Goosebumps rise on my arms and legs as I stand at the kitchen sink washing the dishes. I look around quickly, feeling as if someone is watching me. I’m sure everyone has left for the day, but all the same, I walk through the dining room and into the living room, and yell up the steps,” Charles, is that you?”
No one answers.” Huh!” I must be getting paranoid in my old age. I walk back into the kitchen. I pick up some more dirty glasses along the way. God, why can’t people pick up after themselves? How hard is it to bring the glass in and at least put it in the sink?
The dishwasher is on the fritz again. We can’t afford a new one. Last week I was laid off from one of my part-time jobs. I put a new trash bag in the can and take the stinking, over-filled one out to the trash can in the backyard.
As I’m about to go back to the house, I have the same weird feeling of being watched. And sure enough, there’s a creepy-looking guy standing in the driveway of my neighbor’s house across the street. He’s staring at me. I look quickly away and walk back into the house. I’ve had a lot of problems with that neighbor in the past. I tried my best to avoid any interaction with her or any of the freaks that lived on and off with her.
I lock the door behind me and put the chain across to be on the safe side. I wished those neighbors would all move away or disappear from the face of the earth and do the world a favor.
Over the past eight years, Meghan, the woman that owns the house, has sold drugs to minors and provided alcohol to middle school kids at her older son’s thirteenth birthday party. Gone through three messy divorces and a string of live-in boyfriends and had two children in addition to the two she already had.
None of which is any of my business, and I didn’t want to know about it, but I had heard all the fights, including knockdowns in their front yard, that always followed the public displays of affection. She allows her two younger children, less than three years old, to play in the street unsupervised.
Now, this new person, standing there, with his long stringy, black and gray hair, no shirt, and pants hanging so low, you could see everything, including his protruding stomach, and the crack of his ass.
When will it end?” I ask out loud to no one in particular. God, how I had come to hate that woman, I know it’s wrong, but she makes it so easy. I called the police on her one day when I saw her kick her young son on his butt as hard as she could with her booted foot. And he flew five feet, and landed face down in the graveled driveway, then she walked over and started pummeling him with her big meaty hands.
After the police left, she came out into the street and called me every filthy name she could think of, some that I had never heard before. Her language would make an Eagles Football team fan cringe.
I force myself to stop obsessing about her and her minions, by starting the wash and paying some of the bills, on my online bank account. As usual, there are more bills than bucks. I pay the ones that need to be paid first, and I’ll worry about the others later.
It’s time for me to get ready for my one remaining job, as a crossing guard at the elementary school, it doesn’t pay much, but on the other hand, it doesn’t have any benefits either. Who needs health insurance anyway?
I walk the six blocks to the school and wait for the kiddies to arrive. Luckily, I love kids and look forward to seeing their shining, happy faces every day. They all called me Wavy Woman because I have a habit of waving at everyone that passes, by foot or in a vehicle of any kind. It had started as a friendly gesture but has now become something of a compulsion, albeit a harmless one.
Sometimes people in the food store wave at me and said, “Hello, Wavy Woman, nice to see you.” As if that‘s my Christian name. Of course, I’ve found there are a lot of worse things for someone to call you.
I wait until twenty minutes after the last morning bell, and sure enough, here comes Joey, my notorious neighbor’s son, running up to the corner, “Hi, Joey, don’t you look nice today, have fun today in school, see you at three.”
He never speaks to me, just shyly smiles, and runs into the school, once again to be marked tardy. I will be back later. I decide to take a long way home and get some exercise in the fresh if somewhat frosty air.
When I return home, I‘m going to comb through the newspaper and the online job sites for another part-time job. Maybe try something more challenging. I don’t know, maybe being one of those women who replace greetings cards in food stores.
I simply refuse to work in fast food, not because they ruined the environment, by cutting down the rainforest so the cattle can graze there. But for a more selfish reason, I ‘m secretly addicted to French fries, and onion rings, and I’m trying not to become the fat lady in a carnival.
As I arrive at my driveway, I give a glance at my neighbors’ front yard. Thank god, he isn’t there, and then I see he’s sitting on their front step, smoking what I hoped is only a cigarette. I rush up to my back steps and almost step on what appears to be a dead mouse. Dear god, I think what’s next, a horse’s head over my bed?
I walk into the kitchen and grab a plastic bag, and put my hand inside and carefully pick up the mouse, which isn’t in complete rigor mortis. I pull the bag inside out and run to the trash can to throw it in. And run as quickly as possible back into the house, and double-lock the back door.
I throw myself into the task of finding another part-time job and keep my mind occupied for the next three hours. I apply for every part-time job, including a dog walker. Not my best decision. I have a total phobia of dogs of any size, including the type that can fit into teacups and never stop their incessant high-pitched barking.
I eat a quick lunch, answer a few e-mails, and delete all my spam, and empty the little computer trash can for good measure. I know this is done automatically periodically, but what can I say, I’m an organized person.
Before I know it, the timer on my cell phone beeps, signaling me that it’s time to cross the kiddies again. Being safe rather than sorry, I look out the backdoor before venturing outside, and it’s all clear, so I go my merry way.
When I get home, I decide to go through the front door, to be safe. I walk into the kitchen and look into the freezer to find something I can cook for dinner. Not much. As I ‘m doing that, my cell phone begins ringing. I think it might be about one of the jobs I sent my resume. I pick it right up. It’s not about my resume.
” Hey, it’s me.” It’s my best friend, Babes. God knows I love her to death. But it’s impossible to get a word in with her, and even more challenging to get off the phone. She’s going on and on about her husband’s habit of leaving a trail of dirty clothes from the front door to the bedroom. Which is annoying, but I’ve heard it a million times, so I start zoning out.
It’s just at that moment I hear a loud rapping at the door. I look through one of the windows at the top of a door, and I think god help me. It’s the pervert. He keeps banging, and banging, he can see me, so I have to answer the door.
“Babes, there’s a freak at the back door. If you hear me scream, please call 911 right away. Hold on while I answer the door.” 
I said all this while she was still talking a mile a minute. So I don’t know if she heard what I said or not.
I reluctantly answer the door, but only a crack, with the chain still attached. “Yes, can I help you? I’m busy. I’m on the phone conducting some business.”
He sticks his hand through the crack. I jump back as if bitten by a snake. He says slowly,” Here, this is yours. We got it by mistake.”
I take it into my hands and look down. It’s my electric bill. I look at him. I say. ”Thank you.” And quietly pull the door closed.