Neighbor

Pods. The neighbors are moving in two stages. All their stuff is stuffed and I do mean stuffed, into not one, but two giant pods parked in front of their house, blocking my view of their chintzy waterfall that wastes water daily.

            God, I’d love to see their water bill. Yes, it’s semi-pretty if you like that sort of thing, but the waste: electricity for the pump and all that water. Going where? Nobody knows.

            But now I can’t see it. I like to see it, even though I think it foolish, really insane, to install a waterfall in your front yard, your residential front yard, in Minnesota of all places, where winter loves to freeze water lines, especially unnecessary ones, creating highly paid jobs for plumbers. Another bill I’d like to see. They probably have a plumber on retainer.

            No, I don’t know where they’re moving to, some condominium, I guess. They’re too old to be relocating, both of them retired from something—don’t remember what.

            Maybe they’re living in the pod—about the size of a condo—and this is still a good neighborhood. Probably had the plumber put in a bathroom, and they’ll eat out all the time. She told me that once. We prefer to dine out, she said.

            Well, I dine in,  I said, quick as a flash. My preference. Also my wallet, I could have said, but my business is not their business.

            Wonder what a Pod costs. We believe in living well, she said—same conversation as dining out.

            Well, well. I guess pods are the latest thing. Must be an expensive version and they’ve got an unobstructed view of their—or their former—fish pond.

            So new people will be in the house. One can hope there are no children—no noisy children is what I mean, children lobbing their balls into my rosebushes. I’ll tell them about the thorns made for soft hands like theirs. They’ll probably turn the waterfall off so the children don’t drown—or they’ll let them play in it, probably stark naked. What an idea that is! I’ll tell them my water-borne virus story. That always works.

            Then I’ll welcome them with my famous brownies, to let them know what kind of neighbor they have.

© 2013 Kathleen Coskran