Won't you be my neighbor?

by tess

When we moved to Florida we promised ourselves that we’d have lives outside of work. We agreed that we’d befriend our neighbors. We committed to a new lifestyle that included couples we both enjoyed. We envisioned fictitious companions with whom we could go to dinner, play cards, have cocktail parties, go to the local Y. Good theory.

Making friends gets more complex as we get older. I never experienced it, but I’ve been told it’s very easy to make friends in high school and college. News to me. But I concede that however hard it may be to make friends as an adult, it becomes exponentially more difficult once the equation includes spouses. The fabled unicorn is easier to capture than the mythical couple-as-friends. If he’s smart, she requires a babysitter. If she’s funny, he’s a candidate for electroshock therapy.

We haven’t met a lot of our neighbors but none of them seems to be a good fit for us. Most of them have kids, so that’s a non-starter for those of us who are anklebiter-averse. The others have focused their time and energy: rollerblading freaks, gardening freaks, speed-boating freaks, opera freaks, outlet shopping freaks, camping freaks, nightclubbing freaks. See a pattern?

We may not know our neighbors’ names, but that doesn’t stop us from talking about them. So we’ve created descriptive labels. In fact, long after we know (and have forgotten) their real names, we refer to them in code.

There’s Little Dog Guy. He has a miniature pinscher who barks his head off at me. We’ve lived in our house for over five years and I’ve never once seen his wife. And then there’s The People Who Can’t Park. They just moved in next to Little Dog Guy and we don’t approve of their parking skills. Next is Orchid Lady who spends all day everyday gardening in her absolutely breathtaking front yard. Not surprisingly she’s got a great tan. And rounding out that side of the street is The Lush and his wife, Legs. She used to be a ballerina and has gorgeous legs; he’s a drunken landscaper.

Behind our house is Not Mike. He used to be Single Guy but then he introduced himself and although we can’t quite remember his name, we’re pretty sure that it isn’t Mike, hence Not Mike. Next to him are Part-time Pete and Plus One. They’re a very nice gay couple but they have a pool that they never use. (The bane of our existence is people who are fortunate enough to have pools but then don’t use them!) One of the guys must have Sunday morning custody of his two children because that’s the only time we ever hear a sound from that house. And even then they’re not in the damn pool!

The opposite side of the street starts with Poodle Lady who walks her ancient white poodle every evening so that she can chat up the neighbors. Then it’s Black Truck Bastard. On the day we moved in he was driving by and yelled at us because our moving truck was in his way. Forgive and forget? I think not. Next to him are The K-9 Cop and his wife. His police dog lives with them but we can’t tell if the wife is perpetually knocked up or just really fat. Painter Guy and Scrawny are always outside working on their lawn. She has two cute little dogs and he listens to The Dead really loud all weekend.

Directly across from us are Pinkster and Otis. Pinkster’s in her sixties but only wears pink -- that distinctive neon shade that penetrates eyeballs then causes them to bleed slowly out of their sockets. On Saturday morning at 9:00 Otis snaps open his folding lawn chair. And so begins the weekend. He putters, he paints, he power-washes, he empties and refills the garage, he mows, he trims, he edges, he blows, he plants, he scrubs, he tinkers, he fertilizes, he digs and refills holes. And then he perches upon The Royal Folding Chair of Judgment to oversee the neighborhood, surveying the comings and goings, scrutinizing his neighbors’ efforts, waving to passers by, reigning over his kingdom-let. Late Sunday night he removes the metaphorical white wig of justice and casts off his black vestments of court. Once he has returned his scepter to the broom closet, he carefully folds his throne, and prepares to return to his life as a bowling lane service rep.

To our left are The Renters. Our real neighbors moved out a couple of months ago having built a larger house a few miles closer to their jobs. I haven’t met The Renters but their recycling skills fail to indicate great genius. All boxes that are recycled must be completely flattened. Whenever I have tried to sneak a partially flattened box into the yellow bin, I have found it thrown unceremoniously into my front yard by extremely selective waste management dudes. I knew when I checked out their trash that The Renters were in for a rude recycling awakening. Lo and behold, the next evening all their rejected boxes were strewn throughout the street and yards. Damn Renters. But recently the garbage guys have enabled their bad behavior by actually accepting their unsliced boxes. What? WHAT? It’s an outrage. How can they learn proper recycling etiquette if you sanction their bad habits?

And rounding out our little neighborhood is The Halfway House. It was once a family home. But then we noticed that The Wife Whose Name I Never Learned was spending all her time working out and, consequently, losing a ton of weight. I told The Hubs that there’s only one reason a woman suddenly gets into the best shape of her life, and it’s certainly not for her cheerfully overweight but vaguely doltish husband. Shortly after she walked out, he bought a motorcycle and thus became Kawasaki Kenny. The transient inhabitants of The Halfway House don’t last long enough to warrant nicknames except for Kenny’s new girlfriend. She has a Fran Drescher voice, a Harvey Keitel face, and a medically enhanced bod. We call her Rack o’ Lamb.

We have not yet met the couples who will giddily grace our imaginary dinner parties. But we still believe that we’ll find them someday. In the meantime, we’ll continue to create our own entertainment by wondering what dreadful nicknames our neighbors have thrust upon us. The Hubs thinks maybe Ren & Stimpy, John & Yoko, or Abe & Mary Todd. But I think it’s probably more like Homer & Marge, Shrek & Fiona, or Beavis & Butthead. Oh well, I guess we’ll never know for sure.