The Public-Private Continuum

"Good morning!" says Mr. B- as I walk back from the school bus stop this morning at 8:30. I've got a cup of coffee in my hand, he has a can of Miller Lite. His voice always surprises me. It's a mid-range, well-tempered voice, reasonable and kind. But I've overheard snatches of thinly veiled racist--or at least xenophobic--conversation with the other men on that stretch of block.

I don't know what these guys do. Most are not old enough to be retired; most appear hale enough to not be on disability... though one can never tell. They lean on the window-frames of each others' 12-year-old cars, drive small loads of discarded household goods from one street to another, talk neighborhood politics--the old kind, about people; not the new kind about historic designation and housing in-fill and clean-up days.

Mr. B-'s greeting interrupts and caps my catalog of sounds I had been compiling as I walked:
1. The high "ping" of a real bell. A kitchen timer for someone's toast, maybe, singing out the front door into the world. This is why I love the city; the borders between private and public break down, but not usually so much as to be disturbing.
2. Blue jay scolding a cat.
3. Homeless itinerant workers having a breakfast of cigarettes in the alley. Their itinerancy is in question, as they've lived in our neighborhood's alleys for over a year now.
4. City bus roaring down P- St.
5. Robins
6. Whiny snargle of an ancient minivan engine warming up.
7. Scrape of a front door closing as the dark-haired girl goes to work.
8. "Good morning"