bordered by the river on one side, the freeway on another, and Oleander Way to the east. Then I circle back, moving down each street and alley so fast that there’s only the occasional toe-touch of rubber to asphalt. So fast, I assume I can’t be seen. The Lowlands are almost totally deserted because of the floods a few years ago that kept it underwater for weeks. Most all the buildings here are condemned, or should be.
The South Side gets all the flooding these days, but before I was born, things were different. Back then, it was the North—my neighborhood in particular, which isn’t far from the river—that was always flooding. Back then, the North was underwater at least once every winter.
When my father was first getting into real estate, he and a group of other developers came up with a redevelopment plan to add height to the land north of the river (which they were smart enough to buy up “for a song,” after a particularly flooded spring, as my dad puts it whenever he tells the story) by trucking in garbage from a few landfills, adding layers of soil over the top, then paving over the new higher ground.
Building on top of the hills he created in the North is what turned my father into the king of Bedlam real estate. Or at least that’s how my parents tell it. I’ve heard the stories a million times. They like to leave out the part about how building the hills in the North made it so the South became the flood zone.
After my father’s redevelopment of the North, everyone wanted to live there. When the river overflowed again a few years later, people who could afford it up picked up and left, and the South Side became more and more neglected, and more dangerous.
When the most recent floods hit a few years ago, Lowlands was submerged for weeks. Now there are only a few blocks with electricity here, toward the center of the neighborhood where there’s a little hill. That’s where Jimmy’s Corner is. Ford might be boxing there at this very moment.
I see something move out of the corner of my vision and come to a stop behind a Dumpster, landing hard on my heels. An animal comes into view, flitting in the tall grass growing in a vacant lot behind a chain-link fence. Its black eyes blink curiously at me, two shining beads disguised in its black mask, just a raccoon. Pretending to be someone else, or nobody at all.
You and me both , I think, reaching a hand in the pocket of my black windbreaker to make sure the mask I’ve made is still safely stashed there. It’s only a four-inch-tall strip of stretchy black mesh with holes just big enough to see through that I cut from an old costume, but the effect is startling, since it obscures my eyes and nose so completely. In my closet mirror, I felt a strange ripple of pride when I put it on. Combined with my black hood, it disguises me well.
I edge away from the Dumpster, away from the vacant lot, keeping my run slow now so I don’t miss anything. Up ahead, I spot a Droopie den, marked as is the custom in Bedlam with two shoes with laces tied together and flung over an electricity wire—though without electricity, the wire is only decorative.
I slow to a walk that I hope appears casual and concentrate on getting my breathing under control, quieting any lingering sounds of exertion. The nice thing about Droopers is that they are docile and unguarded with their speech.
Two pallid, vacant-eyed teenagers are sprawled on the brick front steps. One of them, the girl, braids the hair of the other, a boy. Neither speaks or raises a hand in greeting when I walk up to them. They stare so listlessly out at the street that it’s like they’re staring inward, at whatever visions or chasms lurk in their minds. The girl’s fingers work slowly and skillfully through the mane of the boy’s dirty blond hair. She’s giving him cornrows. A package of tiny rubber bands—megamart brand, $.42 for 42, the sticker says—spills out onto the steps.
I approach slowly, hesitant to
The South Side gets all the flooding these days, but before I was born, things were different. Back then, it was the North—my neighborhood in particular, which isn’t far from the river—that was always flooding. Back then, the North was underwater at least once every winter.
When my father was first getting into real estate, he and a group of other developers came up with a redevelopment plan to add height to the land north of the river (which they were smart enough to buy up “for a song,” after a particularly flooded spring, as my dad puts it whenever he tells the story) by trucking in garbage from a few landfills, adding layers of soil over the top, then paving over the new higher ground.
Building on top of the hills he created in the North is what turned my father into the king of Bedlam real estate. Or at least that’s how my parents tell it. I’ve heard the stories a million times. They like to leave out the part about how building the hills in the North made it so the South became the flood zone.
After my father’s redevelopment of the North, everyone wanted to live there. When the river overflowed again a few years later, people who could afford it up picked up and left, and the South Side became more and more neglected, and more dangerous.
When the most recent floods hit a few years ago, Lowlands was submerged for weeks. Now there are only a few blocks with electricity here, toward the center of the neighborhood where there’s a little hill. That’s where Jimmy’s Corner is. Ford might be boxing there at this very moment.
I see something move out of the corner of my vision and come to a stop behind a Dumpster, landing hard on my heels. An animal comes into view, flitting in the tall grass growing in a vacant lot behind a chain-link fence. Its black eyes blink curiously at me, two shining beads disguised in its black mask, just a raccoon. Pretending to be someone else, or nobody at all.
You and me both , I think, reaching a hand in the pocket of my black windbreaker to make sure the mask I’ve made is still safely stashed there. It’s only a four-inch-tall strip of stretchy black mesh with holes just big enough to see through that I cut from an old costume, but the effect is startling, since it obscures my eyes and nose so completely. In my closet mirror, I felt a strange ripple of pride when I put it on. Combined with my black hood, it disguises me well.
I edge away from the Dumpster, away from the vacant lot, keeping my run slow now so I don’t miss anything. Up ahead, I spot a Droopie den, marked as is the custom in Bedlam with two shoes with laces tied together and flung over an electricity wire—though without electricity, the wire is only decorative.
I slow to a walk that I hope appears casual and concentrate on getting my breathing under control, quieting any lingering sounds of exertion. The nice thing about Droopers is that they are docile and unguarded with their speech.
Two pallid, vacant-eyed teenagers are sprawled on the brick front steps. One of them, the girl, braids the hair of the other, a boy. Neither speaks or raises a hand in greeting when I walk up to them. They stare so listlessly out at the street that it’s like they’re staring inward, at whatever visions or chasms lurk in their minds. The girl’s fingers work slowly and skillfully through the mane of the boy’s dirty blond hair. She’s giving him cornrows. A package of tiny rubber bands—megamart brand, $.42 for 42, the sticker says—spills out onto the steps.
I approach slowly, hesitant to
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