An Apartment on Mariposa Street

{Preface}
One night our favorite neighbors were moving, which made us sad and nostalgic--for some reason this seemed at the time like the final indication that our remaining days at Mariposa C were numbered.  Flipping through the pages of my copy of "A House on Mango Street," I decided that Sandra Cisneros' vignette style (which I've always had fun with) was the perfect inspiration to record some of the most memorable bits of our 2-ish years here before it's all over. I'm sure there may be some worthy things I forget, so if you can think of one, just let me know.


For our friends and family (or should I just call it family).

An Apartment on Mariposa Street

We did not always live on Mariposa Street.
The first two months we spent on Canyon Court, overlooking Bear Valley in a beautiful house that was not our own. Before that, a week on a cruise ship with a balcony that overlooked the coast of Mexico.
 But Mariposa was our first.

I found her when I wasn’t quite searching for her; just driving, when a little flower on a bright blue sign caught my eye, For Rent.
I called. He came. There were three open, and I chose one. The one with the fridge, the pedestal sink I’d always loved, and the big single pane windows with a view of the mountains.
Unit C.
Of course that wasn’t really a fact at the time, since there were no letter labels at first, which led to us stealing our neighbor’s gas company appointment, and to our other neighbors sending packages and cops to our door by mistake.  But we bought three barstools at a garage sale, carried in our new collection of used furniture, and we were home. 

John who cursed lovingly at his children

Besides the Hickmans, who were only here for two weeks, John and his family were our first and only neighbors when we moved in.  John seemed nice enough—a little intimidating, but nice enough if you didn’t tick him off. And besides, doesn't everyone kind of want a neighbor like that?  He seemed to us like the patriarch of the fourplex, even though he was maybe in his thirties. He knew stuff. He’d been around for a while.  We always said that we felt pretty safe at our apartment, not the least reason being our certainty that if anyone ever came to try to give us all any trouble, John would probably beat their face in as soon as look at them. 

He had a couple of little boys, who were really pretty cute. Some days he would yell at them , just how he would probably yell at a dog or a stupid coworker.  “Hey! What the h#!! are you doing?? Get your little @$$ away from my truck!” He was a tough guy, but we could tell he liked them.  One day he bought them a trampoline, and he’d play on it with them, wrestling and tickling as they giggled and tackled him and then slipped away out of his reach. “hey, come here you little $h!!!s.”  He’d say. But they were used to it. They’d just giggle and jump on him again.

Ah, fatherhood. Heartwarming.