Where Did The Tiger Go?
Where did the guys who used to live in the alley behind my house go?
They lived there for years—at least one of them did; we called him The Mayor; he called himself El Tigre—until last fall’s ICE raids. Prior to that, Streets & San or the cops would come every few months and clear them out, throw their stuff away, coax them into a shelter. But they’d always come back. Not anymore. They could be anywhere. They could be dead. They could be in South America.
My neighbors with kids wanted them gone because their piss and shit would get into their yards or draw rats into their play areas. On the weekends, or sometimes at any old time, like 9am on a Monday morning, buddies would come around and they’d sing drinking songs waking the neighborhood like roosters.
Casey and I would give El Tigre water and he’d ask for tequila. Or he’d offer me some. I never took it and I never gave it. But we always had a smile for each other.
The only times the situation back there ever got really bad were when non-alcoholics showed up. Different drugs, seemed like something upward. Then there’d be stolen bikes and couches. But usually it was just El Tigre and his closest buds, sleeping with cardboard blankets, a hospital bracelet around his wrist, gold tooth gleaming, and maybe the morning sun drying the piss from one of his friend’s pants.
They built a fort once out of the whole blocks’ garbage and recycling cans. It felt like a line was crossed because, hey, we need those to throw garbage and recycling in. But, you know, they put ’em back. And I kinda loved the idea of building a fort as an adult. They weren’t thriving. Who knows what family were left unsatisfied, hurt or wondering in the alcohol’s wake. God knows their own bodies were suffering. But there are worse ways to spend a night than fort-building, and worse ways to inconvenience a city block.
I hate that they were probably taken. Or if not, then scared into a new shadow. It’s not as though the block was a good enough home for them; it wasn’t. And when they fought and tumbled into the family next door’s yard, they weren’t good enough for the block, either. But they’re full people, with rights, if not known legal names. They’re Chicagoans, not much more difficult than plenty who sleep in beds. And it shouldn’t have ended like this.