Fear of conflict lingers behind locked doors

Fear of conflict lingers behind locked doors

By Drew Hettinger

The night I moved into my new apartment I was walking down the
stairs to my car parked on the street. I’d just picked up the
"genie" clicker and was going to move my car to the locked garage
down below.

Off to one side, I heard a crash: the sound of a bottle
shattering on the sidewalk. Looking toward the noise, I saw three
people, two tough-looking guys and a girl. But all were dressed up,
like they were out to have fun on a Saturday night. And they were
young ­ too young to be UCLA students, so they probably didn’t
live in this neighborhood.

Now, I don’t see myself as everyone’s parent, but I also hate
how people leave trash on the street and junk it up. And Kelton is
a nice street, with trees and little patches of grass between the
driveways.

So when I saw the mess, and my guess was that one of the guys
threw something, I wanted it cleaned up. I just wanted it made
right. I would have even helped him pick up the pieces, though I
wouldn’t have done it for him, at least not with him there.

As I looked at the trio, I didn’t know what to say. Should I ask
if they knew what happened, and would they tell me the truth
anyway? When I was in high school, and even still today, I didn’t
want to take responsibility for something I’d done wrong.

But looking at the kids, I became fearful that these questions
didn’t matter: and my jaw was locked. I was already at my car, with
my key in the lock, and if I spoke up and asked those guys to do
something, I just envisioned them breaking one of my windows and
saying, "Oh, do you want me to pick up that glass too?"

I thought of how my new car (which was bought 12 years used) was
broken into just a month before, and kept silent. But my head, and
maybe my glare, followed them as they walked past me. We just
looked at each other. And then it was one of them who broke the
silence. He said, "Shit like that happens every day."

I didn’t say anything and I did not look at them anymore. Later
that night I came up with my response: "That’s right. Shit’s
exactly what that is."

For the rest of the night I thought about how I’m living in a
fortress. A locked lobby and garage separate my fourth floor
apartment from the messy street below. However penetrable, that
locked lobby is a layer of protection that gives me a great deal of
comfort.

But writing about it makes me sick. Thinking that I deserve a
secure home, and that there are people that I want to be isolated
from, makes me feel that I’m too weak to take care of myself out on
the street.

Hettinger is a graduate student in the School of Education.