The Gerrymander Bystander

By Nicholas Nocketback

I was enjoying the magical splendor that is public inebriation at a local haunt of mine the other night when I learned a very important lesson about this town and its denizens. With a single sentence, an otherwise stunning, albeit tipsy, young woman summed up what everyone here knows but normally never says: You live in Tower? we gotta go, nice meeting you.
It’s not often anecdotal musings are taken as verity, nonetheless, all that is written has actually transpired and, on many an occasion, has been a variation on a theme for many of us living in this fine city of hypocrisy and duality.
Scenario 1 takes place at an independent north Fresno eatery and bar (I prefer the latter) just north of Herndon. I’d thrown back a couple whisky and waters and was an inch and a half into my Michelob Ultra (watching my weight and all) when I heard the clarion call of two slightly smashed gals on a wooden bench adjacent to me. After lighting a Lucky Strike with a wooden match, I was solicited to sit next to said two ladies if I could offer the assistance of a lit match for their mentholated Camel Lights. I’m naturally rather gifted in the conversational arts, so I began my repertoire of silly pee pee jokes and various political pun-iness in a quest to…well…get to know my community better, if you will.
Girl 1 (short straight hair gingerly touching her milky shoulders, wearing a tiny black dress): Hey, those are cool glasses; let me wear ‘em.
Me: By all means. They’re the Heath Ledger model. I bought ‘em about a year ago so I can probably get double for ‘em now on EBay (a lie which produced a chuckle from the duo).
Girl 2 (longer hair with blonde streaks and identical dress and smelled a bit like cantaloupe): We just fired another maid because my mom thought she stole her glasses. She found ‘em like a week later in the backyard.
Girl 1: I know, like, good luck finding any good help around here. I was at my dad’s business and he told me to hand out the pay checks and I had to say check-ay, check-ay. Man they came runnin’ I didn’t understand a world they said, but when they heard check-ay, they lined up hella fast.
Sitting directly across from us was a group of about five folks eating and on their second round of drinks; all of them of Hispanic origin and from the looks of things had heard this colorful dialogue. I invited the two ladies to come inside and allow me to purchase them another beverage—anything to change the conversation. Finally, thirty minutes and 49 dollars later, they decide to change venues.
Girl 1: Hey, we’re gonna get out of here, wanna party more with us?
Me: Um, let me consult my Palm Pilot (looked at my actual palm and pretended to punch buttons) looks like I’m free.
Girl 2: Yes. Let’s go somewhere so we don’t have to drive too much. Where do you live? We can make it a slumber party.
Me: (I’m thanking any god that’ll listen at this point) you can follow me. It’s a bit of a drive but just hop on the freeway.
Girl 1: Wait how far is it?
Me: It’s actually right near the Tower Theater on Olive.
Girl 1: You live in Tower? We gotta go, nice meeting you.
And with that, what should have been a wonderfully regrettable decision turned into another night of pizza rolls and Rockford Files reruns simply because of my geography. How did a complete side of the city become so stigmatized? How does new development play a role in this? And, why aren’t the wealthy interested in investing in the heart of the city—downtown and Tower district?
These are all questions that will be answered in due time, until then, how about another real life scenario?
Location: another north Fresno eatery catering to more of a college and sports crowd on a warm afternoon. The table I’m with has successfully cleared four pitchers and are about to finish another when we are welcomed by a friend’s cousin.
Eddie: Hey, everybody, this is my cousin Ronnie.
After some silly sports laden banter, Ronnie slides next to me and hands me a fresh beverage.
Ronnie: Hey, you’re pretty funny bro, what’s your name?
Me: Nick.
Ronnie: Cool. How do you know my cousin?
Me: We went to high school together.
Ronnie: No shit? Hoover, huh. Ya, I woulda gone there but that school shit wasn’t workin’ for me. So you live around here?
Me: No, I’m over on Olive, before Maroa.
Ronnie: In Tower?
Me: (Nodding as I drain the contents of my drink)
Ronnie: Aww, damn, that’s gotta suck, Bro.
Me: Why’s that?
Ronnie: You got all those queers and fags runnin’ around everywhere. Man I’d be beatin’ fools asses if they came up to me with all that gay shit.
Me: …
Ronnie: You should move up by my cousin, Bro. I think there might be a room for rent over by my cousin on Champlain, only 700 bucks for the room. No fags.
How does one respond to such simian thinking? Normally in these scenarios (and they are plentiful) I just nod approvingly, finish my drinks and make that long trip home.
I know what you’re thinking, though, and yes, let’s have a taste of the reciprocal.
Location: a dimly lit bar and eatery with a brick façade and smoke filled patio in south Fresno. I’m stationed at a table of three and decide to offer a couple cents to the discussion.
Brandon: I’m gonna grab another whisky gimlet, you guys want something?
Me: Ya, but, let’s head over to Pangea to get it. I have it bad for some scallops right now.
Brandon: What. What’s out there?
Me: Delicious scallops bathed in butter and served atop a fluffy hillock of mashed tatters. Let’s go, I’ll drive.
Brandon: Man, get a quesadilla or something here.
Me: A quesadilla? Look man, we’ve the wonderful advantage of having choice here. So, shut it, close out your tab, and let’s roll.
Brandon: Go ahead man; I’ve no intention of heading north of Shields. You know how people are over there, just a bunch of stuck up broads spending daddy’s money or looking to spend mine.
And with that, we continued drinking. I had an appetizer of less than stellar quality; I believe it was crow, no, humble pie.
So, why are people so uncomfortable with certain areas of this city? In my opinion, it begins at the most crucial time of our lives—high school. These cliques and friendships, built upon similar socio-economic status and geography, carry over into the adult world. Where once we rivaled against another school on the other side of the city, we now rival the businesses and residents. This continued and baseless fear or trepidation is merely a carry over of an extended adolescence. In fact, the only reason anyone should be worried about crossing the tracks and enjoying and evening on another side of town is the FPD—getting a DUI is far more terrifying than having to endure a few stuck up folks with German autos or a couple eclectic pseudo intellectuals that celebrate the non-shower. So come on Fresno, open your hearts and the rest will follow.