chp. 1

Sink softly with the night that swallows you.

No, none for me, thanks, I'm Mr. Weiner. And here's a story

of an otherwise distinguished gentleman.

I often wonder how long it takes the heart to find its place. I often consider all my previous mistakes. I'm a jolly good fellow with a belly full of wine! I think people laugh at me when I leave.

If I left, my cat would miss me. My neighbor Al, he doesn't know me. Our empty chats together are a point of pride. We talk about our lawns, sprinklers, street parking, etc. I wouldn't want to cut that routine. We sometimes just exchange greetings in the evenings with our briefcases.

"Greetings, Bill."

"Greetings, Bob."

He must have divorced the step-mother of his daughter. She moved out. I think he's on better terms with his first wife—I notice her car more often. Some mornings I sip my coffee and spot another woman doing the walk of shame from his house. He works out. If I looked like him I'd wear a bandanna and a sleeveless shirt and do my sets near the stairmaster. I wonder what he's noticed about me.

He wanted me to go halfsies on a white fence. I'm not going to do it but next time I'll ask him about the materials and hardware stores.  I imagine he might say we can just paint the wood white, and then we can go from there.

I think my neighbors judge me.  My mailman— I put cash in an envelope and send it to my psychics,  for the week's lottery picks.  When I see him at my doorstep, I slide the envelope out.  I can see him smirk through the slit in the door.  I don't know what he's so smug about—he carries my mail.  He's 53 and he has monster calves.  He wears baggy shorts and sneakers.  It doesn't look right.  He probably has kids, and has to support his wife, and he's running around all day riling up everyone's dogs.

There's a fat woman in one of the houses.  She never comes out.  I see her small sport utility leave for work in the mornings, then it's parked again.  She lives alone, but midweek there's a maid service vehicle in her driveway.  Sometimes I see pizza deliveries being made at her residence.  In my evening walks I linger as I pass by her house.  It's like she's not even home.

There's never any barbecues on the block; in the holidays, no Christmas lights.  The kids don't come around on Halloween.  She never puts any decorations out, or any lights. I like to put mine out when I see Al outside setting up his Santa Claus and inflatable reindeer.