Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.

I can still smell the thick, pungent air when I step outside. It should have been gone long ago; it’s been a week, and it doesn’t smell any more pleasant. There’s trash on the lawn, there’s no roof on the studio, the garage has the smell trapped inside, and the posts on the back fence are charcoal, at least on the surface. And yes, all the trash on the lawn is there for a purpose. We’re waiting for some place to put it all.
    Last week I heard a noise while I was on my computer (it was a loud hum), and apparently the dog heard it too, and thought much of it. The noise was soon replaced by much barking, and then the sounds died down to nothing noteworthy. I decided to take a look out the front window to see what went on. Because of the angle the window allowed me, I could only see two white trucks parked on the street, which was a little out of place because they were in front of the house, but not strange because there are always white trucks parked on the side of the street. The farmers are consistently checking on their produce, moving irrigation hoses, and having farmers’ conversations on the side of the road. So I thought nothing of it.
    I went back to the computer, still thinking nothing of it. Not too much longer the phone rang, and I answered. A woman’s voice asked if there was anything wrong.
    “I don’t think so,” I said.
    “Well, I saw fire engines, and every time I see fire engines, I always think something’s going on with your grandparents,” she said. Apparently she thought I was in the next generation up. They were my great-grandparents, living next door.
    “I don’t think there’s anything wrong, but I’ll go check anyway.”
    I got ready for work, because I was headed that way anyhow, at my own leisure (which is how my part-time job is set up). I locked up the house and went next door to see what was happening. As I turned the corner around the carport where my car was parked, my stomach sank. There, on the front lawn and in the driveway, were two fire engines and various other trucks.
    Something’s wrong with Grandad, I thought. But then I saw him riding around on his electronic scooter, so I thought, Something’s wrong with Granny, until I saw that he wasn’t upset at anything. As I walked closer and closer I got more and more puzzled. If the fire engines were going to be out there for any reason, it was going to be some sort of problem with my great-grandparents…
    …or a fire, which I saw being put out as soon as I rounded the corner of their house. It was the studio, where Granny used to paint, and now it had no roof. There were seven or eight firefighters milling around, pulling art frames and a couch out of the studio.
    Granny had been burning paper trash, as she usually does, back by the corn field, when a breeze kicked up and brought a cinder to the studio’s roof. A neighbor farmer out in the fields saw the blaze (it must have been big because the fence was burned behind it, three or four feet away at least), and called the authorities; it wasn’t clear whether or not Granny or Grandad noticed anything was wrong.
    By the time I got near it, the whole structure was soaking wet, dripping black water and seething the mighty stench of burning civilization. Two and a half walls were still intact, along with the floor, but this was hardly a building anymore; though maybe it might be a good location for a photo shoot, as long as it’s before we tear it down all the way.
    I watched as a firefighter gingerly put down two frames in front of me, and recognized them as having been up on my wall just a month before in my Newhall apartment. I had stored them in the studio for a time, and now they’re on the lawn, exposed to the elements except for the parts covered in smeared ash.
    I watched another of the firefighters, with his mustache of some ancient fortitude, trimmed to regulations. His face was sooty, his shirt was sweaty, and his hat was just like in the movies. I don’t see firefighters in their get-up often. I listened in to some of the conversation they were having.
    “So I said, what street? I have no idea where that is!” I heard one say, presumably about finding this country address. He went on walking, talking and laughing with a fellow about this potentially dangerous situation.
    I guess firefighters have their own brand of gallows-humor. When you’re in a situation as serious as a house-fire, too much serious thinking will probably do more harm than good. Here was this young fireman, chatting it up with his coworker, laughing about something that would have given me knots in my back for a week or two.
    I watched, because watching was the only thing I could have done, another firefighter tearing down the south wall with a pickaxe. I got some information from my second-uncle Les (I think he’s my second uncle, anyhow; I’m never sure with all these family titles, especially with all these relatives around). He had been there for a while, and he told me how it happened. Then I left for work.
    Later that day I walked around the site and called my parents to tell them what happened. I had to walk around the couch, the easels, the frames, the boxes of books, and a table to get inside the burned-out building. The floor was sturdy except for one section on the west side. The smell was unbearable, even through my shirt, which was pulled up over my nose. I couldn’t stay there long, so I left.             
***
    A few days ago, I heard some noises again, and heard the dog barking that special bark that says, “Something is wrong” rather than announcing the presence of a squirrel or an intriguing lizard. I also heard a shout. I’d better investigate this time, I thought.
    I went through the back gate this time, and I heard the shout again, but I couldn’t make out what was being said. It was Granny, though. I knew that much. I turned a corner and saw both Granny and Grandad huddled over the scooter. Grandad had lodged it in the flowerbed. He was in his socks, trying to pull the scooter out with no luck.
    I pulled it out. It was lighter than I thought it was, and I almost pulled it over Grandad’s feet on the way back out of the flowerbed.
    Granny and Grandad thanked me, and then Granny said, implying a reason for the accident, “This is the first time he realized there was all this trash in the yard!”

Until the song is over, my name is no longer Samuel. It is Phillip, or Jake, or Spade, or I go without a name, with only the title of my profession–and I’m not talking about being a student or a petty locksmith; I’m talking about solving crimes, putting the yeggs in the can, tracing the calls so I can find the kidnaped daughter of the rich man. The song plays, and I wish there were a million other songs like it, so I could further my imagination, and create my own world like this one. I am the Op, the Gumshoe, the sad but strong icon of a lost age, standing in contrast with the sad and weak icons of this age. I am–well, the song is over now. Back to Macroeconomics.
    Of course, the image is stronger than reality. Would I really like to be in the shoes of Marlowe, uncovering gruesome crime rings only by acting like I want to fit into them? Would I prefer a blackjack over reason? Would I use violence for good guys or the crooks, just as long as I get the job done? Play it again, Sam.
    The image stands by itself, alluring, underneath a streetlight on a foggy street, somewhere in some run-down urban paradise–he is lighting a cigarette (always the cigarette, and we don’t wonder about lung cancer for the Private Eyes or the Sleuths, because– it’s the image, man!), he is scuffing his shoe, his is looking around as he takes a drag, and he is checking his watch as he exhales and adds tobacco smoke to the fog. His eyes would probably be bloodshot from lack of sleep (“I’m going to take a long, long breath after this joint is pulled”), his face unshaven, unless the job calls for him to look sharp, say to get into a strict-admission club, and he is not happy, never happy, quite the opposite of happy.
    The image of this intrigues me because of the authority that comes with the jobs. The wit is sharp, the comebacks are smart, the conclusions drawn are smart. The life of the P.I. has to be smart, I guess. Or at least the image that he puts up when he’s on the job.
    But how much substance is behind this image? Is there purpose in the life of a Shamus? There’s plenty of lingo, lots of sharp wit, and usually seduction, but is there purpose? I can hardly imagine a private investigator seeking the will of God or the meaning of life on his downtime. There may be some real-life ones who do, but the job is enveloped in pulling up the roots of people’s motives, and those roots are muddy and ridden with grubs. Without the character of a saint, what could a private investigator (or anyone who fits into any of the film noir archetypes) do to keep himself unstained by all the things he is paid to uncover? And, with the character of a saint, would he want to keep the job?
    “It’s a job like no other, but someone has to do it.” Sure, that’s logic for you, but how sound is it? True, there have to be plumbers and ditch-diggers and dog-trainers, but there need not be any prostitutes, drug-pushers or crime-lords. Those are all less-than-desirable jobs, but the first set are still moral in essence. The problem is not necessity here, but trying to fix all of our collective problems after the fact. Proverbs 21:3 has a good thing to say to this: “To practice righteousness and justice is more acceptable to the Lord than sacrifice.” This is practical in any life: it’s better to not make the mistake in the first place than to have to clean it up. (Of course, it is so much heavier for us Christians, and it is likely that non-Christians will not care as much as we should.)
    The root of the issue here is the image of an unnecessary and dark profession, which I still enjoy. Have I defeated myself? Well, I see that the image is not directly linked to depravity, although there is an association. And I definitely wouldn’t pass myself off as a matrimony detective in public, much less consider becoming one. Will I despise the image of American society today–the blue jeans, the t-shirts, the sneakers, the sunglasses–just because we have so many problems as a society?
    The difference between the image of the private detective and the image of the drug dealer he’s trailing is different. Even if it’s only the 1940’s dress-casual look, with the fedora, the suit, the Florsheims, and the fancy lighter, the aura of the character is still appealing for the better parts. The wit, the problem-solving, and the snappy attire are all good.
    Maybe I just like the image because of those things. Maybe if I knew that someone had a problem with that image, I would drop it. If I had to choose between having someone think I had an interesting hobby and having someone think that I dabbled in the world of the booze, floozies, and drugs, I would go without it. But as for now, well, let’s just say I’d rather appreciate the look of Sam Spade than Obi-Wan Kenobi or John Wayne.
    By the way, the song ended a long time ago. I just got a little carried away.

    Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn. Every wonder why mothers say that word three times in a row? It’s sort of mystical, or something.
    One stubborn won’t do, because he’s not only a little stubborn. To be a little stubborn is not to be stubborn at all. That’s just only unwittingly picky. That’s refusing to do something once in a lifetime, but then finding out you were wrong, and amending your smorgasbord of preferences.
    Stubborn-stubborn doesn’t cut it either: that’s only self-willed, able to think independently, which I’m certain is a crusade of the last thirty years or so. Stubborn-stubborn is just the embodiment of an ideal that is everyone’s enemy, according to the media and popular self-help regimes. “Don’t be a drone! Be a stubborn-stubborn! Think for yourself!” I’m not so sure what this will actually accomplish, because there have only been relatively few noteworthy bastions of stubborn-stubborn. Rosa Parks, Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, Steve Jobs, and Michael Moore are all stubborn-stubborns in my book–although Rosa Parks is both a stubborn-stubborn and a stubborn-stubborn-stubborn, but the hard thing about that is how to consolidate her two titles into one: it’s not stubborn-times-five, because that would put her on the same plane as Michael Moore, who is a stubborn-stubborn and a stubborn-stubborn-stubborn-stubborn-stubborn. And he is not a stubborn-times-seven. Anyhow.
    Stubborn-stubborn-stubborn is planting your shoes into the wet concrete so you can step into them whenever you feel so inclined. It’s when a little girl won’t eat brussel sprouts only because they were ridiculed on a cartoon, and swears that they taste like dirt even though she’s never tried one. It’s when people do things just for the principle. Stubborn-stubborn-stubborn is the ultimate postmodern mindset: it does what it so pleases, thank you very much, because I want to, darn it. And sometimes there’s a lot more colorful language involved if it gets personal.
    And you thought they were just saying it because it made a nice little ditty.

    The aroma of self-sufficiency stood staunch, close to the customer-picked stacks of fir and redwood lumber. Then on to the tool section, where anyone can buy his way (on sale) into the domain of do-it-yourselfers. Then toward the automated checkouts with the planks I was going to buy, but I forgot something else. I heard something that didn’t fit the warehouse setting, but paid it no heed.
    The hardware superstore is an interesting setting for a view of cosmic irony. Human intentions have a way of inadvertently, or at least silently, staking claims that they swear will never be penetrated. There is always the war between nature and nurture. There is always the ivy-covered building, down the street from a brand new department store with its polished glass doors, and if they’re not careful both of the buildings will look the same in twenty years or so. Usually things like that take a long time. It’s not like drug stores suddenly get overrun by stray dogs or warrior crows. But sometimes–
    As I stood in line to check out, I noticed what the foreign sound was. I usually heard it in quiet neighborhoods and in the park, but here it was: sparrows in the rafters–many of them. And come to think about it, they were pretty loud. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it earlier. They were calling each other, and it was clear that they had made this hardware superstore their home.
    The roll-up doors for large loads in and out served as an easy entrance for the birds. There were too many of them to have gotten in by accident, when the automatic doors happened to be open.
    The line was slow going. I stared at the birds, thinking of what I would write about them. Then two of them started to fight, and the decision had been made. There, up above me, was another civilization. Up in the painted, brilliant white metal beams and air conditioning ducts was a world of air-dwellers, unaware of the commerce below them and unconcerned about the racket they were making. They didn’t care; the two feisty ones pecked at the other’s head.
    I’ll pretend there were two other people in the whole building who noticed the birds. One was the manager and another was an old woman, in for her replacement daisies, replacing the ones that the neighbor’s dog shredded in pursuit of its tennis ball.
    The manager is upset because of the mess he knows the birds are making somewhere, and that they’ve been inside the store for four days now, and there’s no easy way to get them out. I have a closing time, and they’re not going to know that, he mutters to himself. I can’t shoot them. That would just cause too much trouble. I can’t do anything but, confound it, I have a store to maintain! I can’t have a bunch of messy birds enjoying themselves at my expense!
    The old woman (I’ll call her Gladys, because I think that was a popular name back in the 1940s) hears the birds and remembers raising that blackbird with the broken leg from its mother’s negligence until it was ready to fly away by itself. She sees again how birds have no sluggish movements whatsoever–everything is urgent and sudden with birds, and she chuckles. There’s always a fire somewhere, if you’re that small and fragile–can’t let the big guy get ya!
    Neither of them is going to get the birds out without a huge effort, and Gladys is going to be out of the store in twenty minutes anyhow. The manager is going to put up with it, but grumble throughout the day. Gladys and I will go home and tell a loved one, “I saw sparrows in the roof of the hardware store today.” The manager might go home and say the same thing, but maybe with a few swear words in there somewhere.
    The manager will war against nature with no plausible means to win, because, darn it, he’s no hippie and he’s got a store to keep up so customers keep on coming back. No customer wants to have nasty birds pooping on their products.
    Of course, Mister Manager, but consider that some of us could be cheered up by the critters and can always reach for the garden hose without the bird droppings on it. I’m no hippie either. I can’t speak for Gladys–maybe she is a hippie. But at least we’re not fighting a war with no profit. We’d rather join the stubbly ranks of an army of amputees in jogging clothes fighting a band of crazed steamroller operators than join a campaign against nature.
    The birds are going to come in; there’s no getting around it. The ivy is going to creep, and the wasps are going to chip away the wood. The gophers will destroy the foundations and the perfect lawns, and the bluejays will make you wash your car every week (unless you learn your lesson and stop parking under the power lines!). And, yes, woodpeckers actually do make those holes in the telephone poles.
    How about instead of getting peeved at something that has no emotional capacity to return the gesture–how about we enjoy creation? I surely did as I walked out of the store thinking about how tigers respect no surround sound systems, how you’ll never convince a cat to play Nintendo, how the birds make a mess out of the storefront signs with their nests, and how dogs never understand most of what you yell at them when you find out they’ve spent the night on the brand new sofa. What’s the use?
    I have roleplayed enough with the manager and Gladys, and poof! They disappear, leaving only me walking back to the van, rolling the noisy cart with at least two wheels that only spin around and around instead of helping balance the thing. And I noticed that the wood that I loaded into the back of the van was indeed a reminder that it goes both ways: we invade nature, and nature invades our worlds built out of its worlds. It all works out, and it’s plenty fertilizer for a nice crop of smiles and sighs.