I sometimes see my life as romantic. But then I remember
where I live.
The “house” that I have rented for many years—an interesting
structure—one of those bland fronts of a South Philly house that often shield peculiar
and sometimes rich lives from the glare of public knowledge. Long ago my little
place probably housed sailors or dockyard workers or longshoremen. Just a few
blocks away are the great piers that once serviced ocean-going freighters, the
street that was once a seething waterfront thoroughfare.
Photographs from the mid-19th century show this
street a maelstrom of activity: the dusty avenue thick with horses and wagons,
and thousands of carts bearing the freight of the tall ships whose masts tower
above the piers in the background. It was a close, active street, the kind of
street where the primary commerce of the international American trade once took
place—among men and small-scale vehicles, not cranes and mechanics and diesel
trucks. (I miss it, can you tell?) Now,
of course, Delaware Avenue is no such thing, but a six-lane boulevard of
stoplights and road rage, connecting the Sprawl Mart with the Home Repo and the
Super Stash. It’s a strip mall stuck in the only place the city could put it,
the only stretch of open retail-ready land within 10 miles.
But the houses around here remain largely what they were.
I’m pleased to live in a place where a house can reach 150 years of age, and
more, and still serve as a house, without making any great fuss about it. I
live amid scores and scores of these houses, and not even a block of suburban-style
mini-houses—vinyl siding, garages—can destroy the ambience.
However, I’ve known I must leave this place--the lust has
indeed wandered—and have wondered what circumstance would permit me a graceful
exit from this residence of six years. Last week I found it: The first floor
wall, long bowed outward into the alley, has in fact collapsed. I didn’t
realize this at first. My landlord spent the night here last week and we
couldn’t figure out why the furnace, which had run all night, had apparently
failed to heat the house by morning. Then we looked in the alley. A big brick
wall really does make quite a pile. We had only a piece of sheetrock between us
and the great outdoors.
This new development with the house takes its place
alongside other, older quirks of the structure. For example, the hole in the
bathroom floor that looks down into the kitchen.
Following the walll discovery came frantic calls to
contractors, several of whom came to give estimates. And they confirmed what
I’ve always told the owner about this place: Fixed up, it’ll sell at a huge
profit. I think he believes it now, and plans to sell. Which means I need to
find a new place to live.
Which is all right. I’ve decided, at least for now, that my
only safety is despair of safety. I seem to be happy only when in flight. So
once again into the wild blue yonder. So far the remaining two floors have not
tumbled. Just give me another two days.
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