The Table, The Conclusion....
Read Part 1, then Read Part 2, then Read Part 3, then Read Part 4, then Read Part 5, then Read Part 6, then Read Part 7!
I flipped to the last page of Neighbor Man's scrapbook while he rummaged through his kitchen. A series of photos of a lone man covered the last four pages. He was young - perhaps thirty - with shoulder-length honey hair combed straight back from his face. He wore a black oxford shirt in the first, untucked over ratty jeans, his feet bare, one atop the other, as he sat on Noreen's front steps. He wore a white polo shirt in the next photo, over wrinkled chinos, one arm raised over his head in a stretch. The shirt rode above his waist and I could see a solid six-pack in light tan. The chinos strained under the muscles of his thighs, and his androgynous face with the piercing blue eyes gave him a movie star's presence. The snapshots continued, young hunky model at rest along Noreen's property. Look! Sexy man leans against stucco! Look! Sexy man caresses a bird of paradise bloom! Look! Sexy man with hands on hips surveys the neighborhood! Sexy man, I thought. I studied the line of hair traveling from his belly button to the low-slung waist of his pants. Damn sexy.
Neighbor Man carried a plate of Ritz crackers and sliced processed cheese. He handed me another beer and a green plastic plate.
"Sorry. I don't usually have company." He folded a cheese slice into quarters and stuck it between two crackers. He popped it in his mouth, and I grabbed my own crackers and cheese and mimicked his actions. The cheese stuck to the roof of my mouth.
"Ith OK. I like cheethe." I drank a good swig of beer, tried to pry the extra cheese from the roof of my mouth. Neighbor Man ate two more cracker sandwiches, then pointed to the photos.
"That's Luke. Or 'Oscar' as they call him." Neighbor Man folded another cheese slice and I noticed his hands shook as he spoke. His voice held an unusual edge, the sort of tone I recognized when male customers discussed cheating wives and long gone gold-digging girlfriends. "Fucker got Noreen fooled, all those celebrities. It's difficult to talk about." He took a long drink. His head looked large again, huge and pained and stuffed with secret solitude and misery. Does a large head make large sadness, I wondered? Or does the sadness expand the dimensions of the head? I stared at him, didn't hide my examination, let my eyes trace the square of his forehead, the lump and slide of his nose. Six freckles outlined his right eye, none on his left.
He ate another piece of cheese, the last one, then started to stand with the plate. I grabbed his arm, made him sit back down, made him drop the plate to the floor. His eyes filled with tears, and I leaned over to give him a huge hug.
"It's OK, man. I understand. You don't have to tell me. I know. I know, honey. It's OK." I hugged him tight like a mother hugs a son, and though he probably had a few years on me, I felt as if he were twelve years old, my own boy. He didn't lose composure, but I felt a ripple of pain leave his body, rise from his stomach to his head, lift into the air above us. I felt J-Lo leave, too, felt his masculine fake bravado shake from his body. He might be an ass man, I thought. But J-Lo ain't doing nothing for this guy.
"Just tell me about Noreen, OK? I don't need to know other things." No wonder he was obsessed, a man with a color gun. "Tell me about Noreen."
Neighbor man released his hold on me. He grabbed my hand, held it tight, and started to talk.
"I met Luke at the beach. I know actor's are trouble, but I couldn't resist, Bird Dude. He was fucking hot. Plus he knows the same kinds of things I know. I thought we had true love, dude." Neighbor Man scratched the back of his neck, let his eyes water and drip, didn't care, kept telling the story of his love affair with Luke, how Luke moved his vintage wooden surfboard and library of philosophy tomes to Neighbor Man's home, how Luke met Noreen, how he asked Luke to elope to San Francisco with him and become his legal husband.
"We broke up and that was that, man. I didn't even know Luke was involved until three months ago." Neighbor Man sobbed, and I fished through my backpack for the personal pack of tissues I always carry. I dabbed his face, handed him the tissue, and he took four deep breaths. The clown fish darted to the surface of the tank, and I wondered if he knew his owner cried. I tried to send a telepathic message to the fish: It will be all right, I promise. The fish dove behind a green filmy plant.
Neighbor Man spit the story in short bursts between sobs. Luke pretended he was the bona fide reincarnation of Oscar Wilde. It's California, dude, and people believe this shit, Bird Dude. Luke convinced Noreen to hire a friend of his - an ex-lover chef who once served the very president of the United States - and to start an illegal gourmet speakeasy in my blue suburb heaven. Hilarity ensues. Many celebrities. Expensive dinners - one fucking thousand dollars a plate, dude. One. Fucking. Thousand. Bucks. One. Thousand. Dude. For lemon grass and salmon, dude. One. Fucking. Grand.
I listened to Neighbor Man ramble. His tears stopped, but his body still moved in the rhythmic bursts of the lovesick. He told me about Luke's idea, Luke's fucking brilliant idea, to convince everyone he was Oscar, to get everyone to overpay for gourmet faire, and to experience an evening quizzing the New Improved Sexy and Young Oscar Wilde on politics and love and society and sex. Oh yeah, sex, baby, that's where it's at. And the celebrities and other guests sign six pages promising secrecy, swearing future children and makeup trailers that they will not spill the beans. Invitation only. No press inquiries allowed.
I took it all in, kept my eyes focused on Neighbor Man's enigmatic expression, knew he was telling God's Truth. I heard an engine rumble as he finished explaining Luke's gritty appeal, ran to the window. The black Mercedes came to a stop, and a short man exited the vehicle. He ran to a simple Ford parked along Noreen's street, jumped inside, and sped from the neighborhood. Wow, I thought. Wow. A thousand bucks of wow. Neighbor Man paused, blew his nose hard and clear in the tissue I provided.
"So Bird Dude. You probably don't know what they do with your Avon, but I figured it out. Some guy down the street comes over at the end of the meal and gives the guests a foot massage. He's really hot. Maybe you know him?"
I stared at Neighbor Man, remembered an Avon customer desperate for strange feet. Yeah. Wow. Dumb celebrities.
The clown fish hid behind the treasure chest as Neighbor Man closed his eyes, leaned further against the wall. His chest moved easy now, rose and fell with every third tick of his grandfather clock. I watched him fall asleep, patted him on the head, and whispered a message as I left.
"Hey dude. Don't look into the past. Take pictures of your future. That's all any of us can do. And man, if you can manage, just be yourself to everyone. It hurts at the start, but then it gets easier, and you can drop all your pain. I promise."
I closed his door behind me, left him snoozing against the eggshell wall, remembered all the moments of strange disclosure with my own children, knew Neighbor Man would be OK, the way we all end up OK, with memories of grief and love piled beside heavy beside us.
10:00:05 PM 
|
|
