And just like that, it happened again yesterday. I rolled my trash bin to the curb at 7:58, which is later than my usual time of 7:30, and by noon, three different neighbors had inquired about my ‘new schedule.’ Mrs. Berkowitz from across the street actually asked if everything was “okay at home” dropping to a theatrical whisper for the word “okay,” as if my slightly delayed garbage routine might suggest some troubling personal issue.
Come on down to Oakwood Terrace where every mundane activity is community theater, where privacy comes to die. I have been living in the neighborhood for 8 years now ever since moving here after my divorce when house prices were still reasonable.
If I may borrow a quote from “The Real Housewives of Suburban Hell,” I was not buying a home, I was auditioning for an unwanted role in a reality show. There are nineteen houses in this neighborhood, twenty-seven people who gossip, and about zero secrets. Grab the popcorn everybody, because secrets? We already know everything.
For example, last month I resolved to repaint my front door. I selected navy blue. It’s not the most original option, but I would like to think it is better than trying to cover up the peeling red left by the previous owners.
One would assume that I put a disco ball and a velvet rope around the door, instead of just a paint can, based on the fury I received from my neighbors. Dave Miller stopped his “fitness walk” (not that the man actually breaks a sweat) to ask if I was ‘going through some changes’. Linda Hoffman without being asked brought color swatches because navy might ‘bring down property values’ (which it won’t).
And Bill Thompson, captain of the neighborhood watch – a man whose enthusiasm for rules is equaled only by his collection of tucked-in polo shirts, left for me in the mailbox a highlighted printout of the HOA rules he printed out. By the way, the door looks perfectly fine. But I must say, the nosey Plush Patels that live next door to me are the real unsung heroes of the neighborhood.
Nice people, don’t get me wrong, but they’ve turned casual observation into an Olympic sport. Due to the unfathomable degree of work they seem to be investing into utilizing my driveway, especially since it is right beside their bay window, raises concerns. Heck, my concern goes a long way, and not in a stream of consciousness bordering on obsession kind of way. This past Saturday, Raj Patel was waving at me while I was in the middle of storing my groceries into my vehicle.
“I saw you had some new cereal,” he said, accusingly pointing at my car’s shopping bags. To say that I was dumbfounded would not be saying enough. “I watched you grab a red box rather than the blue ones,” he explained. Which, in any reasonable person’s world, is nuts or at least a product of friendly neighborhood spy’s insanity.
The blue box cereals I typically buy claim that they are literally staring at me, because the vantage point they possess makes claiming that is practically claiming the weather outside. What can I say? Raj is as impressive as making one think ‘no.’ In some cases like these it’s better off not blending reality with fiction. Equally Meena is just as impressive if, in this case, it’s that’s disguised.
She is so attentive to detail that I once got a work call because my garage door had been open for an “unusual amount of time,” as she described it. So, when I asked her where she got my work number from, she waved her hands, and answered, “Oh, the neighborhood directory, of course.” Which is puzzling, because there is literally no neighborhood directory. Meena’s last summer was nothing short of spectacular. While some would consider it perfectly ordinary to entertain friends from out of town, she appeared to be more annoyed instead of anything else.
My old college friend Mark, who was just passing through, visited over the weekend. Since the two of us were unable to stop thinking about the ‘good old days,’ we spent Saturday night searching for beers on the back patio and stayed up late reminiscing. By the time it was Saturday afternoon, Mrs
Kravitz, as incredulous as it may seem, is her name. And might I add that she made sure to circulate the word that a gentleman caller was entertaining me. This made socializing during my block party quite challenging because by Sunday, Linda Hoffman’s daughter had the audacity to inquire whether I planned on introducing my new boyfriend which was highly infuriating. With half the block decide to ignore, my commute on Monday got sour when Bill Thompson, for whatever reason, decided to swap his emergency contact sheet to Mark’s name out of sheer assumption that Chicago was sufficiently closer.
Mark was living four states outside the country. For some reason, everyone around me seem to find peaks of intrique within my life, but your truly is convinced that I am one of the least fascinating people to exist. I don’t host home epic parties, receive parcels from suspicious senders, and my gardening skills are nothing but mediocre.
Looking at my pare of inactive skills, I don’t have odd hobbies or unusual pets. No matter how confounding it is for me, choosing to swap my khakis with a pair of jeans on a Tuesday skyrockets me to the town’s headlines. Even with every bit of effort, I continue to find myself suffocating beneath all the extra attention.
Nothing feels working and this is my life. Being within this vicinity does make it seem like explaining “I don’t want to talk about it” feels like the same as feeding chum to a school of sharks and so I instead attempt the vague route (“You know how it is”). I have even attempted spectacularly to bore (“let me tell you about my new filing system”) you all to tears with not much luck but alas, nothing works.
What is even worse is that the very same neighbors who for some reason feel compelled to become amateur detectives in their spare time tend to overlook everything else that actually deeply interests me like my favorite book or where I grew up, basically everything that I relate to. Of course, they do know of the haircut I got last Wednesday, but are totally oblivious to the fact that I am obsessed with cilantro. They notice that I got a new welcome mat, but they are clueless about the fact that I wrote and published a short story just last month.
These folks are watching everything while doing absolutely nothing and the suburban area’s lack of connection is evident. My assumption is that these neighbors are so alienated from social interactions that instead of conversing with one other, they prefer collecting and breaching each other’s personal space as a means of establishing community bonds.
Maybe it was simply a means to pass the time. Regardless of what the answer is, they have earned my respect. Out here, as with the search for a parking spot during festive seasons, privacy is non-existent.
There are no boundaries of any sort and, surprisingly enough, this lack of privacy isn’t as bad as I initially thought. I enjoy throwing away useless paint in the garage more than I should. Watching as the neighborhood chat group goes wild is quite entertaining. When it comes to relaxation, I simply dress in my workout gear, roll out my yoga mat, and boom, it really is that easy.
The quiet that follows simply isn’t soothing – what irks these Pratt wannabe detectives is the thought of my dragging them into my ‘exercise regime’. So, if you have been contemplating living in the suburbs, consider this your warning. Every single choice you make from your grocery selection to the schedule you take out the trash will now be under surveillance.
Other than that, there are garden choices for the less bold and if you dare use a blue door for any form of renovation, prepare to be just as famously talked about like the Johnsons and their rock garden on diabolical display. I even giving thought to buying a drone for such attention – my cutout could also do the trick.
For me or should I say for the Patels, that would at the very least mean three days of uninterrupted work. And by that time, I can be anywhere I want because in case you need me, all I need to do is tell my oh so friendly neighbors.
This friendly back and forth surveillance means utmost full disclosure of my location, outfit and in what part of the house breakfast is being prepared. The latest breakfast binge is on cereals means I’m sure to correct whoever’s spying one neighborhood over, so I’m thankful for the mystery.
