neighbor watch

Okay.  I’ve officially succumbed to the Gladys Kravitz gene that lies dormant in every woman.  And if you never watched — or heard of — "Bewitched," then, tragically, my reference is lost on you.

To clarify, I’m now a nosy, shameless, little spy. 

Let me explain.  There’s a good reason.  I mean, I  think "wanting to know, damnit!"  is a very good reason for spying and such.   Don’t you? 

There are 6 town homes in our fine complex.  The building sits on the edge of a canyon and each successive unit is a little farther down the hill, so to speak.  We reside in Unit 2 near the top of the hill.  The Focus Of My Madness lives in Unit 5, down the hill.  So anybody in a unit with a higher number passes by our unit every day.

The FOMM is an Episcopalian priest who moved here last fall from Australia.  He’s not a shy fellow, that one.  His first day here he knocked on our door, thrust his hand towards me, and barked his name: "Tawny." 

I paused.  "Your name’s Tawny?"

"No.  Taw-nee."

It sounded the same. 

"Do you mean Tony, maybe?"  I asked.

"Yeeece.  That’s riawght.  Tawny."

I quickly learned that if you allow Tawny a face lock, he will explain in breathtaking detail all the subtlety and intrigue that is Aussie rules football.  Not that I mind much learning about this; I’m just not likely to convert from good, ol’, banal American football, which is clearly what Tawny wants.  But it’s interesting in a sort of relentless, cross-cultural way.

What’s more interesting, though, is this:

My Beloved, who is good and kind and neighborly, frequently takes all 6 trash cans to the curb for trash day.   The other evening we were sitting and reading in companionable, brainy silence, when My Beloved looked up from his book and proclaimed:

"Tony never has any trash in his trash can."

"Huh??" 

I thought I’d heard wrong.  I had no idea that what would follow would be a dizzying conversation, ending in a truly shocking allegation.  My Beloved repeated:

"Tony never has any trash in his trash can."

I just stared, so he continued, clearly annoyed:

"How can he not have trash?!"

"I dunno.  He lives alone.  He probably doesn’t have a lot of trash."

"He has to have some!  Toilet paper rolls, take-out containers, junk mail.  Something!"

"Well, maybe it was just this week.  Maybe he was gone and we didn’t know it."

"No!  That’s not it!  It’s every week."

"Well, what’s the big deal?  I don’t get it."

Then came the stunning accusation from Mr. Neighborly:

"I think he puts his trash in other people’s cans so he doesn’t have to take out his trash can!"

I gasped.  But, suddenly, it was all so clear.  My Beloved was right.  He must be right.   Now that I thought of it, I’d never, ever seen Tawny, who walks by our place every darn day, carrying any trash.  Laundry, yes.  Briefcase, yes.  Grocery bags, yes.  Trash, no.  Never.  At least not during daylight hours.  So if he had trash, he’d been taking it out under cover of darkness. 

Why?  What kind of flimflam was this guy running?!  It was unheard of.  Diabolical.  A man of the cloth becoming a man of the Trash Can Scam?  Outrageous.

That was it.  Never mind the frenzy of snap judgments, the flood of unsubstantiated claims.  Gladys Kravitz came roaring awake.  I felt a sudden, rash urge to dump trash in his can.  But I did not.  And I have not. 

Because I am a true hero.

Still …. I wonder …. where is  the trash?  The mysterious, invisible trash?

I’m not proud of it.  But I can’t help it. 

Gladys still peeps when he scurries past the window.