Danger in the Hood

Lately the drumbeats of car stereos have increased on my street, and some especially shady-looking characters have been hanging around, passing through in their slick cars or just lingering on the sidewalks. They toss their cans and bottles onto lawns (not mine, so I'm not bitter about that.)

They talk loudly about what prison was like -- I mean, I think that's what they're talking about. Maybe they're just sharing memories of their childhood homes. They line up their shining chariots, double parked, rims a-spinning, and just drink with all the gleeful, guffawing abandon of young men.

It looks like the most monotonous life in the world to me. And they'd probably think mine's deadly boring.

But there's something about a couple of them that really spooks me. They seem a little harder, like career do-no-gooders.

We walked out of the house the other day, and two guys were talking loudly across the street. One was shirt-free, his buxom upper body well-inked with tattoos. He was crowing proudly about something, bragging about some fight he was in or had witnessed. I told my child to get into the car in a very shrill tone.

So now I'm working with our beat police officer. By email, no less. I feel like an undercover agent. If you live in Oakland, you can email your police officer and tell him or her of your troubles. And ours answered!

He told me that they'd just "done a bust" in a house that I told him about. I know it's wrong, but I felt a little thrill of satisfaction. They house in question is the worst, the central magnet for tricked-out cars and their owners, seemingly unemployed young men. It's also the best house on the block, a shabby, two-story Craftsman beauty that would cost about $2 mil in Rockridge.

So I continue my important work with the Oakland Police, in hopes that the block will quiet down a little. I'm also praying for rain, cuz that always calms the situation.