Bob was The Shit!
It turns out that everyone in this small-town knew Bob. He was a retired lawyer who built the house I’m living in now. And according to many of the neighbors in this subdivision, he was a fanatic about keeping the yard tidy, the rock beds de-weeded, and the pool chemicals splitting the testing strip’s color chart in half; a perfect balance.
On a quick side note, most of the neighbors are no less than hundred and four, and from what I gather, they all have been living in this weird dimensional block for all the years of their unnatural life. But at least they smile, wave, and sometimes stop me while I’m walking the girls, nothing creepy, just my dogs, to gossip about the other peculiars in the neighborhood.
Anyway, it turns out that Bob’s OCD issues meant no one visited the house for fear that the house wouldn’t stay perfect. Let me tell you how I learned this…
Over the weekend, I asked the neighbor, not a hundred and four year old, if her son would like to swim in the pool while the two of us chit-chatted over cocktails. She agreed and pretty soon, I’ve got a new best friend, she doesn’t know this yet, and I learned secrets. Shhh, don’t tell anyone.
In the midst of me talking too much, she cut me off, and said, “I’ve never been invited to the Pool Lawn before.”
Um, what?
I’m sure my squeezed eyebrows and side-cocked dog face made her question the statement. After a lot of internal dialog, I finally asked what she meant by that. She explained that I have a lawn and a pool; so therefore, we were sitting in the Pool Lawn.
Because I don’t know this woman well, nor she me, I did a lot of mental filtering so not to upset her and give the appropriate response—which came out as a bad British accent—Would you like some tea and crumpets in the Pool Lawn?
She looked humiliated; so, of course I tried to lighten the air between us by adding something about making me feel high-class or highfalutin (whichever my dad used to say) and added yet again with my miserable accent, “If you’ll follow me over to the Garden Lawn, the jester will perform while we dine on plum pudding.”
I’m not sure if she’ll ever come over to the Pool Lawn again. But let’s be honest, Pool Lawn is the coolest description I’ve ever heard.
After much reflection, I think Bob and I are more entwined than just sharing a house. Maybe it wasn’t his OCD that kept people away, but simply his inability to speak normal to new comers. He was a lawyer after all, and I a writer.
Oh, well. Going to the Pool Lawn for a quick dip. See ya!