Market Street: White cat, self doubt, bicycle decay

Cat ownership summed up in one sentence.

Before I moved into my current apartment in Somerville earlier this winter, I spent the previous two years living in Cambridge, on a small street called Market Street.  My apartment was not technically within any particular square, but was a roughly 10 minute walk to either Kendall, Central, or Inman Squares.  It was a short enough street that I would often direct cabs to the corner of Broadway & Windsor for convenience's sake.

Windsor Street, at the corner of Broadway, facing towards Central Square.

Windsor Street was my main route to and from the supermarket or whenever I ventured into Central Square.  It's a nice street.  One side consists of your typical lower-to-middle income Cambridge apartment houses/buildings, while public housing ran along the other side of the street. One time I was wearing a Misfits shirt and a young woman hanging out the steps of her project asked me if I was coming from the devil's whorehouse.  

There was one house on Windsor that stood out to me.  For numerous reasons.  I don't remember if it was the reggae music blaring from it or the strong, unmistakable smell of marijuana that first made me turn my head.  The house itself looked unfinished in places, with plywood in place of shingling or whatever it is people make houses out of.  I would eventually notice the phrase "Afreecan" written in permanent marker by the doorway.  I came to know this house by its sounds, smells and appearance before I eventually saw an inhabitant: a older black guy with a big, greying beard and dreadlocks down past his knees.  Usually he'd be standing on the front steps, sort of dancing in place to whatever music was playing.  He was friendly and we'd acknowledge each other as I walked by.  Eventually I would meet another of the residents, a beautiful white cat.

Noble white cat.

I became good friends with this little guy over the couple years I lived on Market Street.  Each time I saw him I'd kneel down and put my hand out for him and soon he got to know me and would meow and come up to me for a pet.  Whenever I walked down Windsor I would hope that he'd be in front of the Afreecan house.  There were times I'd be walking alone at night in the rain, and he'd surprise me by being the only other creature hanging out in the shitty weather.  At the time, I had my own cat at my apartment, The Mayor, but it was nice to be able to run into this guy and spend a couple minutes with him.  I couldn't tell you how much googling I did about white cats and deafness because it made me sad to think that he might be deaf.  My googling was inconclusive; apparently deafness is inherent in white cats with a certain eye color.  This guy's eyes seemed to change color every time I saw him, so I eventually just accepted that he seemed to be doing just fine, deaf or not.

The Mayor (now in the care of my sister and her family since I am not able to have cats).  He is the man and might as well be a dog.  My nephews love him and call him the Friendly Blob.

One day I came across the white cat and he must have gotten in a fight with one of the troublemaking cats because his ear was bandaged.  Now he has one floppy ear, which is pretty adorable as far as battle scars go, but is hopefully the last injury he will have to endure as an outdoor cat in the city.

He liked to sit on top of this stone pillar by the neighbor's property.

Late in the summer of 2012, I was walking down Windsor and as I approached the Afreecan house, I saw the guy sitting on the steps with a friend of his. The cat was sitting by the sidewalk.  I gave him a pet, and the man shouted, "Freedom came back!  She was missing but she came home!  I knew she would." in a thick Haitian accent.  At the time I wasn't sure if he was talking about the cat or if he was making some grander statement about a man and his freedom.  A few weeks later, we had a conversation that gave me a new perspective on the cat, the man himself, and a little insight into myself.

It must've been the early fall because I remember I was wearing one of my button-down longsleeves (my official "summer's over" gear).  I saw the man and the cat on the steps together and I decided that I would tell him how much I liked his cat.  

"Hey, you probably see me walk by here all the time.  I always pet your cat, I really like him," I say.

"That's Freedom!  She is a good cat."

So that explains it.  He named his cat Freedom.  We kept talking.  We shake hands and I introduce myself and he told me his name was Pap (like "Pop").  He asked if I could figure out how to spell it, so I am standing there thinking, "Well, it's probably really straightforward, but then again he's Haitian, so maybe there is some weird French spelling."  I start to guess, "P-A-U-P...." and he says, "Nope!  Try again."  So I say, "P-A-P?"  

"Exactly!  It's just how it sounds."  I told him I don't know why I thought it'd be spelled any other way, and he told me that I got the spelling wrong because I doubted myself and questioned my instincts.  That was pretty apt.  We talked a little more and he said that he came a long way from Haiti a long time ago.  I gave him a little of my own history (ie: I grew up in Massachusetts and now live down the street).  Before we parted ways, Pap told me that I showed courage by approaching Freedom, because doing so enabled me to meet and interact with someone with a personal history completely different from my own (his words).  It was like something out of a movie.  Honestly I will pet pretty much any cat I see, so I don't know about courage, but he makes a good point about how a simple decision to befriend a stranger's cat opened a door that might've otherwise never appeared.  Heather used to joke that the white cat is my spirit animal, and whenever I drive down Windsor Street I always slow down and see if he's out there.  It comforts me when I do get a glimpse of him even though I can only admire him for a few seconds from within the confines of my car.

I watched the (de)evolution of a bike locked to this pole over the course of a year.
Sadly Google maps didn't capture any of it.

I'll end this post with a funny little anectdote about the street post above.  At one point there was a bicycle locked to it by the wheels with a U-Lock.  As time went on, the bicycle remained locked, just with fewer and fewer parts, as tends to happen to neglected bikes in the city (theft is one thing, but I think the glee of snowplow drivers plowing into parked bikes should not be underestimated).  I really wish I had documented the status of the bike over the year or so it remained locked to this post because it would've made an incredible commercial for a bike lock.  It went from a complete bike, to a bike sans seat & handlebars, to a frame and two wheels, to just two wheels, to two tires, and finally to two shriveled inner tubes that remained locked to that post for several months.  Talk about determination.  

I hope you enjoyed reading a little bit about my old neighborhood.  I have a couple ideas for future posts, music and otherwise.  I need to get organized before I hit you guys with my next music post, but I have some interesting ideas that I think people will appreciate.  Also expect an eventual post about my time working overnight security at a garbage hotel in Chinatown.  I kept a journal for much of the time I worked there and there is plenty still fresh in my mind.

Till next time....