TALES FROM THE CITY
                        West Second Avenue and Beyond
                                  Mrs. Oki
                        Copyright 1995 by Dave Laird

The Alberts Apartments is a strange blend of poor and poorer, canine and
feline and the flux of humanity that generally sticks together in the heart
of the city. Still, despite their squallid hovels in the old brick building,
none of the jaded has-beens, former hobos, reformed alcoholics and ordinary
folks trying to eke out an existence a hair too close to the poverty line
make many mistakes when it comes to their landlord, General Chung. That is
because the Alberts has to be the last place in Spokane that rents
apartments at any price that allows its tenants to have pets.

The tired brownstone has faced Second Avenue head-on all day long, its
window casements and door jambs coated with the sediment of the city, the
debris of the gutters and an occasional errant empty beer can rattling past
its faded wrought iron railings. Now that the evening breezes finally begin
to stir, as the sunlight retreats from the city's summerscape, now the
passers-by on the street can catch glimpses of the diversity, human and
otherwise, that make the Alberts such a unique experiment in human
encounter.

Now, in the cool twilight, the tenants of the old apartments overhead, and
around back, have tiptoed forth to sit in on the steps, perhaps to sip some
of their favorite potable, some to gossip about whatever crosses their
minds, and some just to listen and be close to their fellow man.

The steps of the old brownstone are undeclared neutral territory. No one
ever argues, nor even discusses anything which might lead to contention in
the group. That is because, for some of these ragged survivors, the evening
discussions may be the only place of relative tranquility which they can
enjoy, and besides, for the rest, it is an opportunity to relax and enjoy
the small talk in relative safety. No one, it seems, not even some of the
crazed cocaine addicts that frequently pass by on the street, are willing to
take on a group, especially one that sometimes gets as large as 20 or 25
people sitting on the steps together.

Half-crazy Larry Koontz from the upstairs right apartment, comes staggering
up the sidewalk. Although he is just too drunk to contribute much in the way
of conversation, he teeters back and forth on the sidewalk, facing the
group, his eyes half-closed in alcoholic bliss, nodding to himself as the
conversations from the steps ebbs and flows around him like an auditory
river, flowing to an invisible ocean of sound that fills the night air.

Almost everyone is here tonight, even Mrs. Petrie, who has lived here the
longest in the same apartment. The comment is made that no one has ever seen
Mrs. Oki come out to join everyone on a summertime's evening.

Several tenants tenants have never seen Mrs. Oki, but Thomas, laughing a
bit, "About the only time you'll ever see her in person is as she bustles
outside to water her huge flower garden at the base of the steps leading
upstairs over by Apartment number two, or to get in her car and drive off.
Even then," he nods sagely at everyone within earshot, "Mrs. Oki seldom
talks to anyone. She just disappears back inside her apartment, and never
comes back out until the next time the flowers need watering or she is
leaving on an errand."

Mrs. Carabaldi, from the middle first floor apartment, chimes in, "I think
Mrs. Oki is somehow related to General Chung since I've met everyone who
lives here on their way to the mobile home out back to pay their rent. But I
don't know anyone who has ever met Mrs. Oki paying her rent."

"Oh, that's pure bull, Hannah, and you know it!" Gary Teats snaps, from his
post sitting on the top step. "I've seen her pay rent. True, it was only a
few times, but I've seen her go back and hand the General her rent, just
like the rest of us!"

This conversation was cut short when Popeye, the one-eyed homogenous cat
came sauntering down the sidewalk, its tail extended straight up in the air,
as if sensing the evening breeze. Popeye wasn't really anyone's cat, since
nearly all the tenants have cats of their own, but everyone has
involuntarily taken him in, at one time or another.

You either take him in, when he shows up at your door, whining and
complaining that he is hungry, or he will sit outside your window,
plaintively crying at you through the screen the rest of the night until,
about three in the morning, when you simply cannot take the noise any
longer, you finally acquiesce, open the door and let him in. Whereupon, the
minute Popeye has finished eating whatever is given to him, he promptly
jumps your cat, if you have one, without respect to gender. Popeye was, at
one time, a male, but whoever neutered him did a disfavor to the rest of the
feline kingdom, for ever since his operation, he jumps cats of either sex,
imitating the role of a functional male.

"Get out of here, Popeye, you crazy bastard!" Ruge Linardo coarsely cries as
the pitch-black cat comes near her.

Everyone breaks out into laughter when Popeye heads immediately for Ruge's
doorstep, and the matter of Mrs. Oki is forgotten.

The evening canopy descends over the city, and with the first breath of
chilly air that comes as if from nowhere, the people sitting on the steps
begin returning to their apartments. Within minutes, it is as if they were
never there. The pop cans, coffee cups and cigarette butts that marked, for
a time, their allegiance to one another, fade off into the darkness, as so
much debris in a littered, silent night.

*************************************************************************

There are places in this city where only the most grave secrets are hidden,
and where only a lucky few ever have the right to visit.

Of General Chung it can be said, he truly was one of the most mis-trusted
generals of his era. During the war against Japan, at a time when Japanese
Americans were routinely shuffled off to concentration camps to be interred
until the war was over, given the choice against fighting against the
Japanese Imperial Army and serving in the United States Army, he chose the
latter. His regiment, Japanese Americans all, served with distinguishment,
bravery and were later awarded this country's highest honors.

Mrs. Oki, however, did not fare so well. During the initial search for
persons of Japanese ancestry by federal authorities, she and her two
children were captured and taken from the greenhouse she and her husband
owned in the Spokane Valley, and hauled by train to Mindanaro Concentration
Camp in California, where she lived until the war's end. That last bitter
winter at Mindanaro was too much, however, for her husband, who died of
pneumonia in the drafty, cold shack they had come to call home.

When she returned to her home in Spokane in 1945, she discovered that it,
like her greenhouses, had been sold for cash to the highest bidder which, in
this case, happened to be less than a pittance of its worth. Then homeless,
unemployed and destitute, she threw herself on the mercies of General Chung,
whom she met while house hunting. The General, returning from the war, took
her in, and gave her an apartment in the Alberts, where she continues to
live today.

All she has to remind her of the past are the pictures of her two children,
who now live in San Francisco, the faded picture of she and her husband
standing in front of a row of greenhouses and a faded identification
bracelet from Mindanaro, all which sit in exalted places on the mantel.

*****************************************************************************
This is an excerpt from Tales of the City. It is historically true in every
way, except that the names and places have been changed.

Copyright 1995 Dave Laird
 * Origin: Dave Laird on The Phoenix *Spokane WA * (509)747-6207 (1:346/11)