2. Law
2
Law
Howdy, Neighbor
W hen I started this beer, I decided if my new neighbor ended up being a no-show, I’d take the TV, and then I’d call the landlord to let him know his new tenant left all their shit on the driveway but they don’t appear to be moving in.
As I sit here, rocking in my porch swing and finishing off my second beer, I’ve already faced the fact that I’m not going to take a damn thing those pissed off movers left behind.
I do need a new TV, and that’s a nice one sitting on the other half of the driveway next to my truck, but I’m no thief. I might be a lot of things, but I am not a thief.
Plenty of people steal in all sorts of ways and do just fine. Some become millionaires. Billionaires, even. But I’m not made that way. Never have been.
And what’s it gotten me? A rented duplex and a TV with a blurry stripe running through the middle of the screen. Most movies are still watchable. Makes a ballgame hard to follow, though.
Where the hell is this person who failed to meet their movers?
I hope they’re okay.
My curiosity gets the best of me, so I walk over to take a closer look at their things.
Even through multiple layers of bubble wrap, I can tell that’s got to be an 85-inch screen. Did he not take any measurements of this place? That TV is going to cover an entire wall in his living room. He’ll have to watch it from the kitchen.
The couch is awfully small. Doesn’t go with the TV. Weird. You’d think a guy who cared so much about the size of his TV would at least have a nice, leather recliner.
I’m glad to see his headboard is solid wood. He even has a footboard. This is a sturdy looking bed. Hopefully, that means I won’t have to hear it banging against our shared wall.
The last guy who lived here was okay as far as neighbors go, but the thumping rhythm of his revolving-door love life was a constant reminder that mine paled in comparison.
Not that I’m making much of an effort in that area these days, but I don’t need a nightly confirmation.
In his defense, he did move his bed away from the wall after I offered to come over and add a few screws to shore up his headboard. He got a good laugh out of the offer. And an ego boost, I’m sure. At least I could get a full night’s sleep for the last few months he was here.
I hope this new neighbor doesn’t make me miss that guy.
I’ve seen enough. He’ll either show up or he won’t.
I push my front door open, but before I can step inside, tires roll to a stop at the curb. When I turn to see who’s pulled up, I don’t recognize the car. This has got to be my new neighbor.
I’ve already stood here staring, so it would be rude not to wait a bit longer and introduce myself.
A passenger emerges from the backseat, and soon as she stands up, our eyes lock.
Oh, come on! What are the fucking odds? This whole life must be my penance for all the bad shit I did in a past life.
Her head swivels repeatedly, looking at all her belongings exposed for the whole world to inspect, but it comes to a full stop when she recognizes my truck. The shock in her expression is almost comical.
“Where’s your little red race car?” I call out.
“It died.” She paces alongside the driveway as her ride pulls away. “They just unloaded all my stuff and left it here?”
“They waited about thirty minutes before they gave up on you. Did you get lost?”
“No. I did not get lost. You made me miss my exit! And then my car died, so I had to wait on a tow truck, and then I had to wait on a ride. Do you know how long it takes to get an Uber out here?”
“No idea. I also have no idea how you figure I made you miss your exit.” I walk to the edge of my porch because I don’t think I’m going inside anytime soon. “I took that exit easily enough. What kept you from taking it?”
“You!”
“Yeah, repeating that isn’t going to make it true. I had nothing to do with you missing the exit.”
“Yes, you did! You, road-raging psychopath!”
“Road rage? What road rage?”
“You tried to intimidate me for miles, and then you came speeding back up on my bumper out of nowhere, practically pushing me out of my lane.”
“Do you have a head injury or some other condition that affects your memory? Because I’m about to say some things to you that I would genuinely feel bad for saying to someone with an actual disability.”
“Say whatever you want. I don’t care what you think about me, anyway!”
“Look, I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume we’ve both had a bad day. Let’s start over.” I run my fingers through my hair, and hope I don’t regret not walking into my own place and closing the door on her. “Howdy, neighbor. Want some help carrying all your shit inside?”
“Seems like the least you could do at this point.”
I inhale for ten. Exhale the entire breath on one. “Listen, I did not make you miss the exit. I also did not make your movers leave. I am offering to help you because I’m a nice guy, not because I owe it to you. I don’t owe you anything.”
“Fine!”
She bends down to pick up the footboard to her bed. There’s no way she can lift that alone. I set my beer bottle on the porch railing and walk toward her. “Hold on. I’ll help you with—”
Before I can reach her, she lifts one end of it and starts dragging it across the concrete.
“Stop! That’s nice wood. You’re going to ruin it. Let me help. Please.”
“I flipped you off on the freeway.”
“Yes. And I’ll cherish the memory, always.”
“Because you cut me off.”
“I do not remember that part.”
“Well, you did.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“How about an apology?”
“Oh, I guess I thought the part where you flipped me off negated the need for that.”
She stares at me, standing her ground with her end of the footboard still raised.
I remind myself that I’m the one who initiated this interaction, so I try again. “You want to tell me your name?”
“Greta. Greta Gaines.”
“I am very sorry if I cut you off in traffic, Greta Gaines.” I lift the other end of the footboard. “That would be a great stage name, by the way. Sorry. Hazard of the industry.”
I take a step forward as she unceremoniously drops her end of the footboard, causing me to stumble into my end. “What the hell? Why did you do that?”
“Did you just insinuate that I’m a stripper?”
“Not in English.”
“You said I had a great stage name .”
“That’s not the kind of stage I meant. It’s a great name for a singer. Are you a singer, by any chance?”
“No.”
“Welp, then congratulations. You’ve got a good-for-nothing name as far as I can tell. You want to help me move this inside now?”
“Are you going to tell me your name?”
“Law. Law Davis.”
“Law?”
“Short for Lawson, but pretty much only my mama calls me that.”
“Your mama, huh? You’re obviously a Texas boy.”
“And with that twang in your voice, you’re obviously a Texas girl. After we move all your stuff, we can compare family trees, but if you wouldn’t mind—”
“I do not have a twang .”
“You’ve got a little twang. And for the record, Greta Gaines would be a terrible stripper name.”
“Are you done insulting me?”
“Oh, now it’s an insult if you don’t have a stripper name?”
“I’m only insulted because you think you can make assumptions about me. You don’t know me. There’s nothing wrong with being a stripper, by the way. Sex workers deserve the same respect as anyone else, but thanks to men—”
“Maybe we should do a little more moving and a whole lot less talking.”
She huffs at me, but she lifts her end of the footboard again. She’s stronger than she looks, and she’s got really pretty eyes, even when they’re glaring at me.
I doubt she’s going to be any quieter than the last guy who lived here, but I don’t think I’m going to miss him at all.