Walking down a road not taken since March, I came upon the Tyvek shrouded exoskeleton of a new condominium complex under construction. That went up quick, as the saying goes. But what old building occupied this address pre-gentrification, demolition and redevelopment? I must have strolled past it a thousand times over the years but could not bring to mind the identity of the previous tenant. It had been commercial premises of some sort. An unpopular beauty salon, perhaps, skilled in the over-application of industrial-strength make-up and hairspray. Maybe a poorly stocked convenience store selling nothing but lottery tickets, cigarettes, and international pre-paid phone cards. Possibly even the grim facade of law offices specializing in divorce proceedings and personal injury claims. That's what most of the real estate around here used to be.
Then I remembered. The site had been a store-front church purveying some sort of social justice based derivation of the Christian gospel. It once echoed with the boisterous rhythm of clap-along hymns sung in Spanish and the low murmuring buzz of prayer recitation that sounded like bees in a hive. I recalled feeling underdressed in weekend jeans and a casual shirt when the congregation spilled out on the sidewalk in their vividly colorful Sunday best. But I don't think they ever proselytized to me or any other passer-by. Theirs was a culturally-insular, self-contained nucleus of Jesus worship. And now it was gone, replaced by box-shaped apartment building divided into two-bedroom units with deeded parking, where anonymous, asocial twenty-something occupants will binge-watch Netflix TV shows while nurturing their insecurities and transforming language into emojis.
