KBTV

KBTV::Neighbors, Romance & A Fried A/C Unit

On Wednesdays I usually don’t have to wake up at dawn to shoot, so I often sleep in. Not so, this morning. I awoke at 5 a.m. with a start, in the heart of a nightmare. Apparently, someone I love passionately had left me for Hilary Clinton. Yuck.

I tumble out of bed and waddle into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I glance up at the mirror. Ugh, I look terrible. Hair in ponytail, I pad down the stairs to grab a chilled, peach Fresca from the fridge. It was then that I noticed it was a little stuffy and dank in the house. Hmmm. On the way back upstairs I realized lightning had hit something, and my townhouse had convulsed in a massive power surge. There I was in the middle of a beautiful 3,200 square-foot townhouse, virtually camping. No lights. No Internet. And — once again — no air-conditioning.

I made a courageous attempt to go back to sleep. No go. So I slipped on my navy suede Ugg clogs and clumped up to the roof, gazing out on a soon-to-be fabulous sunrise gently peeking up from the horizon. Got it. Now I remember. This is why I live down on Florida’s Gold Coast. Serene, beautiful, peaceful, quiet. No drama.

I amble out to the edge of my roof deck and rest my elbows on the concrete ledge. My thoughts turn to the sheer insanity I’m sure to leap into as the commercial contractors’ world opens its doors. I should call my guy at the A/C company. Vern and I should call him now. Do I even have a Service Contract with Perfect Cooling? God, I hope so. I lower my head and mutter a quick prayer. God understands “mutter-speak,” I hope.

I lean over the edge of the pale mustard, solid concrete barrier to catch a couple kissing goodbye. It’s the guy who lives at the end of the dead end street on the East side of my townhouse. His cottage is a pigsty and an eyesore. I finally felt compelled to call the Broward Sheriff’s Office so they’d give him a warning and get him to vacate his illegally parked, mobile dumpster.

I later apologized for being such a bitch, and he and I have since become friends. He’s hoping to get bought out by the developers, who are building the Parking Garage across the street, because, he tells me, he knows his house is a teardown and he wishes they’d get it over with already. He’s broke and ready to move. Then I remembered his girlfriend is a flight attendant for American Airlines. I’d never seen her around, so I thought he was making her up so I wouldn’t think he was gay. (I did think he was gay, by the way.) Well, I guess he’s not gay, the flight attendant is indeed real, and this –— perched below me now — must be her.

She is in an American Airlines Flight Attendant costume, with wild wet hair. She bursts out laughing at that very moment, and they fall into each other’s arms. The dawn is breaking and the orange and peach light begins to deepen as it creeps across the sky. He grabs her around the throat with his left arm into some kind of a chokehold and begins rubbing his balled-up fist in a twisting motion on top of her head. It’s called a “nuggie,” I think. She is giggling and gasping for air and trying to kick him in the shin. He finally let’s her go, and she feigns a slap across his face. He intercepts her open, swinging palm, turns it face down and gently kisses her knuckles.

I’ll miss you, she whispers, pushing out a pouting lower lip. I’ll miss you, too, he mouths. He then grabs her in a big bear hug, and they say goodbye over and over again. The goodbye takes on a honey-I’m-going-off-to-war type parting. Finally she breaks free, rolls her smart, black — but beat up — overnight bag and throws it in the back of her beige and green, two-toned Pinto and sputters off. He waves at her. He stands, mesmerized in her wake. His mint-green hospital scrubs, tied at the waste, begin to droop as he shifts about in worn thin flip-flops, no shirt.

My eyes begin to sting with fatigue, or tears maybe? I’m so worn out it’s hard to tell. But there I stand, transfixed, somehow lost as the fly-on-the-wall voyeur, drinking in the moment. My neighbor in the mint-green scrubs suddenly looks up — steps back in surprise that I’m up, that I’m watching — and he raises his hand to toss me a somewhat awkward wave. I wave back.

Hmmm. I’m lonely. That’s it. I just must be lonely. I pivot in my Ugg clogs and saunter back in through the glass door. Whew. It’s hot. I hit “Vern, Perfect Cooling” on my phone list.

Game on.

posted by katebohner @ 6:50 PM