P4E.096 The Gang Banger

It's not often that you'll find a gang-banger and an architect crying in the middle of a foggy road.
This is how it came to pass:

My wife, Gwen, wouldn't even look at the house when she went by it. The house is a few blocks from where we live, at the elbow of where the street turns into an older tract of homes. We drive by it to get to our house. Everyone in the neighborhood acknowledges that the people who live there are "Mexican Mafia." The young men wear their "beaters" (the kind of white undershirt that has thin straps over the shoulders and a scoop neck. The stereotype is that guys that wear this kind of undershirt beat their wives and girlfriends.), their baggy, saggy pants and their tattoos. The obligatory Oakland Raiders' flag hangs in the garage. There were always a few young men loitering in the driveway and talking on their cell phones who would stare down every passerby who intruded into their "hood." Last year a man was shot and killed in an empty field between the MM house and ours. There may be nothing to it, but my impression is that ever since that shooting things have really calmed down at the MM house. Not as many cars. Garage door always closed. No young men out front to administer the "stare-down." Now there's even Christmas lights hanging on the eaves.

Before we put him to sleep, Gwen would routinely take Dunkin, our yellow Labrador Retriever, to a small local park to train and play. One day a short, dark man who defined the word "burly" came into the park with his big Rottweiler on a fierce looking collar and chain. He sported shaded glasses, a moustache, and a crew cut. Elaborate, colorful tattoos were visible on the side of his thick neck. He watched Gwen as she trained and played with Dunkin. They were the only ones in the park that can't be seen from the road. My wife is not easily threatened and confronts situations squarely and without pause. It's so like her that she went up to the burly man and struck up a conversation. To her surprise, he smiled and complimented her training and Dunkin. He bent down and petted Dunkin. Dunkin and the Rotty got along fine. He explained that he was training his Rottweiler. They exchanged pleasantries. The man's name was Tito and his dog's name was Onyx. Where did he live? Well, his house was right at the elbow of the road that turns into the older tract of homes...
Tito, was in fact the father at the MM house. I was eventually introduced, shook his vice-like hand and found him to be quite pleasant. Tito's back has lately been giving him problems, so sometimes his dark-hooded sons would walk Onyx past our house and they would also stop and chat. Now, whenever we pass the Tito's house we smile and wave at our friends.

And, so it came to pass that one morning I was driving down our street. A burly grey figure emerged from the fog walking with a cane and a big Rottweiler. I stopped in the middle of the road and rolled down my window. Tito detoured and came up to the car. We had not had a chance to tell Tito that we had put Dunkin down. The fog swirled around us and as I told him, tears welled up in my eyes. Tito told me what a great dog he thought Dunkin was and, looking down at Onyx, that he couldn't imagine how we were feeling. Tito reached his great, tattooed hand into the car and rubbed my shoulder. "You're making me want to cry."
And he did.

Peace, Kim

This post is being shared at LL Barkat's