I drove down the road, in between errands, when I passed a duplex that I pass frequently on my morning route. It is one of those buildings that stands out from its surroundings, not well maintained. The yard is a series of grassy patches surrounded by packed dirt which makes it look like an overgrown parking lot. The house is brick with peeling white trim, the screens dark and torn on the dark windows, and it is difficult to tell how the units are divided, but nothing about it looks like a single family dwelling. Next door is an aging apartment complex, bustling with cars coming and going, a location one picks for convenience rather than quality or luxury.
I never gave it much thought while driving around, but this day, the contents of one of the duplex units were sitting in the corner of the front yard, the obvious remains of a recent eviction. In the pile were a pressed board bookshelf, a metal table base, a folded stained mattress, a plastic laundry basket with a broken handle, and many black plastic garbage bags, knotted at the top, containing who knows what. The remnants of someone's life sat in that pile, someone who had fallen on hard times, perhaps lagging behind on bills and rent, until the landlord was left with no choice but to put it all out on the street.
I felt badly for that person, not just for the loss of residence and personal effects, but more so because four or five other people were picking through the pile, looking for any items of value or use to them. It was like an impromptu garage sale, minus the cash box and eager homeowner. The people eyeballing the possessions did not look down on their luck, but looks can be deceiving. There was a woman dressed in tight jeans who was very interested in a lamp base. A few men in white hats, shirts, and pants, perhaps painters in between jobs, were testing the sturdiness of the bookcases. Another woman, in a brightly patterned shirt, was busy looking inside one of the bags. Five people, maybe aware of another’s adversity, but more likely, pleased at their own good fortune.
I watched this scene unfold before me from the safety and distance of my luxury SUV, well insulated from what I witnessed. It is no secret that the economy is in the toilet, that people can barely afford to feed their families and buy gas for their commutes to and from work, and I cavalierly drive around town on premium fuel, running errands and going to the gym and having my nails or hair done. All the while, I chat on my cell phone, complaining about my stressful life to other moms who can feel my pain. I am upset that my organic milk has gone up fifty cents a half gallon, that I cook an extra night at home instead of eating out, that I am waiting for the dress or shoes or swimsuit to go on sale before making my purchases.
Am I feeling the pinch? Do I understand the struggle? Absolutely not. I am grateful, however, for my luck. And in a more profound way than muttering to myself, thank god that’s not me. I have had rougher times, but never rough enough to understand expulsion or looting. Now my road is trouble-free, and every once in a while it intersects with another’s less auspicious path. All I could do then, from behind my windshield, was to take a moment to recognize that life is never predictable or easy, but by some turn of fate, it is easier for some of us than for others.
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