Don't Mean to Be Derogatory
Wednesday October 16
I walked down the stairs to sit on the porch stoop. The GIP came home. Last night a firetruck and ambulance lit up the the front yard where they were parked in front of out house. McGee is on first. An old chink lives next door. I don't mean to be derogatory. I guess I've been too much of a jerk to find out if they're Korean or Chinese or Japanese or German-Irish. Sometimes you hear a pained moan from that house. In the mornings when I go to work a man in a gray sweatshirt and tinted sunglasses who also lives there is often walking and we talk on the way from the house to my car. His name is Richard. He says he has to walk, the doctors say so. He tapped his chest. What can I say? Smile. Say good-bye. Get in the car.
An elderly woman lives there, too. I don't know if she's Richard's mother or wife or what. She has severe-looking eyebrows penciled beneath a brow that appears knitted by suspicion and anger. Even though she looks old, her skin is tight on her face except for two long frown lines etched down the sides of her mouth. One time she gave me a bag of apricots. Lorilee, the actress from down the street was on her stoop talking to her and called me over to say hello. I was just my usual banal selfish self, and I just wanted to go upstairs rather than try to think of polite things to say. The whole prowler thing was going on. Another man lives there, her son, he told me once, while he was watering the lawn in his japflaps. From the kitchen window in the mornings, when I'm having my cereal, I sometimes catch glimpses of an even older man in the
I walked down the stairs to sit on the porch stoop. The GIP came home. Last night a firetruck and ambulance lit up the the front yard where they were parked in front of out house. McGee is on first. An old chink lives next door. I don't mean to be derogatory. I guess I've been too much of a jerk to find out if they're Korean or Chinese or Japanese or German-Irish. Sometimes you hear a pained moan from that house. In the mornings when I go to work a man in a gray sweatshirt and tinted sunglasses who also lives there is often walking and we talk on the way from the house to my car. His name is Richard. He says he has to walk, the doctors say so. He tapped his chest. What can I say? Smile. Say good-bye. Get in the car.
An elderly woman lives there, too. I don't know if she's Richard's mother or wife or what. She has severe-looking eyebrows penciled beneath a brow that appears knitted by suspicion and anger. Even though she looks old, her skin is tight on her face except for two long frown lines etched down the sides of her mouth. One time she gave me a bag of apricots. Lorilee, the actress from down the street was on her stoop talking to her and called me over to say hello. I was just my usual banal selfish self, and I just wanted to go upstairs rather than try to think of polite things to say. The whole prowler thing was going on. Another man lives there, her son, he told me once, while he was watering the lawn in his japflaps. From the kitchen window in the mornings, when I'm having my cereal, I sometimes catch glimpses of an even older man in the
posted by johnz at 12:22 PM
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