A piece in which several characters interact briefly yet have watched each other from a distance for a long time.
Well now at last I have genuine stalker, and not a handsome, scary man like some women get, but a genuine white-haired octogenarian. Well, kinda-sorta stalker.
Several months ago I received an odd a package came to my house by mistake. It was a small George Bush doll. The item belonged to an elderly woman who lives catty-corner to us. I used to see her sitting on her front porch most days. Sometimes I'd wave to her and sometimes she'd wave back, but not always. I assumed she was existing in some altered state of a decrepitude --one foot in this world, one foot in dementia. Her son lived with her. Although I have an unfortunate preference for younger men, her son is one of those exceptions of mine. At 50 years old he is still a tall and lean man with blue water eyes and a full head of floppy blond hair. He is an engineer of some sort and drives a couple of 1950's trucks. Perhaps it was his eccentricity and benign care of his old mother that made him interesting. Yet despite his intriguing oddness and the old lady's waning health, I rarely thought of them beyond the accidental package.
A few months ago I saw an ambulance depart from their house. The flashing lights and loud whine of the siren alarmed none of us, we see and hear it too often for it constitute much concern, so no one knew for sure if she was taken away. I hadn't seen the old lady sitting out on the porch afterwords and thus assumed she was dead. Her son continued to noisily drive up and down the street in his old trucks, never once looking or waving my way. I didn't attempt to ask about his mother though I doubt he would have slowed down for me to catch up with him. (You are probably wondering why someone with ceaseless curiosity and a tendency for voyeurism would not seek out this information. But in truth I am shy and don't tend to seek out people other than homeless weirdos or small animals).
Last Saturday, to admire the flowers I planted in my front yard, I stepped in front of their old gray house to get a better view. When the old lady walked outside and touched my arm I wasn't exactly startled, just rather surprised to see her alive.
"Please invite your girls over to play sometime." She said to me. "I have lots of doll houses and trinkets. Since my heart attack I have nothing better to do than arrange and play with my miniatures."
I peered into her old house to try to catch a peek inside before I looked at her. Given that she buys George Bush dolls there was no telling what other odd marionette toys she socialized with isolated inside her house.
"I'm sure they would love that." I said, trying to keep a lilt in my voice I use when trying to make a guest feel at home even though I'd rather be alone.
"I feel as I know you, but you really don't know me do you?" She said. "I wave and say good-bye to you every morning, and welcome you home every evening. I tell you to drive careful in the rain. I wish you all a good holiday, whichever it is. I watch you plant all those nice flowers. You've really done a wonderful job. I can see out through my window though no one can see in, you see."
She knew everything about me, down the names of my family and cats. She hears me call for for the girls as I rush out the door in the morning -- backpacks swinging behind us with girlish braids half done and bagels stuffed in our mouths. She sees me coming home in the evening and calling to the girls to come back and help me carry their books and our groceries. She sees me when I finish a run and knows if it was a good one or bad one, whether I'm limping or trotting. She sees us treat every trip to the store, every recital or parent-teacher conference likes it's Super Bowl Sunday outing. What else can she do? She sits and watches behind her thin curtain all day long.
How old was she? Older than eighty? There was something in her face and sagging skin that showed that much age, maybe a little more. Her hair looked especially white, as if she had washed it with Clorox. She had a huge scar on her forehead from where she fell after her heart attack. But the hair of her eyelashes and eyebrows were still brown, lending her some friendly features on a scary profile.
Her son came outside and she introduced me to him but I've already forgotten his name. He was shook my hand and gruffly mumbled that he had things to do. Neither of us were bothered by that roughness. The old woman was used to it and I had already imagined that he would have that curty style. I, of all people, know such a personality is usually evidence not of arrogant aloofness but rather of some curmudgeonly artistic temperament. Tolerance for human eccentricity is often unappreciated.
I told her I would bring the girls sometime and left feeling odd. I had thought I had perfected the technique of the Low Profile. I thought I kept my profile was so low that no one saw me, ever. I thought had perfected invisibility and had shown people only what I wanted them to see. But apparently my life is out in the public domain. And, perhaps, in her eyes I wasn't so bad a person in complete. I yell sometimes, I spend more time outside than inside. I drive a little recklessly. I sit in the car sometimes. She saw all that and it was OK.
Several months ago I received an odd a package came to my house by mistake. It was a small George Bush doll. The item belonged to an elderly woman who lives catty-corner to us. I used to see her sitting on her front porch most days. Sometimes I'd wave to her and sometimes she'd wave back, but not always. I assumed she was existing in some altered state of a decrepitude --one foot in this world, one foot in dementia. Her son lived with her. Although I have an unfortunate preference for younger men, her son is one of those exceptions of mine. At 50 years old he is still a tall and lean man with blue water eyes and a full head of floppy blond hair. He is an engineer of some sort and drives a couple of 1950's trucks. Perhaps it was his eccentricity and benign care of his old mother that made him interesting. Yet despite his intriguing oddness and the old lady's waning health, I rarely thought of them beyond the accidental package.
A few months ago I saw an ambulance depart from their house. The flashing lights and loud whine of the siren alarmed none of us, we see and hear it too often for it constitute much concern, so no one knew for sure if she was taken away. I hadn't seen the old lady sitting out on the porch afterwords and thus assumed she was dead. Her son continued to noisily drive up and down the street in his old trucks, never once looking or waving my way. I didn't attempt to ask about his mother though I doubt he would have slowed down for me to catch up with him. (You are probably wondering why someone with ceaseless curiosity and a tendency for voyeurism would not seek out this information. But in truth I am shy and don't tend to seek out people other than homeless weirdos or small animals).
Last Saturday, to admire the flowers I planted in my front yard, I stepped in front of their old gray house to get a better view. When the old lady walked outside and touched my arm I wasn't exactly startled, just rather surprised to see her alive.
"Please invite your girls over to play sometime." She said to me. "I have lots of doll houses and trinkets. Since my heart attack I have nothing better to do than arrange and play with my miniatures."
I peered into her old house to try to catch a peek inside before I looked at her. Given that she buys George Bush dolls there was no telling what other odd marionette toys she socialized with isolated inside her house.
"I'm sure they would love that." I said, trying to keep a lilt in my voice I use when trying to make a guest feel at home even though I'd rather be alone.
"I feel as I know you, but you really don't know me do you?" She said. "I wave and say good-bye to you every morning, and welcome you home every evening. I tell you to drive careful in the rain. I wish you all a good holiday, whichever it is. I watch you plant all those nice flowers. You've really done a wonderful job. I can see out through my window though no one can see in, you see."
She knew everything about me, down the names of my family and cats. She hears me call for for the girls as I rush out the door in the morning -- backpacks swinging behind us with girlish braids half done and bagels stuffed in our mouths. She sees me coming home in the evening and calling to the girls to come back and help me carry their books and our groceries. She sees me when I finish a run and knows if it was a good one or bad one, whether I'm limping or trotting. She sees us treat every trip to the store, every recital or parent-teacher conference likes it's Super Bowl Sunday outing. What else can she do? She sits and watches behind her thin curtain all day long.
How old was she? Older than eighty? There was something in her face and sagging skin that showed that much age, maybe a little more. Her hair looked especially white, as if she had washed it with Clorox. She had a huge scar on her forehead from where she fell after her heart attack. But the hair of her eyelashes and eyebrows were still brown, lending her some friendly features on a scary profile.
Her son came outside and she introduced me to him but I've already forgotten his name. He was shook my hand and gruffly mumbled that he had things to do. Neither of us were bothered by that roughness. The old woman was used to it and I had already imagined that he would have that curty style. I, of all people, know such a personality is usually evidence not of arrogant aloofness but rather of some curmudgeonly artistic temperament. Tolerance for human eccentricity is often unappreciated.
I told her I would bring the girls sometime and left feeling odd. I had thought I had perfected the technique of the Low Profile. I thought I kept my profile was so low that no one saw me, ever. I thought had perfected invisibility and had shown people only what I wanted them to see. But apparently my life is out in the public domain. And, perhaps, in her eyes I wasn't so bad a person in complete. I yell sometimes, I spend more time outside than inside. I drive a little recklessly. I sit in the car sometimes. She saw all that and it was OK.
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