Marie Taylor, Ink

So how big is a neighborhood, I asked myself. Maybe about four square blocks. Maybe 15 minutes of walking time in any one direction. Once my neighborhood was characterized by flotillas of children on skate boards and bicycles. Now it is populated by old men putting along in electric carts or aging women accompanied by small poodles recklessly propelling wheeled walkers.

The most elusive and mysterious of my neighbors lives in the apartment on my right. There is one green metal chair on her patio which has never been sat in and the blinds on her windows are always tightly closed. Of a hermetic disposition, I see her only on Sunday morning on her way to church when she emerges from her apartment impeccably dressed with an elaborate hat.

Although she is of average height, when she is behind the wheel of her large maroon sedan I can see only the feather of her hat turning this way and that as she backs out of the parking space. The return trip after church is even more taxing. The feather in her hat swings left, then right in a neck twisting frenzy. It requires a half dozen or more tries to align the car within the white parking stripes. She is never successful.

To the left of my apartment live a couple I call Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee because of their uncanny similarity. Both are tall, large, friendly people with rounded stomachs that precede them when turning corners. They drive a 1963 aqua Cadillac, and when they get in, it lists first to the right then to the left before settling itself. They have a 20+ pound orange striped cat named Fred who never goes outside but who was brought over for my inspection at the time I moved in.

Directly over my apartment lives Lynne, an ex-hippie chick with straight white hair nearly to her waist. She is a vegan with multiple exotic allergies. Her steely blue eyes emanate not so much brotherhood as unflinching principles. Like the white rabbit, she is always scurrying up and the down the stairs on her way to an Important Date. Every evening about 10 pm, the floor begins to thump in rhythmic steps, a keyboard soars and a thin soprano can be heard in the background singing about peace and love.

Last, but not least, to my right and above, are the old Russian couple who look like nesting dolls. Both short, round and wearing clothes in unusual color combinations, they speak little English. Our conversations are limited to a lot of arm waving and smiles interspersed with comments about the great weather.

I see them going up and down the stairs several times a day. The old man makes kitty noises at Sweetie Pie but she pretends not to understand Russian. The other day, after returning from grocery shopping, the old woman tried to tell me something with a lot of arm motions pointing to her car. “Back. Open. All fall out,” she said, to which I offered wide, unbelieving eyes and a sympathetic shake of the head implying this is what the world has come to.

There are other less frequently seen but unique characters who stroll up and down the noon sidewalk. One I call Jayne Mansfield because of her long blond wig, enormous bosom and high heels. Diane the Talker always stops to keep me updated on her battles with social services, legal services, home helper, and absent son. Then there is the fat lady who wears sunglasses even at night; not to mention the Jewish gentleman whose girlfriend left him to live in South Africa on a game reserve, the lady from Central America who welcomes short afternoon visits from a forty-something bachelor with a bald head, and then there is ….

A neighborhood is where, when you go out of it, you get beat up. Murray Kempton