I originally was going to split this issue into a few parts because it’s a little long. Then I decided it’s not my job to dictate how much y’all are capable of reading at a time. We’re all adults here.
***
There’s nothing I love more than observing the people around me. I hesitate to call what I do “spying,” because I’m not crossing any threshold or boundary. I simply soak in what I witness and file it away. I don’t know the names of all of my neighbors, but I love watching each of them for different reasons. These are some of their stories.
*
There’s a woman across the street who has a poorly behaved pitbull. While I hate to engage in stereotypes that perpetuate harm within the canine community, that dog exemplifies everything people fear about certain breeds. The one time I “met” the dog, I asked the woman if he was friendly. She said yes. I was petting him, when he heard a garbage truck approaching and went fucking haywire, sinking his teeth into the arm of my jacket. Thankfully, he only got jacket in his mouth and NOT my actual arm. She didn’t apologize or really offer any kind of explanation for why this allegedly friendly dog just attacked my arm. She just took him back across the street, struggling to keep hold of him. She looks at my small dog with a certain smugness that annoys me, like she’s somehow superior for having a big dog she can’t control. Last winter, she brought that big bitch outside to walk him, and the dog leapt into a pile of snow, dragging her along with him. She landed face first, and then stood up embarrassed, glancing around to see if anyone saw the ordeal. I was smoking on my porch and saw the whole thing, but she didn’t see me seeing her. There are plenty of people who say that no one remembers when you do something embarrassing in public. Those people are wrong. I think of that woman flying in the air every fucking time I see her. I will never forget it. She hired a trainer for the dog shortly after that incident.
*
A few doors down, there’s a man who, for the first year I lived here, pulled up playing “Me, Myself & I” by Beyonce EVERY evening. The windows of his car are tinted, but he would pull up, park on the street, and let the song finish every time he got home. He did this for an entire year. I could hear the music from inside my house. He’s since moved on to playing other hits from the 90s and 00s. Maybe he was going through something that only Beyonce could cure. Plenty of us have been there.
*
There’s one house on the street where teenage boys play basketball after school when the weather’s nice. All they do is dribble and cuss at each other. None of them seem to ever make a shot, but they’re doing amazing work in the shit-talking department. I can always tell when the mom gets home, because there’s more dribbling and less cussing. Sometimes, their younger sister comes outside with her karaoke machine and sings along to music with her mouth on the mic while the boys yell “REEEEEEMIIIIIIXXXXXXX!!!!!!” and hype her up. It brings tears to my eyes.
*
On the topic of kids, there’s a little boy who loves dribbling a basketball in his driveway, wearing jeans and no shirt. There’s no way he’s more than six years old. One time, he and his mom were getting out of the car and he screamed “DO WE GOT ANY SPRITE?!!! I NEED SOME SPRITE!!!” which is understandable, because Sprite is very good. A while ago, he was outside throwing a football, and a man who was walking past stopped to teach him how to hold the ball properly. Then, he threw the ball back and forth with the boy for a little bit before saying “Have a good day!” and leaving. A few days later, I saw the boy teaching another kid how to throw a football. His mom gets into regular arguments with the redheaded girl who lives below them. She looks exactly like Ms. Frizzle. Sometimes they get into screaming matches in the street, and being good neighbors, everyone on the block comes outside to watch. While I obviously don’t know the intricacies that cause them to argue, I do know that the redhead has a rich father who comes to visit her once a month, which frankly is all the information I need. One day that lady’s gonna beat Ms. Frizzle’s ass, and we’re all going to be witnesses.
*
There’s one house I’ve dubbed “The Meth House,” because they were cooking meth in there. I knew they were cooking meth in there before the drug bust a year ago, because they have a ton of random shit on their porch — life-sized stuffed animals, bookcases, vacuums, weathervanes — just a hodgepodge of shit that only people who cook meth would collect. There was also no possible way to discern who actually lived there, because different people would be there at any given time, cuddled up with the huge stuffed animals or sprawled out in the yard spray painting something. They were literally ALWAYS spray painting something. Anyway, when their house got raided, we all came outside to see what the hell was going on, huddling in little groups and discussing what we knew, and then branching off into other little groups to discuss some more. Some may call this “gossiping.” I call it “living in a neighborhood.” The entire street was blocked off, and it was so crazy to see that many white people getting arrested at one time. There had to be at least one person who didn’t get arrested, because all that crazy shit stayed spread out on the porch until this past week. Now, it’s all gathered in a corner of the porch, and someone has started cleaning up the bushes in the front yard that had branches zigzagging everywhere. The next person to live there probably won’t be aware of, much less appreciate, the house’s legacy.
*
At the corner, there’s a gigantic house that looks almost too big to be there. I had first assumed it was a duplex or triplex, because so many houses in this neighborhood are. But no, it’s just one enormous house where an older married couple lives with their two almost identical dogs. The man inherited the house, as it’s been passed down and passed down and passed down again. It is massive. It dwarfs all of the other homes around it, and when I stand in front, I have to really crane my neck to see the very top. The man and his wife are both really nice. They walk the dogs together, and sometimes when it’s too hot or too cold, the man scoops up both dogs and carries one under each arm, grinning like he’s bringing home spoils from war. One time he came down the street and warned me that a hungry-looking hawk was in the area, and to stay alert if I was walking Wiggles that afternoon. I’ve stood in the sun and talked to him more times than I can count, while our dogs sniffed each other and did that thing dogs do where they thump the ground and pretend to dart off. I have no clue what his name is. That isn’t weird, as I know the names of virtually no one in my neighborhood that I interact with, but sometimes I feel like I’m supposed to know his. I can’t explain why.
*
Around the corner, there’s a guy who I believe was separated from his wife for a bit. I used to see him every morning, but then didn’t for a few months, and now I see him again. While a normal nosy person would chalk that up to him simply having a different schedule, I’m far too experienced to use such a flimsy excuse for his absence. His car was always gone, and the yard work stopped getting done. Most notably, his wife hates walking the dog, and before their separation, he would walk the dog while she got the kids in the car to go to school. While he was gone, she walked the dog and then would also take the kids to school. When I say she hated walking the dog I mean she Really Hated It. She walked with the leash limp in her hands and sighed loudly every time the dog stopped to sniff. He walks the dog differently, with a brisk pace and overall friendly demeanor. We wave to each other every morning. I wave at her too, but she returns the wave with a general air of misery. Anyway, I like both of them, and they seem happy now that he’s back home. What’s most notable about him though, is that I see him twice every morning. Once when he’s walking home with his dog, and the second time when he’s getting into his car for work while holding a bowl full of cereal. Every morning, he walks to his car, dressed in a suit, carrying his briefcase hooked by his pinky while the rest of his hand holds an entire bowl of cereal. The first time I saw him do it, I thought that maybe he was just in a hurry, but no. He does that every single morning. I am fascinated by him. I’m also pretty sure he works in law or government or something, because he always has a ton of signs in his yard about issues to vote yes or no on, and he checks his phone with intensity while he walks his dog in the mornings. He also just has the air of a lawyer. It’s hard to describe. But sometimes when I see him, I imagine him in a courtroom defending a client in front of the judge and jury and God and everybody, with a belly sloshing full of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
***