Average Stories, a series where I seek out and share the quiet, unremarkable moments that often go unnoticed but leave a lasting impression.
By Jack Pfeiffer Thilgen
We live on Klump Avenue, tucked into the bowels of North Hollywood—a delicate name for a delicate place. Shoes hang from the power lines, and shopping-cart pioneers scavenge through dumpsters. Stray cats patrol the restless street, and someone often leaves cat food by the trash cans. In the mornings, dry kibble is frequently tossed across the sidewalk. My roommates have grown fed up with this place, and I can’t blame them. There are whispers of Denver and Boseman, of cheap rent and blocks walkable by night.
Earlier this week, my brother overheard shouts coming from the townhouse next door. The noise grew louder and louder, culminating in the shattering of glass. We found out that this was a home for the recently sober, and two of the occupants had begun trading blows—fists and insults—until one of them threw the other through the sliding glass door. The glass-chipped brawler fled the scene, and within ten minutes, the police arrived.
“Was he assaulted, or was it a duel?” the officer asked.
For Chrissake—a duel? On Klump Avenue, the laws of the Wild West still seemed to apply. Two men could unholster revolvers from their hips, and the police wouldn’t bat an eye.
Not four days later, glass shattered again—this time, the back windshield of my other roommate’s car. Ironically, all that was inside was a bag of clothes for donation. Yet, the thief took more than just the bag; they rifled through the clothes, choosing fabrics that reflected their personal style. Those they didn’t fancy were discarded in the trunk among dark shards of broken glass. The insurance estimate was nine hundred dollars; the mechanic down the street valued it at two-fifty—the math of people, I suppose.
Say what you will about this place, but it has its benefits; it has its champions.
Today, on her way home from work, my roommate saw five strangers gathered around something on the ground—each with a phone in hand. A dog had been hit by a car—no one stopped to check its pulse. A hit and run. The dog was wrapped in a blanket, and the group immediately began calling: 911, animal control, vets. Who do you call when you find a dead animal? And where else but our cross streets of Burbank Blvd and Klump Ave?
Later, when I step outside, the dog is gone—swept away, scrubbed clean. A woman parks next to my car hurriedly. She steps out, sniffling, tears streaking her face. She rattles off something in Spanish, I think related to her missing or injured dog. Maybe I’ve been Stockholm’d; maybe I love it here. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell. I don’t approach her, even if I might have the grim answer she seeks. I don’t know. Maybe I just didn’t want to.
As I shut the car door, I notice a parking ticket on my windshield—street sweeping every Thursday, I had forgotten. I snatch it through the window, toss it in the backseat, and drive off beneath the flickering shade of palm fronds and traffic lights—streets already sweeping themselves clean.