[Download] "Hellcat Court (a Wife's Experience Living Alone with Gang Members As Neighbors)(Essay)" by Rachel Jackson " eBook PDF Kindle ePub Free

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eBook details

• Title: Hellcat Court (a Wife's Experience Living Alone with Gang Members As Neighbors)(Essay)
• Author : Rachel Jackson
• Release Date : January 01, 2011
• Genre: Language Arts & Disciplines,Books,Professional & Technical,Education,
• Pages : * pages
• Size : 69 KB

Description

Hip-Hop was what we called him, and he lived across the street, mostly in his half-open garage where he slouched shirtless in a lawn chair, smoking cigarettes and texting for hours at a time. He wore big, white-framed plastic sunglasses and baggy pajama pants with a loud print of electric green surf-company logos. Cars would come and go in his driveway all day. They'd pull in with windows down and subwoofers thumping, and, like a grouchy, pimp-limping carhop, he'd stroll over and lean against the driver's side, blowing a blue jet of smoke up over his shoulder and chatting for a moment. Then he'd disappear inside his house and return, lean fully inside the window and punch knuckles with the driver and passengers a couple of times, and then off they'd go and he'd return to his lawn chair. Other characters lived there too, or rotated in and out--a girl we called Two-Tone for her blonde-on-top, black-on-bottom hair color; Bulldog, a bald, mashed-faced guy; and Little Pants, an impossibly skinny guy on the cutting edge of teenage fashion in his breathlessly tight pants. Various toddlers came and went, herded by girls with stringy hair and big jackets. The entire cast was white, and our rural California farming town had no more than twenty thousand residents. I was the neighbor directly across the street. Out our front windows and across our lawns, we stared at the tableaus of each other's lives. What he saw was a lawn prone to overgrowth and dandelions; an old blue pickup truck with Texas plates parked in the driveway, its back window covered in navy fighter squadron stickers; and a garage, when it yawned open late at night, with dusty surfboards and mountain bikes that never came down off their pegs, and a crumbling wall of still-packed moving boxes. What he saw was a couple on opposite schedules, a house permanently awake and half empty, the way station we lived in while we waited for the next reassignment to another town somewhere else in America.

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