Barrio Banking

"Don't you ever get tired of living in the 'hood?" I asked my husband yesterday. "What do you mean?" "In the barrio. The ghetto. The bad part of town. Doesn't it wear you down?" "I like it here. I can move freely. You don't come here too much anyway." "Not to Foothill anymore, I hate it," I said.

We had just come from Wells Fargo Bank over on Fruitvale. My husband just got the last check for a nice two-week contract that he'd successfully completed--the first he's had since he started distributing flyers in order to build up his construction business in the wake of my layoff. We bank by mail, but he wanted to pay some guys that afternoon so he went to cash the check at the bank where it was written. Forty-five minutes passed while we waited for them to verify the check. He was getting increasingly frustrated. "This always happens when I come here," he said. "I should have gone to the branch in Emeryville." From behind the thick bullet-proof glass it appeared no progress was being made on his check. "Ask for it back," I said. I looked around the lobby. Aside from mine, there was only one other pale face. "Hey, notice any white people here?" I whispered to him. He looked around, nodded at me and demanded his check back. As we left, he said, "You're right. That's pure neighborhood discrimination. They told me last time they have to verify checks over $2,500, and I can understand that. But this is for a grand. Now they say it's 'policy' and they can't pay it. In Emeryville they'll pay it, and you're right, it's only white people in there."

We drove down to International Boulevard and got some delicious tortas at our favorite taco truck. After finishing our lengua sandwiches, fresh radishes and pickled chiles, all washed down with a cold Squirt, we drove to the nice grocery store to stock up for the week. Then, our bags loaded into the back of the truck, nestled in among the pieces of rubble and stone he'd yet to take to the dump, we headed home. A few blocks from the store, a new sportscar with fancy rims suddenly veered into view, careening down the street. Half a block in front of us, the driver did a donut, burning rubber. I screamed for Emilio to stop. The car did another 180-degree maneuver and flew down the street, away from us, zigzagging and causing all other cars to pull to the side. My husband started the truck forward again, thinking the trouble had passed. A few blocks ahead, the driver began his acrobatics fresh, skidding toward us again. "Let's get away, please, let's go back," I was crying, petrified. The driver swung his door open while he spun. A small crowd had gathered. "Are you really scared?" Emilio asked. "YES!" I yelled. He turned us around and we took another route home. I abhor the sideshows, especially since they've happened with some regularity over the years right in front of our house at our lovely and spacious intersection.

As I railed about "kids today" and their life expectancy of 19 years and how that car was a loaded weapon just waiting to go off, Emilio reminded me of my brother's insane driving when he was 18 and how close he came to tragedy, including the time we were in my mom's car and he rolled it down an embankment. I calmed down. Of course, now it's 3 am and I'm sleepless again. I just thought it made for a good story.