“Oh my gosh, Brooke, I couldn’t sleep the other night—I was just lying there wondering if you’ve been locking your doors at night. You should really have them locked all the time, especially in that neighborhood you’re in.”
I was taken aback for several reasons, chief among them the fact that our conversation about Christmas lights had somehow segued into a lecture on home security.
But I felt bad that I was the indirect source of my poor mother’s insomnia, so I patiently answered a barrage of annoying—though well-intentioned—questions.
“Yes, Mom, I always lock the door when I’m home alone….uh huh, and the deadbolt, too.”
“No, Mom, I really don’t think it would be necessary to install a panic room.”
“Uh-huh, I always stick to the main roads when I run…no, Mom, I would go insane if I ran on the treadmill every day.”
Although I put every effort into convincing my mother that I live in western Montana—not South Central L.A.—I secretly knew that her worries were not completely unfounded.
Mom, you should probably stop reading here. Seriously, if you want to sleep tonight, go back to watching Nancy Grace—I hear there’s an update on the “People’s Court Mom.”
The truth is, I’ve never felt completely safe in my new neighborhood. At first, I tried to get past its rough outward appearance by admonishing myself for being so judgmental.
Don’t be silly—I would tell myself—They can’t all be drug dealers.
When I was driving home for the second or third time, I saw a little boy out playing in his front yard. He appeared to be practicing his baseball swing.
See? It’s a family neighborhood. What was I so worried about?
Upon closer examination, however, I realized that the little boy was actually mercilessly beating a tree trunk with a large stick. That’s when I knew that if I was going to live here, I was going to have to toughen up.
On my first day in my new apartment, I decided to go on a timed run to explore the area and acclimate myself to my new environment. In 25 minutes, I passed two trailer parks, three junkyards, six stray cats, four front porches with sofas on them and eight Geo Metros. The farther I went, the more I found myself looking over my shoulder and clenching my fists—you know, just in case I had to go all Mike Tyson on some tweaked-out meth head.
When I got home, I felt like a snobby bitch for drinking soymilk and not having a mullet. But mostly, I felt scared, and a little bit guilty for making so many horrible assumptions about my neighbors.
Then again, everyone knows that an area’s crime rate is directly related to its per-capita density of outdoor sofas.
Still, I resisted the urge to log on to Family Watchdog to search my address, mostly because I knew that if I saw the results, I would probably stop running forever, and with the holiday season in full swing, that simply was not an option. There are too many hot buttered rums to be had.
I headed out the next day with an open mind, though I decided to stick to the roads with the most witnes—er, traffic.
About a mile into my run, I saw flashing red and blue lights up ahead. All I could think was: Drug bust.
In the 90 seconds it took for me to arrive at the scene, I tried reasoning with myself.
Don’t be ridiculous. It’s probably just a traffic stop. There are dozens of those every day. Even Geo Metros can get going too fast sometimes.
As I approached the police vehicle, however, I saw a large, handcuffed woman with a cop on either side of her. One was supporting her weight and holding back her hair as the other held an open vomit bag in front of her mouth. And yes—she was using it.
I made a loop around the block and headed for home at interval pace. At least living here will be conducive to speedwork. By the time spring rolls around, I’ll be in shape to PR in the 800.
In the meantime, maybe I will invest in some pepper spray.
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