The Move

"Don't you remember 141 Magnolia Street?"

There really wasn't anything about that apartment that I wanted to remember, and I felt that this was his way of telling me that he thought we could live here.

It was an old, concrete block duplex. Inside it was bare and cold. Walls inside and out painted white but not very recently and not very well. The interior walls were pock-marked from the wall-hangings of no end of tenants. A single, square room. In one corner was a kitchen—sink, counter, an old gas stove, and an even older fridge. About 25 steps along the wall and the next corner was fixed up with a sink, toilet and curtainless shower. At the back of the room was a second door that opened to an alley and a window that looked out on the alley and showed several colors that appeared to have covered the glass at one time or another.

"The Red Line is just two blocks down the street, and door-to-door is about 50 minutes to downtown. And did you notice the canopy of trees overhanging the road? Can you imagine what fall will look like in a few months? And then in the spring, our cherry blossoms."

At that moment, I was thinking about the low-ball salary he'd been offered and the ridiculous rent for this room. God, the slumlords from our college town were here, too. The agent's physiognomy in profile suggested a bird of prey.

"There's a very nice park about four—"

Gunshots—three of them—pierced the relative quiet of this busy suburb. The agent hit the floor and whispered loudly for us to the same. Light, rapid footsteps just outside the backdoor could be heard in the alley, followed half a minute later by heavy breathing and a slower tread. More gunshots. Screams from a short distance away in the direction of the metro.

"Where the hell are the cops? I hope someone's called."

"Just stay down. They'll be here soon."

Another gunshot, and more screams. This time it seemed that the bullet had found its mark.

"You call this a safe neighbourhood? Would you bring up a child in a place like this?"

"Calm—."

"Don't tell me to calm down. There's a shooting just outside this apartment, and you told us—we asked specifically—that this was a good neighbourhood."

"And it is. It isn't a high crime—"

"So, moderate crime? Is that what you thought we'd find acceptable?"

"As I was about to say, the parts of the city where you would feel safest are just too far beyond your budget. It isn't realistic."

"Honey, this isn't going to work. We're not going to have a baby in a place like this."

"But dear, the job— This is the first offer I've had in six months. I'm sure we can keep looking and find something."

"No, dear. We've got to think of all three of us. You can go back and do grad studies. You know you'll at least be able to get a TAship, and besides you're profs thought you needed a more advanced degree anyway. I can live at 141 Magnolia if this is the alternative."

Sirens, from two directions, wailed in the distance, getting closer and closer.

"Seven-and-a-half minutes! Is that what you'd call a good response time?"

"Yes ma'am. Actually, that's about what I'd expect."

"And in your neighbourhood?"

"It's strictly a matter of economics. I'm sure your husband can appreciate that."

"Yes, we've both heard quite enough of Mr. Reagan's trickle-down economics, and if this is what it looks like—"