A MILLION STORIES IN THE NAKED CITY

Each morning, during my stay on Kentucky Street, I'd rise from my bed and run to the front door, which had a glass panel, allowing me to see that my car was still there.  I was always so thankful to see it hadn't been stolen, a common occurrence in Vallejo, I've heard.

Couldn’t help notice the police cars and fire-engines racing through the streets of Vallejo, day and night.  When I mentioned this to a friend, she said, “Good.  Let them work.  They’re paid more than enough, and when they retire they’ll be overpaid.”

I know my friend wasn’t glad about fires and crime in Vallejo, but her attitude reflects a discontent I hear from many people here, a backlash to the dire financial problems of the city, the subject of a story I saw on PBS recently, and a conundrum that must be solved.  Cut pensions, or fix roads and improve schools?  Is there really a choice?   I also know for a fact that nobody gives up power or money voluntarily.   Challenges await my arrival in Vallejo.

I called a friend of a friend, a retired academic who moved to Vallejo because of cheap real estate prices, to tell him I was planning to move here too, and maybe we could meet.  “Are you crazy?” he yelled into the phone.  “Better you should move to Marin or Tiburon, where people don’t get robbed in their own homes, prostitutes don’t walk the streets, council members aren’t ultra-right tea-party types, and the city isn’t run by religious bigots and corrupt politicians.”  I wanted to hear more from him about this, but he wasn’t done. “Vallejo has no culture,” he said.  “My wife and I have lived here 13 years and haven’t met anyone to talk to; there are no intellectuals or cultured people here.”

On his last point, my month in Vallejo taught me otherwise; networking efforts had brought intelligent, interesting, artistic and helpful people into my life.  I suggested he become politically active, meet good, like-minded people, help make the city a better place.  As it was Wednesday, I invited him and his wife to join me at the Empress Theatre for a jazz concert that night.  He’d never heard of the Empress Theatre, and had no desire to go.  He suddenly remembered a prior appointment and said he’d call me back later.  Never heard from him again.

I met a poet, a real intellectual artist, originally from New York, who works as a school administrator in Vallejo.  I asked how she liked living in this city.  I know poets don’t need a lot of words to express emotions, but I didn’t expect such a succinct response. “Vallejo sucks,” she said.  And, as if that wasn’t graphic enough, she added, “Vallejo is Staten Island,” an image she knew I'd understand. 

The auto mechanic who repaired my flat tire told me he’s been working at the same garage for 17 years.  Recently, however, the owner sold his business and the new boss reduced everyone’s pay and told them if they wanted health insurance they’d have to get it on their own.  This mechanic grew up in Vallejo, went to school here, married and brought up his kids here.  His whole family lives in Vallejo. Now he has a heart condition and has lost all his front teeth.  He can’t afford to take care of his heart so he can get new teeth, and doesn’t know what to do about it. 

A blue-eyed blonde real estate agent, who grew up in Vallejo, told me she moved to Napa when she got re-married and blended families.  Her second husband’s from South America and his daughter is black.  The agent has a Mexican son-in-law and grandchildren of various colors.  She said her family stood out like a sore thumb in Napa, which, in her opinion, is uptight and bigoted, so they moved back to Vallejo and feel more comfortable here.

While I love living in an integrated city, and am ready to take on its challenges, I'm not in the least bit democratic and tolerant when it comes to art and culture.  After attending the book shop opening on Marin Street, I walked around the corner to watch the open-mike talent night at the HUB.  While I was impressed with the general enthusiasm, I found most of the work amateurish, and complained to my companion. Nor am I crazy about the stuff hanging on the walls of our downtown galleries.

He told me my attitude is off the mark: “It’s better than getting mugged on the street corner, or being accosted by junkies and prostitutes, which is what used to go on in this neighborhood.”  Arguments like that depress me.  "It's also better than a kick in the pants," I said, "but that doesn't make the "talent" any better."

Wharf rat is right, I’m too cosmopolitan.   Maybe that'll change when I move to Vallejo.