Netherworld of 50th and Baltimore

I habitually do my laundry at the White Seal Laundromat and in the hot muggy summer months when the warmth from the drying machinery is excessive I flee to the shade of the sycamore trees in Cedar Park while my wash goes through its cycles -- "In Use" "Rinse" "Spin" "Repeat". Not always is there a bench available, but frequently I can find a spot to read my book. I'm not a big one for idle chitchat but on occasion I indulge in conversation with the undesirable denizens whom Penn, the UCD, Cedar Park Neighbors, and the International Gentrification Conspiracy are endeavoring to chase away.

Just the other week I was reading a scholarly tome entitled "The Genesis of East Asia, 221 BC - AD 907", by Charles Holcombe, a gripping work which describes the diffusion of the Han culture to the fringes of the Chinese empire -- Vietnam, Korea, Japan -- an area which the author describes as the "kanji sphere", kanji being the Japanese reading of the characters "Han letters", meaning of course Classical Chinese.

So engrossed was I in my thriller that I hardly noticed when a pleasant middle-aged gent sat down on the bench next to me.

"Genesis," he said, peering at the title. "You reading the Bible?"

"Why no," I said, a bit taken aback by the intrusion but quickly recovering my sangfroid. "It's a history of East Asia." I showed him some of the lavishly decorated maps of the region interspersed throughout the volume.

"Why, I myself was in Japan once," he exclaimed. "When I was in the Air Force. Not as a pilot, but as a desk jockey."

"Interesting," I replied, inspecting him more closely and making a quick calculation of his age. "During 'Nam, I suppose?"

"Why no," he chuckled. "During Korea. I look younger than my age. Anyhow, I like the Bible. Ever read it?"

"Yes," I replied. "I have perused it from time to time. What's your favorite book?"

"Romans," he replied immediately, and then, after a bit of thought, "And Psalms."

We sat in silence for awhile, meditating.

"You ever read 'The Purpose Driven Life' by Rick Warren?" he queried.

"I have not yet had the pleasure, " I responded, "but I've certainly heard of it. It's a famous book."

"Damn straight," he said. "Number 1 on the New York Times bestseller list for 21 weeks in a row."

We sat quietly, musing on this factoid.

Finally, he arose and extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Earl."

"The pleasure is mine, " I said politely. "The name's Ross."

He wandered off. I reflected on the curious incidence of the name "Earl" among the more elderly gentlemen whom I have met in Cedar Park. Come to think of them, they're all named Earl.

Not so among the younger set. One hot August afternoon I took my place at the end of a shady bench, at the other extremity of which some young men were having a heated discussion. I opened my "Genesis of East Asia" and was instantly engrossed. Soon however, I had the uneasy feeling that someone was staring hard at me from a distance of a few feet.

"Whassup?" said the young gentleman.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yo, whassup??" he repeated, giving me a hard stare.

Not having my handy phrasebook with me, I was somewhat at a loss for words.

"I said, whassup?" he said for a third time, giving me a distinctly hairy eyeball. "You just interrupted a discussion among me and my homies."

"Well," I responded pleasantly. "This spot on the bench was unreserved, and seeking some respite from the heat of the afternoon I simply plopped myself down here. I often come here to read while I'm doing my laundry across the street."

"Just doing your laundry, huh? Sure that's all you're doing?"

"To the best of my knowledge," I replied. "And of course I'm also sitting here trying to read my book."

Turning to his homies, he inquired "Yo, he say he just doing his laundry. You see him in the laundromat?"

There was a chorus of emphatic "No"s.

"My homeboys say they don't see you in the laundromat," he said, turning back to me with an inquisitorial glare. "What chew gotta say to THAT"?

"Perhaps they didn't notice me. Whatever. May I get back to my book?"

"Any my homies go to jail -- " he began again, trying to look even more menacing, which was difficult because he looked all of 15 years old, and there was apparently something wrong with his pants because he kept grabbing at the crotch and trying to hoist them up.

He put his face closer to mine.

"Any my homies go to jail, I know where you live."

"Yes, of course. I live just around the corner. I'm in the phone book," I said, wondering where this conversation was going.

"Awright then. Well, have a nice day," he said after what I presume he took to be a meaningful grimace.

"Right." I said, and he turned back to his discourse with his colleagues.

Interesting, I thought, my attention now diverted from my fascinating text. One meets all sorts of interesting folks just dying for a conversation here in Cedar Park. Quite the cosmopolitan canopy. But then, the sociologist in me suddenly awakened, and I turned back to my interlocutor and asked "Is your name Earl, by any chance?"

He scowled, spat, and retorted, "No, stupid. It's *Leroy*."

"Aha. Well thanks."

I felt that I had made a significant discovery. Perhaps this naming is in fact a generational thing -- the older men are named "Earl" and the younger "Leroy." For a moment I flirted with the idea of drawing up a survey and doing a serious statistical study, but then I glanced at my watch and noticed that my laundry was probably by now reaching its final spin, so I arose and crossed Baltimore, narrowly escaping being hit by a fire engine, a primitive roofer's truck, a Yuppie Beemer, and several UCD bikers.