by Howie Kahn
The massive twelve-wheeled demolition truck rumbles down the street and lures the neighbors out to gripe. It's not that the truck or the driver, Lorenzo Coney, are unwelcome. The people here just want to know what's taken them so long.
On this June morning, with the heat and humidity rising, residents emerge from their homes one by one: mostly women, mostly older, mostly taking care of their mothers and grandkids. They've been calling the city, they say, for years without response and feel as abandoned as the houses that surround them—the foreclosed, devitalized structures that require immediate wrecking. They have questions for Lorenzo. Comprehensive to-do lists for this man who has powerful machines and, so, they figure, actual power. They ask when the dead trees are coming down. They want to know when the drug dealing will stop. Does Lorenzo's boss have a job for their sons, by any chance? Or for their nephews? Or what about for themselves? They can still work, they say. They can lift things. Handle a shovel. Run a hose. They pointat any number of vacancies on their street: "You tearing down this one? What about this one? How about this one?"
When they find out Lorenzo's only there for one house, they seethe. "But those are drug houses," they demand, imploring the crew to tear them all down, imploring me to somehow tear them all down. "That one," they say, "somebody got raped in. You're not taking that one down? Are you serious? I called about that one. I called. And called. When are you doing that one? You should be here all day. All week. All year."
Lorenzo explains he's only a wrecker; he's not the mayor. He's simply following orders, knocking down houses as fast as he can.
"I can do twenty a day," says Lorenzo, standing outside a Craftsman-style bungalow at 18058 Joann. This house took the better part of 1926 to build. Crews of men dug a hole, poured a foundation, assembled floor bridging and ceiling joists and a truss for the roof. Shingles were laid down, one at a time. Wooden siding was hung. Mortar was spread and bricks were stacked. By the time the house was completed, it boasted a gable roof, central dormer windows, and generous eaves shading a balustraded veranda. Covering 1,300 square feet, it had a couple of bedrooms, a bathroom, a small kitchen, and a light-filled parlor facing the street. It was priced for a worker—less than $4,000 new—and meant, for a family, a future.
It will take Lorenzo and his two-man crew from Farrow Demolition Incorporated thirty-six minutes to destroy it. It will be their fourth wreck of the day. By 9:30 a.m., 1718 Field, 3911 Beaconsfield, and 13103 Canfield have all been reduced to rubble, having met the mechanized violence of the CAT 330D L excavator. From house to garbage in the time it takes to do a load of laundry. Soon one of Farrow's drivers will collect the remains and haul them to the landfill—eighty-year-old houses, each ground down into a hundred tons of trash and dumped from the back of a truck. In the end, the house is just one more useless thing.
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The massive twelve-wheeled demolition truck rumbles down the street and lures the neighbors out to gripe. It's not that the truck or the driver, Lorenzo Coney, are unwelcome. The people here just want to know what's taken them so long.
On this June morning, with the heat and humidity rising, residents emerge from their homes one by one: mostly women, mostly older, mostly taking care of their mothers and grandkids. They've been calling the city, they say, for years without response and feel as abandoned as the houses that surround them—the foreclosed, devitalized structures that require immediate wrecking. They have questions for Lorenzo. Comprehensive to-do lists for this man who has powerful machines and, so, they figure, actual power. They ask when the dead trees are coming down. They want to know when the drug dealing will stop. Does Lorenzo's boss have a job for their sons, by any chance? Or for their nephews? Or what about for themselves? They can still work, they say. They can lift things. Handle a shovel. Run a hose. They pointat any number of vacancies on their street: "You tearing down this one? What about this one? How about this one?"
When they find out Lorenzo's only there for one house, they seethe. "But those are drug houses," they demand, imploring the crew to tear them all down, imploring me to somehow tear them all down. "That one," they say, "somebody got raped in. You're not taking that one down? Are you serious? I called about that one. I called. And called. When are you doing that one? You should be here all day. All week. All year."
Lorenzo explains he's only a wrecker; he's not the mayor. He's simply following orders, knocking down houses as fast as he can.
"I can do twenty a day," says Lorenzo, standing outside a Craftsman-style bungalow at 18058 Joann. This house took the better part of 1926 to build. Crews of men dug a hole, poured a foundation, assembled floor bridging and ceiling joists and a truss for the roof. Shingles were laid down, one at a time. Wooden siding was hung. Mortar was spread and bricks were stacked. By the time the house was completed, it boasted a gable roof, central dormer windows, and generous eaves shading a balustraded veranda. Covering 1,300 square feet, it had a couple of bedrooms, a bathroom, a small kitchen, and a light-filled parlor facing the street. It was priced for a worker—less than $4,000 new—and meant, for a family, a future.
It will take Lorenzo and his two-man crew from Farrow Demolition Incorporated thirty-six minutes to destroy it. It will be their fourth wreck of the day. By 9:30 a.m., 1718 Field, 3911 Beaconsfield, and 13103 Canfield have all been reduced to rubble, having met the mechanized violence of the CAT 330D L excavator. From house to garbage in the time it takes to do a load of laundry. Soon one of Farrow's drivers will collect the remains and haul them to the landfill—eighty-year-old houses, each ground down into a hundred tons of trash and dumped from the back of a truck. In the end, the house is just one more useless thing.
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