Shadow Show: All-New Stories in Celebration of Ray Bradbury by Sam Weller, Mort Castle (Ed) Page B
Authors: Sam Weller, Mort Castle (Ed)
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full of booze—and for the first time, I saw a look of concern pass over the girl’s face, as if she feared I might grab her and throw her down and have at her on that couch, which I already knew I was going to buy if for no other reason than to make this all up to her.
She glanced toward the back, looking, I assume, for a coworker, hoping someone would come to the front of the store so she wouldn’t have to be alone with me.
That’s when I nearly lost it, knowing I’d caused a nice girl like her alarm, and I said, “I’ll take it. The couch. It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for.”
T he next morning I woke up and went outside to retrieve the Dispatch from the front step. That was the first time I saw Mr. Mendes, the man who would become my neighbor across the street.
He was moving in. The HER Realty sign was leaning against the maple tree in the front yard. The previous owners, a Mr. and Mrs. Zambesi, had raked the last of the fallen leaves before bidding the neighborhood fare thee well. No one had been sorry to see them go. They were, in short, a disruption to the generally tranquil cul-de-sac. They were people with tempers, and more than once their arguments had escalated to the point where some of us had called the police. It wasn’t uncommon to hear shouting in the middle of the night, doors slamming, glass breaking, car tires squealing. “You’re no one I care about,” I heard Mrs. Zambesi scream one night. “Do you hear me? No one!”
Our expectations for Mr. Mendes, then, were high. It didn’t matter to us that he was a single man. In fact, that was a plus. A single man who led a pleasant and quiet life. At least that was our hope.
The house was a four-bedroom two-story with a brick façade halfway up the front and vinyl siding the rest of the way. The siding was light yellow and the window shutters were green.
A house that said howdy-do and welcome.
The front door was wide open that morning, and a couple of men in sleeveless T-shirts were unloading furniture from a white truck that said TWO MEN AND A TRUCK on the side . Truth in advertising. There they were: two men and their truck.
Mr. Mendes had parked his red Volvo wagon along the curb in front of my house—such a cheery color, red—and was easing a birdcage out of the back. He had a cockatiel inside—a gray-feathered cockatiel with a yellow head and a bright orange spot on each cheek. The bird was whistling and clicking to beat the band, singing and trilling like he was the happiest Gus on this old planet Earth. Mr. Mendes looked quite chipper himself, dressed in crisply pressed navy slacks and a shirt the color of a robin’s egg. The crowning touch? A cardigan sweater of white, violet, and sky-blue stripes—vertical stripes along the front and back, and short horizontal hatches on the sleeves. On this day, when the trees were bare and the sky was leaden and there was just enough bite in the air to remind us that soon we’d settle into winter, he and his bird were a glorious sight.
I couldn’t help but call out to him. “Hello,” I said. “Welcome to Saddlebrook Estates. I’m Lex. I like your sweater.”
He looked down at the front of his sweater, as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing. Then he gave me a pleasant grin. “My name is Mendes,” he said, “and this is Popcorn.”
What a delightful name for a cockatiel, and I said as much.
“Thank you,” Mr. Mendes said. “He’s the light of my life. I’ve had him fifteen years.”
“Does he talk?”
“Oh, yes, very much.”
Mr. Mendes leaned over and said something to the bird. Soon Popcorn’s chirpy bird voice rang out. “Touchdown,” he said. “Touchdown. Touchdown.”
“It’s football season,” I said with a laugh. “And you know how football-crazy Columbus is. Go, Bucks! You’ll be the hit of the neighborhood.”
And he was. All because of Popcorn, who charmed the neighbors when they dropped by to bring Mr. Mendes a loaf of bread, a pound
She glanced toward the back, looking, I assume, for a coworker, hoping someone would come to the front of the store so she wouldn’t have to be alone with me.
That’s when I nearly lost it, knowing I’d caused a nice girl like her alarm, and I said, “I’ll take it. The couch. It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for.”
T he next morning I woke up and went outside to retrieve the Dispatch from the front step. That was the first time I saw Mr. Mendes, the man who would become my neighbor across the street.
He was moving in. The HER Realty sign was leaning against the maple tree in the front yard. The previous owners, a Mr. and Mrs. Zambesi, had raked the last of the fallen leaves before bidding the neighborhood fare thee well. No one had been sorry to see them go. They were, in short, a disruption to the generally tranquil cul-de-sac. They were people with tempers, and more than once their arguments had escalated to the point where some of us had called the police. It wasn’t uncommon to hear shouting in the middle of the night, doors slamming, glass breaking, car tires squealing. “You’re no one I care about,” I heard Mrs. Zambesi scream one night. “Do you hear me? No one!”
Our expectations for Mr. Mendes, then, were high. It didn’t matter to us that he was a single man. In fact, that was a plus. A single man who led a pleasant and quiet life. At least that was our hope.
The house was a four-bedroom two-story with a brick façade halfway up the front and vinyl siding the rest of the way. The siding was light yellow and the window shutters were green.
A house that said howdy-do and welcome.
The front door was wide open that morning, and a couple of men in sleeveless T-shirts were unloading furniture from a white truck that said TWO MEN AND A TRUCK on the side . Truth in advertising. There they were: two men and their truck.
Mr. Mendes had parked his red Volvo wagon along the curb in front of my house—such a cheery color, red—and was easing a birdcage out of the back. He had a cockatiel inside—a gray-feathered cockatiel with a yellow head and a bright orange spot on each cheek. The bird was whistling and clicking to beat the band, singing and trilling like he was the happiest Gus on this old planet Earth. Mr. Mendes looked quite chipper himself, dressed in crisply pressed navy slacks and a shirt the color of a robin’s egg. The crowning touch? A cardigan sweater of white, violet, and sky-blue stripes—vertical stripes along the front and back, and short horizontal hatches on the sleeves. On this day, when the trees were bare and the sky was leaden and there was just enough bite in the air to remind us that soon we’d settle into winter, he and his bird were a glorious sight.
I couldn’t help but call out to him. “Hello,” I said. “Welcome to Saddlebrook Estates. I’m Lex. I like your sweater.”
He looked down at the front of his sweater, as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing. Then he gave me a pleasant grin. “My name is Mendes,” he said, “and this is Popcorn.”
What a delightful name for a cockatiel, and I said as much.
“Thank you,” Mr. Mendes said. “He’s the light of my life. I’ve had him fifteen years.”
“Does he talk?”
“Oh, yes, very much.”
Mr. Mendes leaned over and said something to the bird. Soon Popcorn’s chirpy bird voice rang out. “Touchdown,” he said. “Touchdown. Touchdown.”
“It’s football season,” I said with a laugh. “And you know how football-crazy Columbus is. Go, Bucks! You’ll be the hit of the neighborhood.”
And he was. All because of Popcorn, who charmed the neighbors when they dropped by to bring Mr. Mendes a loaf of bread, a pound