Neighbor

-What are you doing?

I glance back to see a young girl, 7 or 8, long dark hair in pigtails, sitting on a purple custom beach cruiser. Custom as in tricked out. Blazing white stars, tall chopper handle bars, a twisting front reflector. Chrome. She’s Chicano, speaks perfect little kid English.

From the other end of the street, I think.

-I’m killing the lawn.

-How?

-Poison. That’s what this is. Make sure you don’t touch the grass.

-Is that why your grass looks like that?

-Yep. I’m killing it, then I’m going to tear it all up and put down brand new grass.

-Oh. Why do you want new grass?

-Because I didn’t like this grass.

-Oh. This grass looks bad.

-Exactly.

I’m now looking down the sidewalk, fearing an angry father ready to kick my ass. Fifty years ago, this would be a natural conversation. But these days…every male not accompanied by a female might as well be a predator. Thanks, Chris Hanson.

-Do you have a cat?

-I have three cats. Two black ones and tabby.

-What’s that one’s name?

She’s pointing at the tabby sitting in the driveway.

-Rainie. I’ve gotta put her in before she walks on the lawn.

-Rainie?

-Yep.

I pick the cat up.

-Do you want to pet her?

Boy, does she. The bike drops with a clang and the little girl is there in a flash.

-Will she bite me?

-Nah. She likes kids.

She pets Rainie for bit.

-If you ever see her, just crouch down real still and hold your hand out. She’ll come right up to you.

-She won’t bite me?

-Nope.

I take Rainie inside. When I return, the girl is riding circles in my neighbor’s driveway. She immediately returns to her position on the sidewalk. I walk slowly back and forth, spraying the lawn in sweeping intervals.

-Do you have a daughter?

-I do. Her name’s Hannah. She’s only 9 months old, a baby.

-I heard her crying.

-That’s because it’s bedtime and she doesn’t want to go to sleep.

-I used to be like that. Is that hard?

-Not hard, just time consuming. What’s your name?

-Iraine.

-Hi Iraine, I’m Morgan.

-Hi. What are the other cats’ names?

-Penny and Abby.

-Oh. Who named them?

-My mom.

-Oh. Who named Rainie?

-My wife.

-Oh. I know why.

-Oh yeah?

-It’s ‘cause her eyes look like rain.

-I think you’re on to something.

She suddenly takes off, standing up to peddle hard. Okay, kind of weird.

Just as suddenly she puts on the brakes, skidding to a stop. And looks back to see if she left a mark. She returns, beaming.

-That’s a cool bike.

-Everyone tells me that.

-Everyone’s right. Who gave it to you?

-My grandpa. He makes things. He collects metal parts and he tears them apart and he makes bikes. If you go into the backyard there are like a hundred bikes. He has all these trucks, three of them, all full of metal.

She’s very proud.

I’ve seen these trucks. I’ve also put my scrap metal on the parkway and watched her grandpa pick it up. Maybe my old curtain rods are part of her bike.

-You’re grandpa’s pretty awesome.

-I know.

-Do you know Jesse?

-My uncle Jesse?

Apparently so. I thought I saw a resemblance.

-Yep. He comes down here sometimes and sits and talks with us. You know how he’s going to school?

-Yeah. College!

-I know. Well, I keep telling him to take my English class.

-You teach college?

-Yep. When you see him, ask him if he’s taking Morgan’s English class.

-What if he says no?

I shrug.

-I’ll tell him he better take your class or else!

I laugh.

-Well, I’m going in. Don’t stay out too late.

-Okay.

She starts to ride off, then skids to a stop.

-If Uncle Jesse comes down I’ll come down with him!

-I hope so!

She speeds off.

I smile.

It’s a pretty good neighborhood.