had arrived from the attic, Scott had turned around and crossed his arms in a gesture of hopelessness.

"I can't do it," he said.

"What do you mean ya can't do it?" asked Tab.

"It's just that this computer, it doesn't want to take any of my commands. I hate these Mac things -I don't even know how to perform a grep on this!"

Damn. They were using an underground computer. Harold nearly groaned, but kept his composure.

"I thought you were the computer guy," accused Tab, who was settling his mass against the wall.

"Well I know how to use computers," Scott said defensively, "Just not this."

He tried one last time to type something in, but quickly turned around and sighed.

"We'll have to find something else," Scott said, "But we can't take the camera because it's hooked up to the computer."

Harold was now regretting putting Scott on the team. He just wasn't getting his share done. Now he was endangering the mission.

Tab pulled up a chair to the computer, and sat himself down in front of it.

"Hey, this thing's easy. My kid's got one just like this."

The screen seemed to light up with Tab's presence. Scott was dumbfounded in the corner, but kept quiet.

"I betcha the camera is in 'Movies' here."

Tab, scratching at his mustache, brought up what looked like an interface for the camera. A video started playing on the screen.

"This is it," Harold said as a scene faded in, "keep your eyes peeled."

A guitar started playing quietly in the background, as the camera panned up from a position in lush green grass. Timed perfectly with the introduction of some drums on the soundtrack, a boy on a skateboard flew past the screen. There was intercutting between what looked like four or five scenes in varying locations: at a lake, on railroad tracks, and around the neighborhood, all with the kids skating around and chasing each other.

"I don't get it," said Tab, "They're not saying nothing."

The vocals then kicked in, and the song broke into full-blown rock. On the screen, the skateboarding and jumping off of ramps continued, but it became clear that the kids on the screen were singing with the song.

It was a music video.

"God damn this MTV generation," remarked Scott.

Harold himself was listening intently to the song, even as skateboard stunts sent the kids flying vertically into the air for the camera. There was something about the music that he couldn't quite put his finger on: there was more of a folksy-ness to it -it sounded like older rock, but it was most definitely a new song. The chorus came:

I've got to RISE up. Rise up. Got to Rise up, rising up to-

Harold couldn't believe it, but he suddenly knew exactly what the video was about. It became clear that there was no foul language in the video at all, no scantily-clad girls dancing around, no vandalism -nothing corrupt.

As the music thundered to a climax, the skateboarding stunts intensified and the kids found more and more air. A blurry figure was being superimposed in the background, but it was becoming more and more clear.

"Just what in hell is that thing?" asked Tab, not getting it.

"Marilyn Manson?" guessed Scott.

The last line in the song screamed out with the instruments fading behind it:

Rising up for HIM!

The figure on the screen was now in full focus, arms out at his sides in his familiar pose.

"Jesus," Tab let out.

"You said it," said Harold, "these kids are Christians."

"Of COURSE," added Scott, "That's why they were telling my kid about the devil. The salvation! I forgot about the salvation thing!"

The sound of a door opening upstairs echoed down into the basement.
"Hey Brett, you home?" yelled a young voice from above.

The three middle-aged men looked at each other for a moment, realizing they had illegally broken into a house full of God-fearing Christians.

"Shit, we gotta get out of here," said Harold, trying to think of a way. Looking around the room, he found himself focusing on the sunlight coming from the small cellar window.

"Tab, try and get that open."

Big Tab moved a chair up to the wall and climbed up onto it. He placed his hands at the sides of the window, trying to figure out how it worked.

"This isn't gonna open," called down Tab, "There's no lever dealie."

"Who's there?" a voice asked from just upstairs, "Is anybody home?"

Harold closed his eyes for a few moments, then whispered, "Get us out of here, guys."

"I can't get the jigger open!" said Tab, grunting with frustration.

"Let me see that," said Scott, "Look, all you have to do is get some leverage. Use your other arm."

"I'm right-handed," said Tab.

"Yeah, but that has nothing to do with it," said Scott. He pushed Tab out of the way and tried to open the window himself.

Harold's eyes darted around the room. The basement was a dead end, and the only exit was that window. He heard footsteps in the kitchen above. A refrigerator door opening and closing. Another call out.

Tab was breathing heavily, and he walked up to the pile of boxes and put his arm on top of one for support. Immediately the box caved in, along with several boxes underneath it. Tab fell down on top of the pile, cursing.

The pile of boxes was quite massive. Harold thought of a plan.

The door creaked open, and a short-haired blonde teenager peered in, a cross dangling from his neck. The room was seemingly empty, and the muffled breathing coming from underneath the pile of empty cardboard boxes in the corner was inaudible to the boy, he was munching on a sandwich. He reached his hand into the room to turn off the light switch before he went back upstairs.

In a heap underneath the slightly soggy cardboard boxes, Harold found himself utterly embarrassed. Here, his first and only job as block leader, and he had broken into the home of some innocent young kids. And at the moment, he was feeling the pressure between the bodies of massive Tab and bony Scott. He felt a sharpness beneath his calf, and reached to pull the object out.

It was a Weebly Wobbly. In fact, it was Harry junior's Weebly Wobbly -Harold recognized it from the time he had played with junior. It seemed like the last time they played, actually. The thing had probably been lost in this basement when Harry was just little and first started coming to Martha's after school.

"Can we get up yet?"whispered Tab, whose mouth was so close to Harold's ear that he felt the tickle of mustache brills, "I can't stand it no longer."

"Shhhh!" said Scott harshly and loudly, from the vicinity of Harold's ankles.

There were more footsteps upstairs, and then what sounded like the front door opening again. Then two pairs of footsteps circled the house for a few minutes, before the front door closed. Then the house was quiet.

"Let's get out of here," said Harold, pushing boxes off of him as the three men got to their feet.

***

When he got home, Harold wanted to go to his bed and hide under the covers for as long as possible. He'd called in sick to work just for this operation, and it was a monumental failure. Not only had they NOT found those responsible for the graffiti, they had broken into the house of some innocent and well-meaning people. What a great way to promote community well-being. And even now, the perpetrators of the graffiti walked free, and there was nothing Harold could do about it.

Harold's hand fell to his pockets, and he found the Weebly Wobbly he had picked up at old Martha's place. It still looked exactly as it had all those years ago, playing with young Harry. Before his promotion. Before the Venkman account. He got up and brought the toy to junior's room.

The door was cracked open, and no one was inside. Harry was still out doing God knows what. The CD player in the corner of the room had been left on, and was playing a CD on repeat. Harold went to the bed and placed the Weebly Wobbly on top of junior's pillow. Harold looked at it a moment, the faint sound of music blowing through the room.

You lick the taint
cuz you know that I ain't
now we all need to paint
that there is no true saint!

licking the taper
for no other caper
is truer and safer
than breathing the vapor

eat the crib
eat the crib
eat the crib
eat the crib


It was trash, absolute trash. Harold couldn't make sense of the lyrics at all, but he knew it must be something disgusting. And at the same time, some phrases sounded familiar... When he went to the CD player to turn it off and check the label for the artist name, he noticed right next to it on the floor three tall cans standing there, weathered. Spray paint.

***

The national night out fell just two weeks later, and they planned another pot-luck in Harold's garage. For this Susan helped deliver fliers to every house on the block. She even invited an officer as a representative from the local police department, just like old Martha used to do. Susan also arranged all of the tables, cooked a soufle, and greeted everyone who arrived.

Harold sat in the back of the garage and took it all in. He saw the two Strazinskys come. He saw Gretta Shrier. Mr. and Mrs. Howeson. The three Bobs coming one after another. He saw Tab and Scott come in, laughing with each other about something, as their kids and wives followed along. Then four young men came, and made their way to the back of the garage and introduced themselves.

"We're sorry we couldn't make it to the last meeting," one of them, named Paul, said, "We had a church event that night! But we're really glad to be in this neighborhood. It seems like a really great place."

"We actually have something to ask you," said Paul, "We met your son the other day, and we've been wondering if you'd let him help us out on some video projects"

"You sound a little crazy there, Paul," said one whose name was Matthew, "You make us sound like we're from some cult, or worse. Look, Mr. Pazowski, we just thought that you might have your hands full sometimes with your son, and since you and your wife both work, so we wouldn't mind looking after your kid sometime. I mean, if he doesn't think we're big losers."

"We want to be good neighbors," said Paul, " So just let us know, any time."

People were finishing up their meals. It was time for the meeting to start. Harold stood up in front of the group and thanked everyone for coming. He thanked the officer for coming. He then welcomed the new kids to the neighborhood. Finally, he said those words he had practiced so many times:

"Does anybody have any neighborhood concerns?" His wife smiled at him.

Bob Callip stood up. "Is there anything new with that graffiti case?" he asked.

Tab and Scott looked uneasy.

"I think that's history," Harold said, "We think it was just an isolated incident, and it shouldn't happen again."

Tab sat up.

"Yes?" Harold asked.

"Yeah," said Tab, swiveled on his chair and addressed the whole garage, "Did anyone see that report on global warming on the CBS last night? Wasn't that wild?"

"It was trash," said Scott, "It wasn't a very balanced report at all."

"I heard that there was this thing called global dimming," said Paul, "apparently it messes with the data or something?"

"I think that turned out to be a hoax," said Officer Plank, how was staring intently at the piece of cherry pie on his plate.

As the garage fell into an animated exchange of informed and uninformed opinions, Harold sat back and relished it all. Here they were, together. It was his neighborhood, and he never realized how much that had meant until now. He couldn't help but laugh out loud, like a kind of madman, at the wonder of this chaotic togetherness.