Neighborhood Watch

My mom’s Latin boyfriend likes to build stuff. He’s one of those guys who will spend all of his free time in the garage tinkering and sawing and nail-gunning things. (Well that’s not totally true. A good part of his free time is spent watching TV with my mom while they polish off a bottle or two of wine and he rubs her feet even though she doesn’t ask him to. It’ll be like, “Honey will you refill my glass? I need something to wash down these cheese puffs.” He’ll laugh, “Sure baby. Now take off your socks I’m going to rub your feet.” This is where I start choking because yes, I’m sitting there with them. “But they’re not sore. I sit down all day.” “You crazy girl,” he laughs, ignoring her protests and my contorted face of horror - a look that suggests, “Hey man about to touch my mom’s bare feet, I just want you to know that the only reason I’m not slapping the wine glass out of your hand and rushing off to the nearest high school biology classroom so I can use the eye wash center is because I like you as a person and you make my mom laugh. But seriously dude. Feet and me are not cool.”)

I tend to not really worry about what he’s doing out there in the garage at all hours of the day. And when he comes in the house at 8pm all dusty and tired, nods and says, “I gotta go pick up some light bulbs and fishnets.” I just give a thumbs up. Because it doesn’t seem dangerous. I don’t think you can build a bomb with fish and the proper lighting.

My friendly neighbors were a little more curious than me and asked what he was building all the time. And I had no idea. It occurred to me that the reason I didn’t think to ask was because throughout the first 18 years of my life my father spent every single evening in his office in the garage “working on stuff”. Becky would walk down there to tell him it was time for dinner and he’d be morse-code talking with someone in Polynesia, or sautering some sort of electrical panel back together. Usually he was fixing a TV Becky and I had found on the side of the road. Some kids brought home puppies, we brought home broken TVs. But he always fixed them, and so we always had an upgrade of sorts and a TV in every room. All our friends came over to our house because it was the only place you could watch 90210 in the kitchen and not miss anything when you had to run downstairs to get the laundry, or go to the bathroom to wash your hands. When my college roommate suggested we chip in together and buy a TV I was shocked. What do you mean pay? Who pays for TVs? And why the heck are they so expensive, this is ridiculous, let’s go drive around the neighborhood.

Just recently when I visited my Dad I noticed a new lamp and commented on how neat it was, to which he replied, “Thanks, I found it by the dumpster at the back of the building.” Of course you did. Now that I’m older I do buy my appliances, so it would be a little embarrassing that my Dad is fishing stuff out of the trash except for the part where he’s so proud he brought it back to life. Who am I to take away his pride, I get excited when I vacuum well.

So I don’t really care to know what E is doing in the garage at all hours of the night. Whether he’s building a dresser or a the beginnings of a space ship, as long as it’s making him happy, it’s really none of my business now is it.

Plus my neighbors are apparently keeping a close eye on him, so I’m sure they’ll let me know if they start seeing dead bodies.