pointed at a young Latino man tinkering on a motorcycle in the garage across the street.
"Hmm. I think his name's Mike? I don't really know him. He goes on motorcycle rides most weekends."
"Okay. How about him?" This time I pointed at a big man in an unseasonable brown coat, walking up the hill dragging a wire grocery cart behind him. He was middle-aged, and had probably been a real bruiser in his prime.
"That's Ike Train," she said. "Nice guy, but kind of intense. He's a plumber, and he fixes stuff for people in the neighbourhood for free sometimes, but he likes to hang around and talk for a while afterward, and he gets bad BO when he sweats, so not a lot of people take him up on it. He's got a deal with whoever owns my building, though, and he does all the plumbing stuff here."
"How about her?" I said. A woman in sunglasses, attractive in a blonde-and-brittle-and-gym-cultured way, was walking a little yip-ping dog.
"Martha." Sadie rolled her eyes. "Put your trash cans out on the curb a day early and you'll catch hell from her. I think she's in a hurry for this neighbourhood to finish gentrifying. So why all the questions?"
"I just like talking to you," I said, which was the truth, but not the whole truth. "Asking about people passing by seemed like a good way to do that."
She laughed. "You never told me your name."
Why not? No one ever even remarked on the name - except to say it was weird - unless I was on a Pacific island, and even then, it meant so many things in so many different languages, no one ever guessed. "I'm Reva," I said.
"Interesting name. Where you from?"
"I was born on a little island in the Pacific," I said. "You wouldn't have heard of it. But I didn't stay there long. I've lived all over since then." I thought this was going well, but we were reaching the point where the conversation could founder on the rocks of nothing-in-common. "You said you're here for school? What do you-"
Someone shouted "Sadie!" A short man with wispy hair, dressed like an IRS agent from the 1950s - black horn-rimmed glasses, white shirt, narrow black tie - bustled over from the house across the street, an ugly boxy two-storey with heavy drapes in the windows. He reached our side of the street and said "Vocabulary word: 'Obstruction'."
"Oh, Christ," Sadie muttered.
"Something that gets in the way," he continued. "Another: 'Obstinate'. Unreasonably stubborn; pig-headed."
"The back bumper of my car's only in front of your driveway by an inch, Oswald," she said. "The car in front of me is too far back, I'm sorry, it's not like it's actually in your way."
"In my way, and in the red," Oswald said, not even glancing at me, staring at Sadie with damp-looking eyes magnified behind thick lenses. "The police have been notified."
"Whatever," Sadie said. "Fine, I'll move it." She stood up, glared at him, looked at me apologetically, and walked over to a well-worn black compact that was, maybe, poking two inches into the little driveway that led to Oswald's garage. She got in and drove away.
I nodded at Oswald. "Beautiful day," I said.
He squinted at me, then turned and went back to his house, up the steps, and through the front door.
I glanced at the book Sadie had left on the steps. It was a monograph on contraceptive methods in the ancient world. I wondered what she was studying. A few moments later she came walking up the sidewalk and returned to her place on the steps. "Sorry," she said. "Oswald's a dick. He never even opens his garage. As far as I know he doesn't even have a car." She shook her head.
"Every neighbourhood has a nasty, petty person or two."
"I guess. Most people here are pretty nice. I've only been here a year, but I know a lot of people well enough to say hello to, and Oswald's the only one I really can't stand.
"Hmm. I think his name's Mike? I don't really know him. He goes on motorcycle rides most weekends."
"Okay. How about him?" This time I pointed at a big man in an unseasonable brown coat, walking up the hill dragging a wire grocery cart behind him. He was middle-aged, and had probably been a real bruiser in his prime.
"That's Ike Train," she said. "Nice guy, but kind of intense. He's a plumber, and he fixes stuff for people in the neighbourhood for free sometimes, but he likes to hang around and talk for a while afterward, and he gets bad BO when he sweats, so not a lot of people take him up on it. He's got a deal with whoever owns my building, though, and he does all the plumbing stuff here."
"How about her?" I said. A woman in sunglasses, attractive in a blonde-and-brittle-and-gym-cultured way, was walking a little yip-ping dog.
"Martha." Sadie rolled her eyes. "Put your trash cans out on the curb a day early and you'll catch hell from her. I think she's in a hurry for this neighbourhood to finish gentrifying. So why all the questions?"
"I just like talking to you," I said, which was the truth, but not the whole truth. "Asking about people passing by seemed like a good way to do that."
She laughed. "You never told me your name."
Why not? No one ever even remarked on the name - except to say it was weird - unless I was on a Pacific island, and even then, it meant so many things in so many different languages, no one ever guessed. "I'm Reva," I said.
"Interesting name. Where you from?"
"I was born on a little island in the Pacific," I said. "You wouldn't have heard of it. But I didn't stay there long. I've lived all over since then." I thought this was going well, but we were reaching the point where the conversation could founder on the rocks of nothing-in-common. "You said you're here for school? What do you-"
Someone shouted "Sadie!" A short man with wispy hair, dressed like an IRS agent from the 1950s - black horn-rimmed glasses, white shirt, narrow black tie - bustled over from the house across the street, an ugly boxy two-storey with heavy drapes in the windows. He reached our side of the street and said "Vocabulary word: 'Obstruction'."
"Oh, Christ," Sadie muttered.
"Something that gets in the way," he continued. "Another: 'Obstinate'. Unreasonably stubborn; pig-headed."
"The back bumper of my car's only in front of your driveway by an inch, Oswald," she said. "The car in front of me is too far back, I'm sorry, it's not like it's actually in your way."
"In my way, and in the red," Oswald said, not even glancing at me, staring at Sadie with damp-looking eyes magnified behind thick lenses. "The police have been notified."
"Whatever," Sadie said. "Fine, I'll move it." She stood up, glared at him, looked at me apologetically, and walked over to a well-worn black compact that was, maybe, poking two inches into the little driveway that led to Oswald's garage. She got in and drove away.
I nodded at Oswald. "Beautiful day," I said.
He squinted at me, then turned and went back to his house, up the steps, and through the front door.
I glanced at the book Sadie had left on the steps. It was a monograph on contraceptive methods in the ancient world. I wondered what she was studying. A few moments later she came walking up the sidewalk and returned to her place on the steps. "Sorry," she said. "Oswald's a dick. He never even opens his garage. As far as I know he doesn't even have a car." She shook her head.
"Every neighbourhood has a nasty, petty person or two."
"I guess. Most people here are pretty nice. I've only been here a year, but I know a lot of people well enough to say hello to, and Oswald's the only one I really can't stand.
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