pineapple and vidalias

While social graces are occasionally a bit too sugary for my taste, they haven't entirely lost their value. The note slid unnoticed beneath my door and waited patiently to be seen. Accustomed to receiving soft knocks rather than furtive notes, I lounged, read my book, relaxed, happy to be alone in my home.

I sauntered into the kitchen for another glass of wine and noticed a rumpled, used looking sheet of paper edging its way into my foyer. On it, in a clipped, vaguely apologetic tone, my year-long gone neighbor made a triumphant return to the hood, informing me that she'd be back the following weekend. How might this mousy, socially stunted person's homecoming affect me? Sure, we share a landing, but we have never unnecessarily exchanged words. See, it's always the beastliest things in our collections that step too heavily and knock too often the adjoining wall, is it not? Here on Winona, it's the beastly sofa.

Too big and awkward to fit through either of her own doorways, the forlorn, albeit nicer than mine, sofa finds that my condo offers the only path to its home...the only way to its final resting place looking out over the courtyard. And so, since that is the ONLY way...my space is necessarily intruded upon in this manner each time said neighbor relocates.

In actuality, a healthy crew of movers could get that sofa right where it needs to be without crossing my threshold. Knowing her floor plan, I've laid in bed several mornings this week imagining just how it could work, exactly the right turns and angles that, if observed, would deliver both me and the sofa. But how do you tell a socially inept person that they're just too lazy to figure something out. How do you let her know that she doesn't own the right to walk through my condo with a sofa just because she bought one that is too big? What does she do with all that extra space on the sofa anyhow...she is a rather small person, you know.

Frustrated and angry, I waited all week to call the scrawled number on the bottom of the note. I even left the note on the floor, not bothering to dignify it with a place on my counter. Perhaps if she had knocked and spoken with me in person I would not be so angry. Maybe if she'd taken the time to write it on a piece of paper that wasn't crushed and wrinkled and white. Certainly if she had used an envelope and maybe a simple folded card...or a letter pressed "sorry" card...some nicety surely would've softened my scorn.

Stumbling in Saturday night--er, Sunday morning, that is, I realized the moving day was here and I hadn't responded. Shit. I couldn't very well call her at 3:30am and let her know I would begrudgingly let her invade my space. Surely she wouldn't catch my tone of bitterness at such an hour. Even worse, what if she knocked at 8:30am and my hung over self had to answer the door smelling of stale red wine? No, that wouldn't do either. As I paced around, glancing at the note (still on the floor) and thinking about the sandwich I might make, it hit me. A note.

I lunged into the kitchen, whipped out my extra strength, lined post-it notes (electric turquoise) and composed a brief message for my pen pal. I would be home to let her through by 2:30pm and all night after that, oh, and I don't really live here any more (my subtle excuse for the delay...not entirely valid, but somehow fitting). Fixing the note over my peep hole, I was sure she'd see it before she knocked.

The morning came. I felt better than I thought and planned to go about my regular Sunday. As I walked out the door, I noticed the note was gone, surely digested and appreciated (i hoped...) by my Napoleonic neighbor. But though the note surely expressed my wishes as the invadee, I felt my note insufficient to bridge the three steps between her door and mine. All these words on paper and no facial expressions, smiles or otherwise. I couldn't handle it. While I had briefly stooped to this woman's level of communication, I had to show that I was the true lady in this situation, i was the real human being here. I wasn't afraid to chat. On my way out, I listened briefly at her door to see if she was home. The rush of heavy objects smashing together greeted my early morning ear, and I knocked tentatively on the opaque blackened door.

As the door opened, a hesitant, small face greeted my swath of white scarf and day old sun. Hair pulled back and eyes taught with surprise, "Hey! Oh hey! Um, I got your note," she said.
Stuntedly, "Good...that's great...so how's the move going?"
"Oh, it's okay. I don't want to ruin your day, so really, I hope this isn't too much of an inconvenience," she said, apologizing rather than going with my small talk scheme.
I assured her that it was no problem and I'd be back in a few hours when she would be able to tromp through Belgium boldly and with ease. After about 45 seconds of stilted conversation I excused myself and rushed off to church. Hateful, hateful sofa, I thought to myself. Even after church all the holy spirit would have me think was "Damn sofa. It's going to kill my entire afternoon."

A brief bitch session at lunch with Michelle over under-poached eggs, and I found myself hauling back to the hood. At home I began to take things down from the wall, resigning myself to being invaded, willingly or otherwise. At least I had a week to hate her, I thought, as I grudgingly pulled my beautiful vases of dried flowers down, a couple stray eucalyptus leaves scuttling to the floor. I peeked out to the back porch and saw the sofaic monstrosity resting patiently on the back floor. Wrapped up in plastic tape and blankets, its puppy eyes were no match for my annoyance. Weak and alone as the couch seemed, my sympathies didn't budge.

With my neighbor nowhere to be found, I settled for straightening a bit, moving things from here to there to pass the time. We agreed on 2:30...where was she? I heard the entry door creak open and peeked to find her followed by her 2 movers, boys from work. They came right in to get started, and she and I began a painful small talk conversation that lasted all 20 minutes it took to get the damn thing through my house. I tried to be the friendly neighbor, the neighbor from TV shows whose teeth are always so white and clean (even right after lunch). I attempted to be indifferent to the noises coming from the kitchen, my hospitality impervious to catastrophe. This was show time- the only time to make a good impression on the person I would live next to for three short weeks and then never see again.

Here's the thing...

I spent a week hating this woman and everything that she stands for. I spent several nights bashing her social skills and considerations and surely numerous afternoons questioning her intelligence. But through that damned small talk I learned about the path she's traveled for the last year-- ill found job changes, interstate relocation, missed connections and several failed attempts at love, familial and otherwise...and I just plain felt bad for the girl. She had been dealt a really bad hand, and it was clear that a bitchy neighbor was the last thing she needed. So what did I do?

I asked her to dinner.

Three hours after my space was so rudely co-opted and trampled, my new neighbor came over for pineapple barbequed chicken, grilled veggies and corn on the cob. We ate, talked about food and Chicago and wine, and we got to know each other a bit. She had wine to share, I had someone to cook for, and the sofa rested peacefully next door. While there were a couple moments of awkward silence and a couple surprising differences in taste, we both agreed that the grilled Vidalias were superb and being single in Chicago was about the best life you could ask for. After dinner, parting ways, we shared the same sentiment-- gosh, I wish you weren't leaving. Smiling and saying goodnight, I closed the door, listened to the four footsteps that would take her home, and heard my own strange words echo through my head, "I don't really live here anymore..."