Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why It Often Sucks in the City, or Who Are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me? (16 page)

But are we appreciated for my sweat equity, which has done nothing but improve their property values? Hell, no. From the way we’re tacitly ignored, you’d have thought we’d adorned out patio with old auto parts and a clothesline full of pit-stained undershirts, not cascading sprays of wave petunias and lush asparagus fern.

Why?

Because we—
pearls clutched, gasp, the horror!
—are renters. Even though we pay the same amount of rent as their mortgages for the privilege of living around these awful people, we’re shunned for not being our townhome’s rightful owners.

Making matters worse, we’re the only family who rents at the moment. Another renter lived in the unit next door, but she moved out earlier this spring when the owners sold her place. She was a sweet young widow and occasionally we’d exchange pleasantries. She was great—friendly but not intrusive, enthusiastic without being overbearing, and blissfully quiet…until she bought the drum set. For nine long months she played
thump
the
thump
same
thump
damn
thump
riff
thump
for
thump
hours
thump
on
thump
end
thump
. Previously such behavior would have led me to plot her painful demise, but I’ve really committed myself to being a better person. Plus, I couldn’t be mean to a widow. I gritted my teeth and listened to her bang away, not improving even one iota despite constant
thump
resounding
thump
soul-rattling
thump
practice. When her movers showed up last month, I hugged her good-bye and told her to take care of herself. And then I cracked open a bottle of the finest $8 champagne I could find.

Anyway, I’ve been scheming to get my neighbors’ attention for the past few weeks, figuring that if they’d just
talk
with me they’d like me.
I am likable, damn it.
Sure, I told Fletch I hate these folks, but that’s only because they show no interest in me. Truthfully, their rebukes hurt my delicate little feelings and have driven me to distraction. They can’t really
not
want to meet me simply because I write a check to my landlord instead of my lender,
can they?
According to the gal next door, my landlord was an exhibitionist and used to
do it
every day, blinds open, lights on, and generally wearing a role-playing costume.
12
I imagine not seeing my bare butt flying around the living room in a Red Riding Hood cape would be a huge selling point, so how are we worse neighbors than
that
?

Maybe that’s just how life is in the city? When I was a kid, my family knew everyone in a four-block radius. We celebrated holidays with them and attended their children’s weddings. If they were young, we sent casseroles over when they had babies. If they were old, we shoveled their driveways without asking. But, here? I have no idea how to interact and it’s hard to connect—no roles have been established.

The old me would have said, “Fuck ’em,” and I’d have found a nice sawed-off bathtub and placed a figure of the Virgin Mary next to my baby pool and pink flamingos right in the center of the patio. And despite my almost crippling modesty, those bedroom curtains would be open 24/7 for the
All Jen’s Naked White Ass, All the Time Show.
But the new Slightly Kinder, Slightly Gentler Jen instead creates a foolproof turn-neighbors-into-friends scheme.

I’m outside executing said plan when Fletch comes home.

“What on earth are you doing?”

In our household, Fletch asks this question a lot. “What do you mean?” is my stock response. Generally whatever I’m doing is patently obvious, whether it’s having the dog try on my niece’s birthday tutu
13
or painting the room earmarked for Fletch’s den cotton-candy pink after we’d agreed on taupe. (Oh, come on, who wouldn’t like to work in Barbie’s Dream Office? I mean, except for Fletcher?)

“Clarification; what on earth are you doing
out here
?” Fletch sits next to me in one of our teak chairs and places his briefcase on the slatted table.

“I’m reading.
Duh
.” I wave a stack of papers at him. A writer friend asked me to look at a manuscript and possibly give a quote for the book’s jacket, so I’m out on our patio perusing its pages. I take a slug of my Pinot Noir and attempt to get back to work.

Fletch lights a cigarette, grabs a sip of my wine, and continues. “You’re going to make me spell this out, aren’t you? Why are you reading out here
in the dark
?”

I close my manuscript with a thud. “Because the people across the parking lot are having a party and I want to be invited. I figure if I sit here with my glass of wine, two things will happen. One, they’ll ask what I’m reading. Then I’ll get to imply how cool I am, what with reviewing this manuscript and all. And two, when they see the wine they’ll ascertain I’m in the mood for a cocktail and they’ll insist I join them,
again
, what with me being so cool and all. Then they’ll be my best friends and I will be the most popular girl in the neighborhood. After all, who doesn’t want a soon-to-be-famous author at their soiree?”
14

Fletch takes a moment to digest what I’ve just said, fortifying himself with yet more of my wine. “
Posing
is your master plan? This is what you’ve been scheming about behind closed doors for a month? And you’re expecting success? By just sitting here with paper in front of you? You’re a bucket of black paint shy of turning into Wile E. Coyote. Hmm, perhaps you could drop Acme-brand anvils on all their heads if posing doesn’t work. Meep, meep.”

“Honey, what you fail to realize is I perfected my ‘get invited’ strategy thirty years ago and I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. The simplicity is the key to its brilliance! See, when I was in second grade, my neighbor Brenda Mitchell used to swim with her friends every day at noon. Because she was an older kid with no time for ‘babies,’ she never wanted to hang out with me. And yet I managed to swim with her whenever I wanted.”

Fletch looks skeptical, so I continue.

“See, Mrs. Mitchell was really nice. So I’d knock on the door to ask if Brenda could come out and play, knowing full well she was in the water. Mrs. Mitchell would insist I run home, put my suit on, and join them, never once suspecting I was a seven-year-old Machiavelli. Lather, rinse, repeat, once a day, every day, for the entire summer. The end.”

“Did Brenda ever try to drown you?”

“Oh, sure, on a daily basis. But hey, you can’t be drowned if you’re not in a pool!”

“I knew you were a master manipulator; I didn’t realize you’d started so early. But back to the matter at hand—you hate those guys across the street. Why are you so desperate to join them?”

“They have banana daiquiris. With drink umbrellas! I’d sell state secrets to the Taliban for a good banana daiquiri.”
15

“Then make your own instead of sucking up to people you don’t like. We’ve got rum, bananas, and some mix in the freezer—we may even have a few umbrellas left in the junk drawer. Come on inside; we’ll try out the new blender.”

“Yeah, I could…” I trail off.

“What? You have a big ‘but’ in your voice.”

“It’s just that…” I sigh.

“It’s just that what?”

I nod and gaze longingly across our brick, U-shaped parking lot. “Honey, everyone over there is either a fat chick or a gay guy.”

“What’s the problem? I thought those were your kind of people.”

“Yes, exactly! They totally
are
my kind of people. But those guys are ignoring me, when by all rights
I should be their queen.
”

Speechless, Fletch stubs out his cigarette, collects his bag, and retreats into the brightness of the house. The sun has long since set and the mosquitoes are biting in earnest. I watch as the people across from me gather up daiquiri glasses and bottles, extinguishing torches and citronella candles, and file inside. The last one closes the front door and with nary a wave or nod in my direction turns off the porch light. I’m left alone in the dark with an empty wineglass, a stack of paper, and my thoughts. Considering I live within walking distance of the Sears Tower, it’s eerie how quiet it is out here.

Generally I prefer the anonymity the city offers, which is why I’ve yet to take off for the ’burbs or that Wyoming mountaintop. I like not being defined by silly incidents that happened in the neighborhood ages before. Case in point, twenty-one years later, Kim from across the street still teases me about the time my brother flew out of the car and kissed the ground after taking me for a driving lesson. It’s nice to dash out for a gallon of milk wearing no makeup and glasses, knowing you won’t run into anyone. I relish the fluidity of upgrading apartments by moving and never once mourning the place I just left. Residing in the middle of this big, beautiful city gives me the sense of freedom and independence I never had growing up in Huntington, Indiana. Yet once in a while, it would be nice to be offered a damn banana daiquiri.

Looks like I’m never going to be able to join these neighbors, so I resign myself to beating them.

Now, where did I put those binoculars?

To:
angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
greetings from the job

What up, bitches?

I’ve been working a decent temp gig for the past few weeks, hence the sporadic contact. At first I thought I’d get some really fantastic material out of the job because the administrative assistant who was training me hated the other admin with a passion and spoke at length about their whole East Coast–West Coast gangsta level of animosity and I was sure caps would be placed in respective asses, except by “caps” I mean dirty looks and snide comments about the craftsmanship of the other’s shoes whispered at a barely perceptible level over by the Diet Coke machine. Alas, the first admin went to her new job once I was trained and the admin who is left is really pleasant, incredibly competent, helpful, and professional. So I guess she wasn’t the bad guy.

Anyway, I’m not going to bitch about the company because, again, I landed somewhere nice. They have free flavored coffee creamers in the lunchroom—which, by the way, is as nice as a restaurant—plus they stock Splenda
and
NutraSweet. Also, they have a crushed-ice machine and real silverware for the employees to use when they eat their lunch. You could say that having been jobless for so long I appreciate the little things. The more likely explanation is that I’m easily impressed.

The only downside is the executives I support are out of town and I’m
bored
. Unfortunately, it’s not the kind of place where I can just blatantly work on personal stuff. Today to kill a half hour, I looked up all the doctors the old assistant had written on the calendar she left behind. She went to a number of different gynecologists. Apparently she had a problem with her girly bits.

Tomorrow I plan to swap out my chair.

Jen

To:
angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
except for all the sailing, it’s a really hard job

Poor Fletch—he’s under a lot of pressure right now because he started a job at a new company. However, before you feel too sorry for him, I should mention (a) this is his dream job, (b) much of the pressure is self-imposed, and (c) he has to go sailing with clients and a full cooler of beverages every Friday. His tan is better than mine right now and don’t think I’m not a tad resentful.

Regardless, my point is whenever he gets stressed, he talks in his sleep. After a whole week of waking up to hearing him say some whacky shit, I’ve started to write it down.

From last night:

“Who’s the douchebag that threw the grenade?”

and

“So everyone gets a new fucking watch?”

I am more than a little awed at how coherent and profane these thoughts are, but I’m also conflicted. On the one hand, I want his stress level to decrease because I love him and don’t want him feeling undue pressure. But on the other, I hate to mess with the funny.

What to do?

Jen