Up until last year, my nearest neighbor lived a half-mile down
the road. But things changed a few months ago when some big contractor bought
up all the land on my road and began putting up new houses so fast, I suspected
helicopters were dropping them ready-built onto the lots.
Just the other day, I saw two men with measuring equipment
sectioning off the land directly facing my house, which means another house
probably is going to pop up there overnight in the near future.
I’m not certain yet how I feel about the prospect of finally
having a close neighbor after living here for nine years without any.
I’m thinking I should be happy because at least now, if I
fall in my driveway during a blizzard, someone actually might see me lying
there and help me get up before I end up buried underneath three feet of snow
and am not discovered until the spring thaw. But on the other hand, having a
close neighbor also will mean I no longer will be able to run out to my mailbox
while I’m still wearing my pajamas and hair curlers. I’ll actually have to get
dressed, comb my hair, and maybe even slap on a bit of makeup so I won’t
irreversibly traumatize anyone.
The reason why my husband (rest his soul) and I moved out
here to the middle of the woods in the first place was because at the time, we
were living in a mobile-home park, where every move we made was watched. The
minute we stepped outside, we could see the neighbors’ slats on their window
blinds open wider so they could get a better look at us. Whenever I tried to do
something out in the yard, such as paint the steps, within only a few minutes,
people would pop up seemingly out of thin air to “advise” me how to do it.
If I cleaned out the storage shed, everyone in a two-block radius would
come over, stick their heads inside and ask me what I was doing. Then they
would point to something like a rake or snow shovel and say, “If you’re going
to toss that out, I’ll take it.”
So moving out to the boonies was a complete change. I mean,
suddenly, if I wanted to, I could go outside and run naked through the lawn
sprinkler and the only living things that would see me were of the four-legged (or
more) variety.
I hate to admit it, but I think we moved out of the mobile-home park just in time. That's because while we were living there, my husband and I realized we actually were slowly becoming just like all of those snoopy neighbors who drove us
crazy.
I still remember the time when two women, one of whom had
just divorced her husband, moved into the mobile home next to ours. One Labor
Day weekend, there was no sign of the women all weekend, even though their cars
were parked in the driveway and their kitchen window was open. My husband was convinced they had met with
foul play.
“It’s the ex-husband,” he said, rubbing his chin
thoughtfully. “I’ll bet he was upset about the divorce and came back for
revenge!”
Whenever my husband talked like that, I usually just rolled
my eyes and allowed him to spout his Sherlock Holmes theories. But when two more days passed with still no sign of the two women next door, I began to wonder
if he might be onto something.
Around dusk that night, my husband was peeking out the
window (yet again) when he suddenly called out to me in a hushed, frantic
voice, “Someone is breaking into the place next door! And he’s using pliers!”
By the time I ran to the nearest window to take a look, the
man was entering the neighbors' front door.
“He’s probably the one who killed them,” my husband said.
“And now he’s going back in there to rob the place! You watch, in a few minutes, he’ll be coming out carrying a bag
full of stuff!”
I cast him a “yeah, sure” look, but still, I stood there and
watched for a few minutes. Just as I
was about to leave the window, I was shocked to see the guy come out onto the
steps and set down a green trash bag, then dart back inside.
“I’ll bet that bag is full of jewelry, silverware and
laptops,” my husband said, opening the blinds so he could get a better look.
“Don’t do that!” I snapped. “If he knows you’re watching
him, he might come over here to silence us!”
My husband considered my words for a moment, then said,
“Well I’m going to let Shadow out, then!
She’ll make him think twice about coming over here!”
Our poor old rottweiler took a few steps outside, stretched
out on the grass and took a nap. The crook could have stolen a sofa and she
wouldn’t have noticed.
Within a few minutes, the thief brought out another trash
bag. This one was white and smaller.
“I’ve seen enough,”
my husband said. “I think we’d better call the police before he ransacks the
entire house.”
For a moment, I seriously considered dialing 911. “Are you SURE he used pliers to get into the
house?” I asked.
“Pretty sure,” he said. “I’m not wearing my glasses.”
Without his glasses, my husband couldn’t tell the difference
between a crowbar and a plastic ruler.
“I don’t think I’ll call the police quite yet,” I said.
“Then maybe you should go outside and get our newspaper out
of the box,” he said. “While you’re out there, discreetly look at the license-plate number on the guy’s van and memorize it! I’d do it, but I have a crummy
memory.”
I couldn’t argue with that. So like a fool, I went outside.
There I was, reaching into our newspaper box while craning my neck sideways to
look at the van’s license-plate number, which wasn’t easy to see at dusk. When I came back into the house, I
immediately wrote down the number.
“What was the make and model of the van?” my husband asked
me. “I can’t really tell from here.”
“How should I know?
I was too busy trying to ‘discreetly’ look at the license plate!”
“But the plates could be stolen and belong to another vehicle,” he said. “So the make and
model are VERY important!”
Before I could open my mouth to inform him I couldn’t tell
the difference between a Rolls Royce and a Toyota anyway, my husband had his
nose in the blinds again. “Look!” he whispered. “He’s coming back out!”
I peered out just in time to see the suspected
crook/murderer/serial killer emptying something into the green trash bag he’d
previously set down. It was a big tray
of kitty litter.
I burst out laughing. “He’s taking care of their
housecats! You nearly had me call the
cops because of some dirty kitty litter?
What kind of crime would that be?
Grand-theft poop?”
For some reason, my husband (a.k.a. Sherlock) failed to
share my amusement.
Sure enough, the two women, carrying suitcases, returned the
next afternoon, safe and sound.
So the more I think about it, the more I think that maybe
the fact I’m finally about to get some neighbors around here might be a good
thing after all, especially if they’re rowdy.
That way, I can save money on my electric bill by shutting
off the TV and just watching them whenever I need some entertainment.
# # #
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