The dust of the gravel and potholes and steam from the gutters and carbon from the trucks; the smog from the factories and glass of broken windows blew in the light breeze around a figure who'd rather not give notice to such things or objects or sensations; who would rather sit on their porch of molded wood and chipped white paint revealing the charred and gutted structure that once was supposedly the icon of suburban sprawl, longingly nostalgic, that wooden porch and the figure on it; a figure who did not look up though they could see; a figure who could did not speak but presumably understood language, though the neighborhood kids would argue otherwise, not seeing much evidence of such cognitive fruition; a figure that for once a day read the newspaper of the day it was meant to be read or that of the same day of different days though none knew for sure; a figure, who very much like the porch and brick house, sat in another world seemingly unaware of its current condition or arbitrarily pleading to forget it at every chance it could; a situation that no one would want to find themselves in yet many seem unable to escape; "prices are rising," it is said though no evidence has bubbled to the surface to inform the tenants of an abandoned street that their lives suddenly mean more monetarily in the market, for whatever pride that would give them, the market share, that is, but yet no evidence could suggest the former and imply the optimism of graveled, unpaved or torn up roads and toxic air which has jumped in price and asks for higher rent; a figure who never left or no one saw get up from their lawn chair but seemed fit and healthy; a figure no one approached nor gave any thought to talk to; complete and utter urban isolation. It is said the house and the figure perched on its stoops had been there and, in that position, shortly after the riots, where tanks flooded the streets and occupied the lawns now overgrown with soot, rot, and weeds, which brought to the surface a great unease in the community in which the figure watched over and now sits and waits. Maybe the figure, an old man, in torn blue jeans and a dark brown bomber jacket, might have thrown a rock or two, a brick, a Molotov Cocktail, maybe fired a gun at those on his lawn, or more accurately, stayed inside and beyond the comfortable walls of brick that protected his bedroom and out of guilt now sits and waits for a chance for redemption; or a simple man who was too young or scared to remember those same terrifying riots that now just waits for times to change and start to make sense. A man that apparently had a son, maybe even a daughter; the man's name is almost unknowable, and the neighbors rather not investigate further; a tale of tragedy, per say, on the outside and yet no way to confirm it.

 

The kids walked by this house and the man and the lawn with soot, garbage, rock, concrete, broken furniture, the former of which is usually picked up by scouters in pick-up trucks who for the longest time had the quickest turn around; put something out on the curb in the morning and by midday the skid marks from the tires would be faded and almost indistinguishable from the potholes and smoke residue; that the kids would not dare to walk through in the off chance a state-sponsored genocidal weapon would poke up out of the ground and infect them with the impoverished sickness; that preventative steroid from which succeeding was an illusion, but also an aid to those with balconies to watch from a far, forcing children and families to leave for the sickness spreads and there is no cure; a strategy seen many times over in this part of town only for some outsiders brave enough to rebuild and save it through art; a hopeless task that only increases rent and distracts from lawns like these and fears those children have every day as they walk to their bus stop before school. The morning routine for this small community burdened by the forgetfulness of the rest of the nation and unfairly, the rest of the city, is one witnessed by the figure on the porch as his routine is almost unknowable; his routine might as well be what they see every day, sitting and reading a newspaper on their rotted porch and burned, half-destroyed house; a house, while not built on soft land or in a swamp, slouches lower on the north end than the south, becoming swallowed by the broken concrete and lonely families that once surrounded its four walls.

 

A young son ran out in his final year of high school. Only the house knows why, and legend of a family torn apart by forces unable to be wielded, at least not wielded by those who lack the privilege to wield the forces of the market. The only other neighbor still around that would know is a man whose attention lately has been placed on the burden of alcohol and rock than on the urban legend of the figure and house. The man lived in an abandoned garage a few blocks down the street and across the park that now has construction tape wrapped around its entirety; a park waiting to be transformed into luxury apartments and a brick wall to be put up for privacy; construction that for the kids at least, has been mighty challenging considering they haven't been able to hire the right people since the lot has not changed since most of the kids recognized their park was slowly becoming nothing but tape, steel beams, and an unfinished brick wall. The man in the garage had been friends with the young son, and they have lived together in that garage until the young son ran away again to gain some money and join the military, only to shortly be sent around the world and never return, or so the landlord was told when the rent was due, and an explanation was needed. The house that the garage was built for was long gone; a mound of grass and dirt that no longer suggested residence was viable, though the metal shack of a detached garage proved sturdier than most of the maple trees, even. The garage was cold and kept the man inside shivering for his life. He could leave, though at this point, rent was never due; no one owned him for the first time in his life and that frigid, miserable, freedom was enough for him to stay and live in a place that was a shelter from domestic abuse, rape, and industry; a haven from the man on the porch, the new apartment complex, its brick walls, the rising prices, the toxic water, the broken streets, the desperate residents. He had nothing that wasn't already stolen and to that, his view of the world narrowed, and things became much simpler. If only the young son, not consumed by passion and the pressure to provide, wouldn't have gone off to fight in another country, but could stay together with his close friend and partner; if only that were the case than the man would not be addicted to rock and alcohol or so he justifies in his head as he takes another swig of his ungodly whiskey canteen. A harmless soul despite his many excursions to other property; property, which like his own, is worthless and holds nothing but the safety that it could never be taken away, until it is, or the boot comes in with a swift kick to "rejuvenate the economic class."

 

The man would frequent the local deli, liquor store, ration-warehouse of sorts. The sign was purple with bright yellow font sprawled over top in big bubble letters; seemingly straight out of the 1970s and hardly changed, repainted, or retouched since then with some letters, those being the sunflower-colored prints, chipped and rusted, covered in years of dirt and neglect; a neglect that not by choice, but circumstance, would have its current condition explained, packaged, and ultimately ignored. The man, whose family name ironically was Lordlin, frequented the local deli, liquor store, ration-warehouse with the purple and yellow sign, not as a customer but as a consistent collector of specific items, that is to say, someone who came and left without ever talking to the cashier, pockets full of items to store in the garage, only to be stolen by some other poor soul like Lordlin, or the man on the porch, or the children who passed the park, which is no more, on their way to school because of the new apartment complex under construction for years. The liquor store never put up much of fight with Lordlin. Sure, he stole but with what money was he to buy what he needed? It wasn't just whiskey he would pour into his canteen. His pockets were full of food, dried and in no need of refrigeration, as the garage, despite its sturdy appearance, possessed little in terms of modern luxury as is electricity, running water, refrigeration, or heat. The store never complained. Lordlin, ashamed for the lack of confrontation, not only feared the idea of being detained for his acts but more so felt lonely that little in terms of acknowledgement came his way; he had disappeared from society even though he was visible, active, and hardly inconspicuous.

 

After years of milking the city's urban development insurance costs, the head of construction finally started bringing people to the apartment complex construction site; his strategy had paid off well by extending the apparent timeline and taking the money from the local residents while he sat there and put up tape, only to later build a complex which would not only be unaffordable for the investors, the neighbors like Lordlin, but a wall would be erected, so they couldn't even attempt to imagine to increase the viability of their living conditions or consider what life would be any other way; not to forget an increase in their rent and utilities if they even had the luxury of such things; and for the sake of the new residents, so they don't have to feel guilty about living next to such poverty and desperation; a wall that was necessary for everyone, or at least that what was pitched at the city council meeting in which no one was invited to. Soon, workers and trackers, bulldozers, and trucks, started rolling down past the man on the porch, Lordlin's garage, the kids on their way past their beloved park to the bus stop to go to school; the trucks pulling up whatever pavement left in the area and spitting it back out at the residents with no plan to rebuild this area, save for whatever was behind that brick wall. Come the harsh winter and the pavement would be completely frozen, cracked, iced over, and destroyed; it was now late September; the construction needed to be completed immediately or they would all be trapped with the man on the porch. As the trucks brisked by the shanties, sometimes so early, even the birds couldn't get a chance to cry out a warning, kids would throw rocks and stones at the windows and back tires, only to watch the same rocks ping off in some random direction; the kids pulling their arms up and down, begging the truck drivers to blare their horns and the drivers, who aware of the time of day and quiet area they were in, would play along and no one could say otherwise.

 

One of these new workers was a man of medium build and height, who luckily lived in the larger metro-area yet took the bus into the site every morning; a commute that, for its apparent convenience, took several hours despite the few miles of actual travel; the suburban curse plagued the bus schedule, for it only arrived on the whim that it was needed, say only a few hours late more or less, and the man who got off at the nearest stop seven miles east of the construction site, and would have to continue on foot, for he could not ride his bike safely; it would be stolen for parts or taken on many joy rides or given as an early Christmas gift; a car would be another option if he could afford one and its price for fuel, not even considering the impossible road conditions, walking was his only option on top of the inconsistent bus line. He got lucky with this job though it hardly paid more than his other two lines of income; income being a generous word for working two other jobs. The hiring was swift with little background given or needed. Just get in and get it done. He had heard the reason the lot was unfinished and took years to complete was a strike and to him, that meant he was a scab; there to clean up the mess and make some money, though he also heard of insurance fraud being another valid explanation; maybe both could be true. He walked past the man on the porch and noticed the familiar iconography, the newspaper, the lawn chair, the lack of spatial awareness or slight of consciousness; odd for a man to be up this early, the time nearing 5am.

 

They held a meeting on their first day. The construction leader wore a black suit and hardhat while everyone else dressed appropriate for the occasion of constructing a luxury apartment complex and completing a wall around the compound. The leader turned to everyone and offered up generous information: despite it being the first day of work since whatever cancellation, or strike, or money laundering scheme had ended, the head of construction decided that after a quick survey of the area and the apparent work ethic of his new team, less members would be needed after the day's work. The faces of the new workers were of terror; what would happen if they could not work here? Many of them were from these very communities; few took the bus like the man of medium build and height did. They had no option to dwell on this stressful decision as they had to immediately clean up the lot and begin foundation construction.

 

The new worker was tasked with evaluating the brick wall that was already up around three-quarters of the lot and deciding what was necessary to rebuild, pull down, or anything of the sort. He walked with a group of three other men; they were all terrified of the idea that they could all be fired if they worked too hard or fired if they did not work hard enough; fired for doing nothing but their job or fired because their work costs money and their lives were not worth the labor they provided, in the eyes of management. As they walked, they noticed graffiti on the inside about halfway down the line. It was a portrait of the man on the porch, his newspaper reading "12th Street, 1967." The worker decided they could not wash off the artwork and would have to demolish this portion of the wall. He was not sure where the extra, discarded brick would go, but assumed it would be used on a future project; little did he know they would just push the broken bricks into the street parallel to the wall and remove it from the property line of the lot, making it the concern of the neighbors, not of the construction. He sprayed two yellow gashes on either side to indicate where it would be demolished.

 

A tree grew into the end of the built wall and hung branches over the other side of the brick. One of the limbs bent lower than the others. As the man walked over, he noticed a rope tied to the end and hung over the other side which he could not see. The group walked around the unfinished wall out of curiosity; it could be anything considering the graffiti beforehand. There was a light breeze, and the branch began scrapping gently on the brick, giving off a slight grinding sound not that different from the sound of the bulldozers and cranes in the middle of the lot. The industrial sound gave way to silent shock: a man dangled from the branch, back to the wall, face purple for the lack of air in his lungs, bloated and rotted, swinging in the breeze, a canteen lay at his feet and canned food in his pockets. The scene and smell were overwhelming, nauseating, as the workers began covering their eyes and vomiting on the ground. One of the workers walked away and started speaking quickly into a phone. The new worker sat on the ground next to a puddle of his own puke and stared at the rotted corpse. He wondered how long and forgotten this man must have been swinging here; worse yet that no one had said anything. Though, he also wondered, at some point, a destroyed house, broken street, nowhere else to go, a corpse is just the stain on the curtains, hardly worth your time when you must fight for your life. Before he could think more on this morose topic, the project leader came up quickly, grabbed the yellow spray paint from the worker, and sprayed the man, his face and body, the wall, and the tree. He stared at the worker and told him to get his shit together. They all got up and walked back to the center of the lot. The man stayed hanging on the tree, covered in spray paint.

 

The only person to see the man on the porch not on his porch was the worker of the liquor store; a woman who had seen the desperation of many lost souls and hardly did anything to stop them; a woman who saw this legend of a man walk in and not buy a single thing or steal, but stare at her intensely, as if this ritual were all he had. She never felt the urge to say something to him, out of fear that she would scare him off, and intimidated by his reputation for porch lounging. She had not been in the area originally. She moved when her family was falling apart and needed an escape. The area was the only affordable thing she could go for and her friend owned the liquor store she now tends daily. Lordlin was the other consistent patron, but skipped eye contact all together and only stole what he could carry. Her eyesight must be terrible and turning a blind eye was easier for her than most. The cameras did not even pretend to be on, with a white A4 paper taped on the end with a sharpie eyeball drawn on; always watching, supposedly.

 

A bulldozer drove through the park field to demolish the sprayed portions of the wall. First the portrait, shattered to thousands of pieces and pushed right into the road. The autumn wind blew strong and the dust traveled down the street, caking everything in a light, brown dust. Next was the man hanging from the tree. The tree uprooted, crashing down on the pavement and grass, with the wall and man to follow. The corpse, now hollowed out and with distinctly no clothes to be seen, presumably stolen, broke apart like the wall itself, only to be pushed into the street and buried; not in the ground like most would expect, but in rubble of a brick wall. The children walked by on their way to school to catch the bus that would only appear briefly. They saw the shattered bone and limbs of the man. The kids did not know how to react and stared back at the bulldozer. They pulled their arms to try and make the bulldozer hit their horn. It did not have one. The air grew still and silent. The kids, standing on the corpse of the man and the brick and the tree and the rubble, picked up a chunk and threw it at the bulldozer in a playful manner. It did nothing. The man in the bulldozer pulled out his phone. Soon, a BMW raced down the lot to meet the kids. As they walked away, they noticed a finger on the pavement. It had a bronze ring barely staying on the rotted bone. One of them pulled it off and the kids started fighting over it. The bulldozer continued to demolish the wall, only for it to be rebuilt in the coming weeks.