Inglewood Tales

Whenever I pull up during lunch and happen to spy my duplex-neighbor, he remarks that it's as though I don't live there. 

He's right. Between the two jobs and gym time, I often sleep, shower, head out the door and little more. So in the nearly three months, time to explore the new neighborhood has been scant. Aside from an occasional pizza and discovery of a wonderful deli for breakfast (lox and a quirky breakfast buffet will ensure I rarely cook at home on future Saturdays). 

But my life still resides on the West Side. My second job, most of my friends (the happy hour crew swapped Downtown for Green Hills, furthering the chances I will never again catch them for beers at 5 p.m. Friday) and even most of my favorite shops. 

So here are some random notes from Inglewood, a home I barely know outside of rare interludes. 

I have taken stock of my immediate surroundings, populated mostly by the creatures that rile my cat. My neighbor's cat, Lucy, has been referred to as Percy's girlfriend since the night early in our tenure when she fiercely swiped and hissed at the screen. I never heard the orange-and-white devil growl before, but this girl brought out the worst in him. Sometimes I return home to the charcoal-coated female tucked in a meatloaf pose on my doormat. 

When I let him out on his excursions, he runs directly for a niche beneath the porch steps, where Lucy often hides when my neighbor lets her out. A Maine coon also prowls the grounds, plopping its wild haunches down in the driveway. Before hitting the porch hideaway, Percy always drops and rolls on the coon cat's preferred perch. 

Cats are not the only visitors. The dogs of 5 a.m. were a memorable pair; on a rare occasion when I beat my alarm so I could hit the gym before, I slammed the front door, setting off a chorus of distant howls. Thinking nothing of them, bare seconds passed before a Siberian husky and a mixed circled my car. I realized I forgot something in the house, and for the first time since I moved in, Percy did not greet me inches from the door. He stood 10 feet back, puffed up in a defensive pose. At night, the dogs returned when I did, growling on the porch at the cat mirroring their every move. That only happened once, so I expect they escaped their yard that day and took stock of potential meals around Inglewood. 

Beyond the deli, human interaction has been limited, partly due the dilapidated state of Gallatin Pike. The Mexican restaurant closed, and Bill told me a clerk had been killed at the gas station down the street, which conducts all transactions through a bulletproof window after dark. 

Even the grocery store gives me the blues. Each successive Kroger exhibits worse customer service. While the latest version Despite the huge line the morning, I ignored the store manager's offer of an open register; if the choice lies between a machine and surly clerks who won't look or speak at you and sometimes leave you to bag your own groceries, I'll stick with technology. Despite paying more, I often opt for the tiny yet friendly Piggly Wiggly, or trek to Green Hills for Trader's Joes ingrained friendliness. 

The social aspects haven't been bad. I met my friend for dinner at the Edgefield Sports Bar, which he aptly described as having the look of an old VFW hall. The douchebag element ruled most of the bars around West End and Hillsborough Village. Smoke ran so thick in those where it didn't that I couldn't stick or risk resuming my old habit. 

It's difficult to take stock of Inglewood at this point; I have a home, but lack a neighborhood for now. That will change. One of these months, I'll hatch a housewarming party, and frequent the coffeeshops. Otherwise, why switch sides of town?