novelintroduction

The year was 2012- The United States was in the midst of its war on terror, the country was divided more harshly than ever thought possible.  The entirety of the nation, it seemed, was deeply invested in world events, and many Americans prided themselves on being "citizens of the world". It was a time when information was freely available to anyone with a computer, cell-phone, or access to the internet by some other means. Knowledge was valued, and people of all ages would spend hours on internet message boards, blogs, or social networking sites, expressing their opinions and arguing various subjects about which they purported to be experts.

There was an unfortunate side-effect to such wide access to world events and knowledge. When one could, in a matter of minutes, read the headlines of the world's super powers suddenly the local obituaries lost their appeal. The world had become small, yes, but as with any work of art when it decreases in size it decreases in detail. The barbershop had to make room for the message board. The neighborhood, the borough, the village, for the city. The front porch, for the Facebook profile. The milkman had become obsolete. For good reason, it was said.

There were greater causes to pursue, there were important things to be done. There were endangered species to save, totalitarian governments to protest. Corruption and oppression were widespread, and in the midst of all this, a society ruined itself.

The members of that society, it's possible, didn't even realize it. By all appearances it looked as though this society had become selfless, dedicated to the eradication of all the ills of humankind. In reality though, its citizens had lost themselves. Yes, they loved, but only in the abstract. "Something must be done for those starving children overseas" they said. But no one cooked dinner for their grieving neighbor anymore. "Homelessness is an epidemic" they'd post on their twitterfeed. As they drove past a man on a street corner with only newspapers to keep himself warm.

It was as though everyone was playing a role in a film, or posing for a picture. One day this story would be retold and it was important that they be included in it, as a star. The greatest curse was to be forgotten, to have no followers, to be an unviewed comment, to be a Facebook post with no likes.

Life was forgotten. The summer picnic, the family vacation, the celebration of holidays, were now just more backdrops for the construction of the story. The story was better than reality.

In the cities, society varied greatly, from the super-rich, who lived in extravagant condos on the top floor of massive skyscrapers, to the less fortunate, who, through circumstances whether in or out of their control took to living where ever warmth could be found. In those days, the Government had many programs meant to care for the poor, to help them until they could get back on their feet. Food stamps, unemployment benefits, and housing projects, were all made available to those in need. One such example was Hall Manor in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

Hall Manor was built in the early 1950s, there were fifty-four rows of red brick buildings spaced evenly next to each other. Each building contained ten apartments, identified by the letters A-J. The buildings had that weathered look by which one could tell that time and use had left their marks. On nearly every building there were great works of various kinds, depicting names, shapes, logos or abstract signatures, swirling colors painted by talented young artists, who often practiced their trade in the darkest nights.

Graffiti is one of those curious elements of society, in that, while most of the middle class and professional world considers it a form of vandalism, at heart, it is more rightly called a sign of affection. One would disregard the person who claimed that the young man who tattooed his body with the name of his highschool girlfriend was doing so simply to vandalize his body, so too, the young artists who tag their signatures and art work upon the body of their homes and communities aren't in the most real sense vandals, rather they are young lovers who have laid claim to what they can call their own, their homes, their territories, the place, to which and in which, they can say "I belong."
There was a main office in the center of the development where an elderly African-American  lady, Cindy Kinzer, answered phones, managed complaints and generally kept an eye on things around the housing development, oftentimes, her duties consisted of making sure the garbage men came every week, and making sure the maintenance men took care of any problems that were reported.

Every evening at exactly 4:35 pm, when she was finished with her work, Cindy would walk slowly to the street across the development where she parked her car. She told herself, and others, that she did this for the exercise it afforded. However, Cindy also felt that this place belonged to her and she enjoyed the chance to walk through the buildings and wave to the residents as she saw them. Rare was the occasion that Cindy ever made it to her car before 5:30, she enjoyed the chance to sit and chat with, what she viewed as, her neighbors.

On one particularly cool Autumn evening in November she happened upon a new resident moving her belongings in to the twenty-seven block. Cindy approached the dented van, and smiled at this new neighbor, who was struggling now with an infant in her arms, and another little boy wrapped around her legs. The girl looked as though she was in her mid twenties, she had long dark hair and obviously Hispanic features. Cindy called out to her and waved.

"Hello!"

The girl turned her head as she struggled to manage the suitcase and her infant daughter at the same time.

"Hello, how're you?"

"Fine, fine, can I help you with anything? I work at the main office in the center of the development, the name is Cindy."

Cindy approached further and offered her hand to take the suitcase. The girl accepted this offer, and with a look of relief on her face replied "I'm Nicole, I'm moving in here, 27-B ."

Cindy recalled a young man picking up the keys for this unit earlier in the day.

"Can I help with your things?"

Nicole put her daughter into a stroller and reached for the suitcase which Cindy now held.

"No, no, its fine, thank you though."

Cindy handed the suitcase back to Nicole and pulled a business card from her pocket

"Well, if there is anything I can do for you, please let me know. I'm usually in my office from 8 to 4:30.
Here is my office number."

"Thanks again, I'll do that." Nicole said as she continued pulling her things out of the van, her young son now sat next to the stroller, playing with his little sister.

Cindy's smile faded and she set the card on top of a piece of Nicole's luggage. She continued her slow stroll across the projects, glancing to and fro and waving to the children who, after their long days at school were out playing with one another and enjoying the cool weather.

An old Ford Pinto sat along the street it was scratched, dented and worn out. It was the kind of car that was meant to get a person from point A to point B, and even that was tempting fate, Cindy rummaged through her pocket for the keys. When it was originally sold there was controversy surrounding the Pinto. The claim? That because of a design flaw ignored by the manufacturer the Pinto had a danger of causing fuel fires in accidents. These claims, it was said, were exaggerated in an attempt to win some money for those unfortunate few who had experienced problems. The question came down to this: Was it more cost-effective for the car to be redesigned, or for the company to pay for lawsuit settlements. As is often the case, it was decided that cost had a higher priority than safety, and that the bottom line was more important than human life.

Cindy unlocked the car door and slid into the driver's seat. She had made this drive hundreds of times, if needed she could have done it blindfolded. She turned the key, and as the car's engine roared to life, Cindy tuned the radio in to her favorite talk program. Today, they were discussing a recent shooting that had taken place in Harrisburg, Cindy closed her eyes and prayed a silent prayer of thanks that it had not been in Hall Manor, in her home.