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My Neighbor

 Sometimes, I feel like the Anna Kendrick character in "A Simple Favor," living in seclusion, uploading pitiful cookie recipes to my underperforming "mommy vlog."


Then my neighbor appears, and she is the Blake Lively character; stories spill out of her, and yet she has no interest in writing. Often, the stories involve forced evacuations. Tasers on planes, malfunctioning train cars, aborted Hertz rentals. And her five-year-old son adds color, by wandering into hotel hallways at 4AM, waging war against the potty, skipping off of soccer fields in the middle of a game. (I love and relate to this kid.) My neighbor speaks freely and with precision: moving to a suburb was a bad idea, and having three kids was regrettable. She is taking steps toward her fight/flight anti-Trump plan: the family will relocate to Costa Rica, and all work will occur via Zoom. My neighbor's decisiveness is such that I don't really (fully) know whether or not she is kidding.

My neighbor's daughter--the same age as Susie--has a rich fantasy life. She dresses in tiaras; she gives long speeches about her passionate love for her mother. She imagines battles on the skinny little apron of grass next to the bus; she picks up dirt and hurls it in the air, dissuading spectral invaders. Susie stares with awe and admiration.

I worry that I have a kind of vampiric relationship to the outside world; I will sit quietly and suck you dry as you tell your bizarre stories. My bond with my neighbor is such that I feel sad when school is cancelled; it's as if "Law and Order: SVU" has announced a "greatest hits compilation" instead of a new episode for the week ahead. So, is this actually a person-to-person bond? Is this normal or healthy?

I gotta be me. 
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