Last night, after 8 months, Barbara finally broke her silence. Who is Barabara, you ask? She is one of my neighbors. I'm not even sure her name is Barbara, but since she refuses to speak to me, I'm forced to just make things up as I go along. Actually with the exception of Furball, and the Latino guy with the black, Lab puppy named Cap-i-tan (Mousse's nemesis), no one in the complex speaks to me. So Furball and I have created identities for each one of them.
Keep in mind what I tell you about Barbara is probably very wrong since I'm merely judging a book by it's cover. I usually don't do such things, but she gives me no other choice. When I say Hi to her in order to be friendly, she just glares at me as if I flipped her the bird instead of greeting her politely. I am convinced that Barb is running from the law and probably works at some low-key diner or truck stop. In the 8 months that I've semi-known her, her hair has been jet black, bleachy blonde, red, and now, dirty brown. Along with her frequent changes of hair color, she also wears very large, dark shades. Now, I know this is a fashion of sorts these days, but Barb is hardly someone who keeps up with Hollywood's fashion trends. I mean, unless I missed the memo that stone washed denim purses with fringes on them are now cool. =/
She lives alone, except for the gangly man with the balding head and dead rat above his lips who seems to pop in on the occasion for a friendly visit. When he does so, he does not park the car, walk up the stairs and knock on the door. He stays in the car, which he stops in front of my car, calls her and waits for her to come down. When he does this...I'm 9 out of 10 times, trying to back up. But the morons just sit there and talk until I either A. open the door and glare at them or B. honk my horn as softly as possible. Both of my efforts eilicit a scowly look from Barb.
Actually she doesn't live completely alone. She has grungy looking poodle that seems to think it's a Rotweiller by the way it barks and lunges at me and Mousse. This dog will most assuredly feel the pain of my foot up it's arss one day.
All this to say, last night...she spoke to me. It was about 11:45, and I was taking out a few loads of trash. She was outside with her dumb dog who lunged and barked at me again for the gazillionth time. I gave both of em' a dirty look and made my way back to the apartment for the next load of trash. About that time, she came out again...this time with out the dog. She was staring at the fireworks. As I walked back to my place, she started walking towards me. I wondered if she let her guard down and wanted to talk. She looked rather patiriotic in her Flag tanktop and matching ball cap. But when she approached me, her eyes were squinty. "That's dangerous," she said as she pointed at the fireworks. "They're not supposed to do that here. It's dangerous." I looked at her blankly. And then finally said, "Hmm..really?" "Yes, she said. they're not supposed to do that." So she mentioned. I realized at that moment that I could say anything to her, but her response would always be "that's dangerous...they're not supposed to do that here."...Upon that realization, I decided that I had nothing more to say...so I gave her a lingereing, "Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm"...and walked home.
After discussing the strange exchange with Furball, she said that Barb was probably concerened that the prohibited fireworks would spark a fire, which would lead to authorities arriving at the complex, which would mean that Barb's cover would be blown!!! Furball is so brilliant...These folks think they're sneaky...but we've so got them figured out!
A few days prior to his death....he was talking to my cousin Benjamin about the wedding...making plans to travel to OKC to attend. It would have been the very first time that all of the 1st cousins were in the same room at the same time. But, for some reason ...that will never be clear to any of us...that moment will never be.
