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My Neighbor

 My good fortune is to have a neighbor who speaks my language; he is as odd as I am, and any coffee-table chat is better than a big-budget movie.


"Last week," he says, "I almost became addicted to oxycontin. I took one pill; it wasn't prescribed; I found it in a dusty cabinet. And the next day, I thought, I'm feeling fine but probably I should take one more...."

As my neighbor speaks, I sometimes have the suspicion that he *wants* to be represented, in writing, in my blog.

"I turn 50 this summer," he murmurs. "My spouse and I were thinking about Paris, but we've decided to fly to Pig Island. You have to take a plane to a plane to a boat. The island is infested with pigs, and they swim up to you so you can toss bread crumbs...."

I say, "I recall that you really enjoyed the Netflix series on Jeffrey Dahmer. Just purchase a few fat true-crime paperbacks, load up on bread for the pigs....and you've planned a beach trip for the ages..."

But my neighbor's mind has wandered. "You know, I've been invited to a Freak Easy. It's like a speakeasy, but for freaks? You have to wear just underwear--or your birthday suit. And since it's inspired by the culture of speakeasies, the vibe is GATSBY. If you find GATSBY underwear, that's ideal....."

I am so very grateful to this man. Forty minutes of backyard barbeque--and I feel I am reborn.
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