Okay, I feel I should begin this post with two disclaimers:
First, if any of my current neighbors are reading this, you can rest assured that I would never spy on you. You should know that the houses in our neighborhood are designed and constructed in such a way that makes it impossible for us to look down into each other’s backyards or look into one another’s windows through the kitchen. Very thwarting, but it keeps the good-will flowing, and now you don’t have to look at me with suspicion when we meet at the mailbox.
Second, I am making a confession here, but please judge me kindly. If any readers lived next door to the reality-TV situation I’m about to describe in this post, you’d be spying too. Especially if you are a writer.
With those two disclaimers out of the way, let’s begin.
Writers observe. We are the ones in the grocery store noting your purchases of kale, cookies, ibuprofen, white wine, almond milk, cat food, and roach traps. By the time you pay, we have your life worked out and a short draft written in our heads about your vegetarian diet and cat addiction. We are piecing together why you need white wine and wonder whether you realize the ingredients of Oreos are far from being vegan? Then we wonder how do the roach traps fit in to the developing narrative. Those aren’t very animal-friendly–you must be very fed up with your roach problem. Now, we have imagined you with roach traps lined up all over the house, which causes great philosophical angst for you and this morphs into an existential crisis, causing you drink more white wine, which explains the need for the ibuprofen.
By the time you pay, you will feel our eyes and look at us. What are we staring at?
We smile at you. Go on. Pay. We want to know if you are paying with cash or credit card. Maybe you are even writing a check? We wait to see if you will pay with a check.
And so it goes.
But what if you lived next door to us?
So, many years ago–in a different city and different neighborhood–we bought a house and only after we moved into it, as we were arranging our twin daughters’ bedroom furniture, did we realize that the huge floor-to-ceiling window in their room overlooked the next door neighbor’s tiny back yard, which featured a giant flagstone-surrounded hot tub.
My husband and I looked at the hot tub and at each other and discussed our hope that they didn’t use that hot tub in any kind of an illicit way, what with our four year olds able to look right down into their back yard. Maybe we needed to keep the blinds shut most of the time?
As it turned out, that particular neighbor was an older woman whose husband recently died and no, she never even went into the backyard, let alone soaked in the hot tub. After a year or so, however, she put the house up for sale and another woman bought it.
Enter interesting neighbors.
The woman who bought it was a single woman–about fifty-five, if I had to guess–and when she moved in, she brought her own daughter, who was then in her late twenties or early thirties. She, too, had a daughter–a little thing of about two or three. I learned all this one day when, while changing the bedsheets and straightening the twins’ room, I heard the squeals of a small child. Most of my own kids were in school, with exception of the newest four-year-old, who had taken advantage of his siblings’ school day to commandeer the Gamecube. The sounds of Mariocart lilted from the living room. Nope. Wasn’t mine.
I looked down and saw the tiny neighbor and her mother, floating on a pink raft in the hot tub, a cold drink in her hand. The daughter ran around the edge of the tub, blond hair tucked up into a short pony-tail. As I watched, the older woman came out and smoked a cigarette, watering the plants and talking on the phone.
Ooooh. Interesting. I sat down on the floor with the old bed sheets. A pattern of threes. All women. All three home on a week-day. Smoking and watering plants. And I was hooked.
And it only got better from there, let me tell you. I would come to learn a lot about this trio, but at this point, I am going to be late for work. What to do, what to do.
I guess this will have “To be continued….”