RAIDER

Raider was my neighbor. Raider loved my band, which was good since we loudly rehearsed in my living room, just a few yards from his windows. He told me I sang like “the guy from Skynyrd.” This brought me no end of teasing from my bandmates but I knew he meant it as the highest compliment he could muster. Raider got along well on our block. It was considered a “bad neighborhood,” but like most bad neighborhoods I’d lived in, it wasn’t so bad once you’d made friends with your neighbors. The man who lived downstairs from us constantly got robbed and vandalized. He actually grew suspicious of us, me, my brother James, and our roommate Allan, because our house never got messed with. I told him, “It might help that everyone here knows and likes us, and you’re just a grumpy prick who calls the cops with noise complaints.” This did nothing to alleviate his suspicions.

Raider had no problems in the neighborhood. He was the only white guy in a crew of dudes who played basketball every day in the park across from our flats. He drank beers with Alex, who lived downstairs from him. I took a couple of beers over and introduced myself to Alex. He was a polite, soft-spoken Mexican man who told me he couldn’t come to our parties because there were too many pretty girls there and his girlfriend didn’t like that. A week later my brother told me, “Good job befriending the most powerful drug dealer in the neighborhood. We are untouchable now.”

“Alex?” I asked, surprised.

“Yeah man, Alex is an OG.” I don’t know if this was true, but as I said, we were treated alright.

Our parties were delightful chaos. My band would play sixties garage-inspired punk, our friends would come play music, and the guests would be a mix of Chicanos, and geeky punks, dudes in dresses, and everyone getting along. Even the cops who’d come by were cool. They never shut us down, and we always made sure we had the music turned low by 10:00 p.m. and everything else quiet by midnight.

Raider seemed to epitomize the vibe of this neighborhood. He was the only big, goofy, Southern-rock-loving redneck around, but he managed to fit in great just by being a nice guy.

Raider invited James into his flat. There James saw another side of our neighbor. He had a framed document on the wall titled “The Responsibilities of a Proud White Wife.” It was a racist, misogynistic screed. Looking around, there were other white-pride emblems including a Confederate flag.

James told me all about it when he got back to our place. “Dude, Raider is a big ol’ racist.”

A few days later we noticed all of Raider’s basketball buddies hanging on his porch. To our surprise they’d go in and out of the house to grab beers from the fridge.

I guess Raider saw white supremacy like he saw being a Raiders fan. He had his team, and he’d cheer them on, and if you were a Rams fan (like James) or black, like all of his friends, well, he’d keep the rivalry friendly. What I’m saying is, he never enforced his “Raiders Fan Parking Only” sign.

I just couldn’t quite wrap my head around this. Um, dude, your team has a really bad rap for violence and oppression, and I don’t mean the Raiders, although … just nevermind. Nevermind. Your basketball pals seem to be dealing with you better than I ever could. Good luck, Raider.