I once thought my next door neighbor.
Was a serial killer.
This fear of mine might have had something to do with the fact that I'd recently finished reading "Lovely Bones."
Or the fake flowers and miniature Christmas tree that lined his window sill.
Or the odd smell that lingered around his doorway.
Let's just say.
For weeks, Dorothy Parker and I avoided his doorstep.
Then. One day. I ran into him.
Him being, Mr. Issacs.
The cute as a button old man who shuffles his feet, has a strong handshake and Paul Newman baby blues.
We exchanged pleasantries like a scene from a black and white Turner Classic film.
Me: "Please let me know if I'm ever too loud, or if my dog ever becomes a nuisance while I'm out."
Mr. Issacs: "Never hear a peep. But, promise you'll do the same, if your old neighbor makes a racket."
Me: "Oh, I've never heard a thing!"
We swatted our hands to shoo away worries.
And lied through our grinning teeth.
Because I certainly could hear his hacking every morning while I'm brushing my teeth.
And could hear his late night action flicks through my thin walls.
And he certainly could hear my kitchen clattering.
Solitary dance parties.
And yapper of a dog.
Nevertheless, we instantly became those sorts of neighbors who kindly lie to one another.And we parted ways like dear old friends.
Me: "I must be off! Glad to have finally met you!"
Mr. Issacs: "So happy I ran into you!"
As I descended the stairs and made my way to my car.
Plans of bundles of brownies and homemade chocolate pies.
Were being imaginatively whipped up within the recesses of my mind.
To be left at Mr. Issac's doorstep.
If he decides to start playing the Oboe.
I'm going to have to ask him to keep it down.