One of the buildings on my street is being torn down. I didn’t really know anyone who lived there, but there was one older, orange-haired lady who always wanted to chat if she saw me while she was walking her dogs (they were special dogs that had been on Oprah, but I can’t remember why). Her hair color was just as bright and unnatural as mine, but she always had a few words of advice on why I should return to my natural color. It sounds annoying, but since I know very few people in L.A., it was nice to have a neighbor who always said hi.
Now the orange-haired lady and all the other tenants of her building have been evicted to make room for some fancy new condos. I get this weird feeling every time I walk by the fenced-off site. Through all the missing windows, I can see into strangers’ former kitchens and living rooms. There’s rubble and building material everywhere. It’s like a tornado hit my block, and I escaped unharmed. Maybe I should be worried — the building next to this one was torn down recently, too. I think this means I’m now living in the junkiest building on my block. I really like my junky building. I hope it’s not the next to go.