Writer's Block

She pulled up to her Storybook House and loved it more than when she first saw it. A new life at a quiet respite where she could write, draw and dream.

Across the street was the first neighbor she'd meet on her block. Inquisitive and nosy, the neighbor interviewed her. The neighbor also gave her some juicy tidbits about other people who lived there. Soon she would find it all out for herself.

There was an aging hippie couple living in the corner house with three dogs and assorted barnyard animals making mysterious caws and cuckoos. Make dirt, not war, was their slogan, she presumed, as she noted the peace symbols and filth on their property: animal cages, weeds higher than Indiana corn in summer and questionable greenery growing as well. Despite the overgrown vegetation, political posters adorned their property, supporting the most extreme liberal candidates. 

Next to the inquisitive neighbor she'd named 'Gladys Kravitz', was a single man who walks with a cane only sometimes. He claims he has bone cancer but has been living with it, quite comfortably, for over two years. He doesn't work, nor does he ever leave his house. Several delivery trucks pull up during the week, supplying his every need. The mobile doggie groomer comes to clip his obnoxious yipping poodle regularly. Gladys says he gets cash FedExed overnight from Mama every now and then.  Gladys also says he lost his lover to AIDs ten years ago. Could it be that cancer is not his real ailment? 

Over the forest and through the woods, she found a brick house next to her Storybook House. She named the owner Jungle Jim. His charming tudor home is engulfed with trees, vines and poison ivy growing everywhere. Somewhat reclusive, Jim has a telecommuting job. He loves Planet Earth and quite obviously, doesn't want to disturb it by a blade or any such weapon of destruction. He's a pal of the hippie couple on the corner. Jim is an avid environmentalist who chooses to live in his own polluted environment, but his recyclables are placed at the curb faithfully. His swamp-like backyard is a breeding ground for mosquitos and flies. 

She wonders if she made a mistake to move into such a neighborhood, but this is the world. It would be the same anywhere.

Her neighbors on the other side are socialites, quite the opposite of Jungle Jim and the Peaceniks. She calls them Diva and the Dunce. Diva is a tall, pencil-thin career woman. Her husband, the Dunce, is 'clueless', in his own words. The usual Wimp-Man in the typical modern society relationship, Dunce succumbs to whatever the Diva dishes up for him. And it sure ain't dinner. She scoots in her SUV and fetches dinner for her two young sons that she sees for five minutes a day. Storybook girl thinks of their house as a big grey refrigerator, icy cold. The two boys see more of their huge screaming nanny than their mom. Mom prances off to Europe on business. A typical Saturday at the big grey refrigerator: Dunce gets golf clubs out, Diva has yoga class, then a waxing session. Their five-year-old has a tantrum of some sort and their retarded dog gets lost or eats their tupperware, sometimes both in one day.

She settles into her Storybook House and curls up with her laptop. There's quite an ensemble on this writer's block. She'll be quite amused here.

Moving On

He came to the house to give her a moving estimate. "OK, where would you like to start?" he asks.

"We'll work from the front to the back of the house, then downstairs and up," she replies as she directs him to her dining-room-that-never-was. That was the room they refinanced for, the last time. Her husband said they would do the finishing touches to the house with that re-fi money. Well, she did get some finishing touches. She just wasn't aware it was the marriage that was finished. 

Moving through the house, she states what will be sold or tossed and what gets to go on the United Van Line truck. The chair she curled up in, alone, moves with her; the couch doesn't. That's where he plopped every night, escaping into baseball or whatever, away from her. The rocker moves on, she says. That's where she rocked her babies, all three.

The stranger proceeds through her rooms with his calculator, adding the pounds up, the remains of her life. Her load is light. She sloughs off the excess and unwanted memories. She needs this physical move, this new place, to start a new life. She's been in transit for four years and this is her final destination. She won't look back.

They stand in the master bedroom. "I'm undecided about this furniture," she says. He cocks his head, perplexed. "I may disassemble it and take a portion of it. But the bed doesn't make the journey. I like the side cabinets and the dresser, so count them in," she concludes with confident satisfaction. He's holding back a chuckle, but he's just here for business. His fingers tap the calculator and then he looks at her, his face composed.

"What about the bedding, ma'am, the comforter and pillows?" he asks.

Knowing that she can't afford replacements right away, she nods, "Yes, I'll pack them up."

In her head, she pictures burning the bed in her backyard. A farewell bonfire to her life with him.