Neighborly

by
Elmo Lum

So the story, the reason I was there that day had to do with what’s the neighborly thing to do, which in this case was sit and drink a beer with my neighbor at my neighbor’s house at his invite. This was the second part, actually, of the neighborly thing to do, the first part being my lending my neighbor a wrench (for what I can’t remember, but it was a size he didn’t own). So it was a week later and he saw me, said to come on by for a pint and the game, and he said this exactly, “a pint and the game,” and I didn’t want to go, not really, much of a sports fan I’m not, but I said “Sure, give me a sec,” because it’s the neighborly thing to do, taking payment, neighborly payment, for letting him borrow my wrench.

So I locked up the house and headed on over, crossed the street thinking pint, what a word to use, pint, not beer, pint, so very British a word, though his accent wasn’t, wasn't anything, in fact, but it made me wonder, the word, what game we were going to watch. I had visions of soccer, enigmatic: chess-slow plays, ball kicked out of bounds, whistles and cards for infractions I couldn’t see. Or worse yet cricket: men in yachting white, wickets, the awkward paddle, totally opaque. It was too late to turn back — I was halfway across the street. But through the screen door I heard the calls of regular football. The pint, though, was an actual pint, actual Guinness, cracked from the can and overturned over a glass. All head. I reached for it but my neighbor waved me off. “Let it sit.”

“So what’s the score?”

“Zip and zip.”

I feel obligated to say, by what sense of obligation I can’t say, to say here that at this time, in his house before his TV, at his mercy for a beer, I couldn’t for the life of me, I couldn’t to save my life, if you put a gun to my head I couldn’t have said what the man’s name was. I’d known it when he’d borrowed the wrench, but here with the stout settling, with the commercials on the TV, with my neighbor staring at the TV, I couldn’t remember his name. You want to know but you don’t want to admit that there you are, taking a beer, sitting on his couch, and you can’t remember your own neighbor’s name.

So because what I want is what you want I sat and didn’t ask, and we watched the game flicker on in the darkening evening room, with my stout settling down and my neighbor topping it off; he handed it to me, toasted his own, this all without words; we clinked, drank some back, and the game flickered on, and my neighbor screamed at the TV, “Hold on to it!”

We went on like this, like not much at all: us staring at the TV, me sipping at my stout, every now and then my neighbor interjecting, “Offsides!” or “Interference!” or “That was a what?” In between these outbursts he watched emotion-free.

“You ever play football?” he asked.

We were in commercial.

“Me? Just kid stuff. Playground stuff. When I was a kid.”

“I played in high school.”

“Yeah?”

“Tight end, mostly. Second string. A little quarterbacking, too, now and again.”

“Not too bad.”

“Yeah, it was all right. Never was good enough for college, though. Knew it, too. I mean, you dream, of course, right? But you know better. It’s okay if you know it. You don’t keep expectations. No expectations, you don’t get disappointed.”

“Yeah.”

“Some guys, guys I knew, these were guys who didn’t know better. These guys ate and drank football. I mean, that was what they were all about. But they weren’t good enough, you know? And they didn’t know it. Had their dads telling them they were golden — they weren’t. It crushed them they couldn’t play in college. Crushed them. One guy, big football guy, right? Couldn’t take it. Made him cry like a baby. I was never like that. I always knew what was what.”

I heard the door unbolting, the lock unlocking, the sweep of the weather flap. A woman came through it, dressed to business nines. Her face was hid by a grocery bag. She backed the door shut. When she looked over the bag she caught me watching. “Hello,” she said.

“Hey,” my neighbor said, “this is Garrett of across the street. That’s my wife,” he snapped his fingers, “um, um, um.”

“Forget about him. I’m Rosie. Pleased to meet you.”

The game went on, a clunker, tied, nothing and nothing; exasperation, which my neighbor showed during his interjections, yelling, “Two first downs. Can someone please put together two first downs?” It was gone dark all the way now. The room was black except the TV, flickering and blinking at us two seated, couch side-by-side, empty glasses in our laps. We were in commercial. My neighbor pointed, wordless, at my glass; before I answered, he walked away, walked back from the dark holding two cans of beer. The same routine: cans popped open, overturned over glasses, him stopping the pour before the head bulged over the rim. They missed a field goal. I didn’t even know who was playing. I didn’t even know if it was late in the season or early. It could have been the playoffs. It could have been the Superbowl. I had no idea. All I knew it was zip and zip.

“You ever play football?”

“You already asked me that.”

“Shit, did I? Forget about that. I do that, forget it. Shit.”

The TV looked huge in the night room. The plays took on a blown-up look. Replays played in coarser and coarser grain, a snowy signal, ghosts appearing, double quarterbacks scrambling, pump faking, throwing twice, the defense closing in, balls in flight, two receivers, double coverage, incomplete. Two flags. A referee and inverse referee, making the call in signs. Close up in the night room, arms swinging to show the call. My neighbor was grained. He handed me the beer. He’d managed to top it when I wasn’t looking. He stood from the couch, walked across the room’s shadow, figure of him stooping behind the TV. He flicked the cable. He craned to check the screen. “Piece of shit,” he said. “I swear it has something to do with the weather.”

“So Garrett,” Rosie called, “do you want to stay for dinner?”

The figure of my neighbor nodded from the shadows.

“Sure, I guess.”

“Should I take that as a yes or as a no?”

“Take it as a yes.”

“I hope you’re not vegetarian.”

“I’m not.”

My neighbor gave a thumbs-up. “Meat is not a crime.”

My neighbor stopped the flicking. He sat down, was missing his beer, stood and retrieved it off the TV. Football flickered on. The game was bogged between punts. We stared at the TV, neither putting out a word. Halftime arrived: spinning logos, flashing scores, cut to cheerleaders dancing.

“They always show blondes.” Rosie flickered from the hallway.

“She’s sore,” my neighbor said. “She used to be a cheerleader.”

“They do. When they show close-ups, when was the last time you saw anyone not blond?”

“You’re sore. Twelve years and you’re sore.”

“I’m not sore.”

“You’re sore.”

“I’m just saying is all.”

“Who are you kidding? You’re sore.”

“I’m not sore.”

“And you’re blond. You’re sore and you’re even blond.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re blond at heart.”

“Blond at heart.”

“Hey, you’re blond to me.”

“It’ll be a half hour, okay, boys?”

The TV switched to sportscasters in ties. My neighbor frisked himself, stood, felt his hand beneath him. He lifted the pillows and pulled the edge of the sofa seat cushion. With both hands flat, he patted the table’s newspaper. He said, “Get up for a second?” I did and he spread the cushion seams. He bent and eyed the floor around, checked beneath the sofa. “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said. He stalked around the dark, checking tabletops and a set of shelves. He felt both hands along the fireplace mantle. Bending, he lifted the skirt of a chair, straightened, hands on hips. He pulled the remote off the TV, slapped it at his palm. “What a place to leave it. Doesn’t do any good over there.” He thumbed it. The TV read MUTE. “Damn analysis,” my neighbor said. “I can’t stand analysis.”

My neighbor went to the kitchen, had words there in the kitchen, my neighbor and his wife, quiet, so I couldn’t make out the words. I listened to them muffled, me sitting in the dark, the ceiling and walls gone dark in spite of the TV’s flicker. I couldn’t see my hand unless I held it before the TV, a silhouetted hand, raising a beer. I turned my head; no light from the kitchen. I never heard of no one not keeping a light in the kitchen. I thought about getting up, going to make conversation: sociability, neighborbility, the neighborly thing to do. I didn’t. I felt around for the remote control, found it, pushed through channels. It was on commercial. Whatever the channel was, it was a commercial.

Rosie stood before me, shaped in the TV light. “Where did he go?” she said.

“I thought he was with you.”

“No.”

“I don’t know then.”

“That man.”

I stood and followed her as she peeked in each room and doorway, dark, all of them, not a light on in any one of them, kitchen, too, where dinner bubbled by the thin, blue flames of the stove.

“So what do you do?” Rosie asked.

“What do I do?”

“Like for a living.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what you do for a living?”

“I guess not.”

“That’s funny.” She spread back the curtains. “Car’s gone.”

I was remembering: he was coming to borrow the wrench for the car, whatever he was fixing was for the car, some part he was working on, and I was close to remembering his name. It was clear to me now, brilliant sharp in the dark of my neighbor’s house: the memory of my neighbor crossing the street; me in my garage, closing up. He’d waved me over, held up a nut, had said he’d needed to tighten it, so I’d taken it, fitted it to wrenches until I’d found the right size. He’d said: “You’re a brother.” He’d said: “Be right back.” Now the memory was clearer, his name on the tip of my tongue: the sumbitch never brought the thing back. I’d waited while the night fell, standing in the night chill, and the sumbitch never brought my wrench back. I was out a wrench. I was out a wrench and to top it, he’d gotten me over for a beer. It made no sense: man borrows wrench, keeps it, invites you for a beer. This didn’t make any kind of sense.

I had a half a mind to sneak out to the garage, paw through what was there, find my wrench. The thing was there, somewhere, out in the world. Somewhere out in their garage. And it was my thing. There was a place for it in my house, a gap in my wrenches in my house, and I wanted to get my wrench back. I thought about it some more, but just half a mind, half intentions, so I didn’t sneak out, just stood and thought I should.

Rosie screamed, shaped in midair, lifted in blue stove light. My neighbor, come back, had her lifted by the waist.

“Goddamn it, you son of a bitch.”

“What was that about Mom?”

“You son of a bitch. I thought you were a masher.”

“I am what I am.”

Rosie was laughing.

My neighbor pulled the fridge door, pushed in a six-pack, pulled two bottles, offered me one, neck between his fingers.

“What, your wife doesn’t get one?” Rosie asked.

“Say the word. You want it opened?”

“I can open it.”

Rosie cracked the bottle bare-handed, tilted the bottle to her mouth, swallowing, wide-eyed, beer in the bottle draining. She swallowed, not a single pause, shade of bottle emptied, clocked it on the counter. She watched my neighbor. He popped the top off, held the bottle upside-down to his mouth, swallowed, beer draining from base of bottle to neck. The bottle came off his mouth with a pop and he tocked his bottle, hollow beside his wife’s. They both looked to me.

“No way,” I said.

A blink in the narrow stove light and my neighbor was gone behind me, locking my arms behind my back; he was a big guy. Moved quick for a big guy, had my elbows before I knew it, locked tight in a knot behind my back. Rosie turned the cap off a bottle, wedged it between my teeth, caught my nose between her fingers so I was suffocating. Beer frothed out my lips and I swallowed, trapped into swallowing, furious swallowing, beer trailing down my neck. The kitchen, Rosie, my neighbor, the beer, everything was gone invisible. Then the bottle was gone and my nose was free; I opened my eyes, gagging. My neighbor still pinned my arms. He dragged me back, pressed me to a chair; they tied my wrists, and ankles, too, bound to the legs of the chair. The room was black with no stove light. I said to the darkness, “Hey.” No shades of neighbors. No shuffle of movement. “Hey.”

A palm gripped my chin, fingers digging into my jaw; another gripped my nose, another hand. A thing was rammed at my teeth, ringing with metal against my teeth, with something soft; food, scalding hot. The chin-hand worked my jaw up and down, the nose-hand held my nose, making me choose, suffocate or swallow. I did the hand’s bidding: I chewed, swallowed, earned my nose a couple seconds of free air. Then my nose was pinched; the chin-hand caught my jaw, wrenched it down; I turned my head; the hands caught me, fixing it in place. Food was jammed, something soft with lumps of something crunching, bursting juice, salty juice, when they were crunched. My tongue was scalded rough, food forced again and again, the assumption of food, because I couldn’t tell anymore what it was I chewed. It could have been anything. I couldn’t tell. I could have been chewing anything.

Drink was forced. I swallowed, gagging, spitting, faint, exhausted, breath-deprived, bottle removed and me left gasping. Then another bottle. Forced by lizard brain, I had to swallow, gorged or not, then again, another bottle. Swallowing, I saw stars, dark or not, brilliant stars, before my eyes, a field of stars growing, flashing, a crowd of stars. Growing brighter and brighter, collecting to a noise of different colors, stars in different colors, joining; then they were gone. The hands were gone. I was free and breathing free and listened to my breathing, the only sound left in the dark. I wasn’t untied. If they were there they were silent, and I couldn’t remember their names. Not my neighbor’s, not his wife’s. Not my own.

Hoarse, I whispered, “Hey.”

I got nothing.

“Hey!”

I had no senses. I couldn’t feel the chair even though I sat in a chair. I knew there were cords but couldn’t feel them. The floor, the air, my arms, my legs. I couldn’t sense anything — nothing was anything. The room was nothing, the house was nothing. My neighbors were nothing and so was I. Even nothing was nothing. Nothing was no thing. The only thing left was the idea of me. A me who wasn’t even a me, tied in a house in the dark. Without the house. Or the dark. Or the me.

Morning rose. Light hovered slim above the kitchen’s windowsill. The house became a house, the light became light, my neighbors entered the kitchen and became neighbors. They untied my arms, untied my legs, spoke to me of breakfast and of day. I was one of them, magically. I was a neighbor and it was a relief. It was fading, the night speaker, voice of nothing, losing timbre. The thought begets the word and the word begets the deed. Rosie asked about eggs, namely how did I take them. My neighbor asked, “Coffee?” and filled a mug before I answered. We sat, him and me, elbows on the table, clasping mugs, coffee steaming in our faces as we both watched Rosie cook. She had a sweet sashay, the way her waist moved as she moved from stove to counter, back to stove, then sink, then counter again. My neighbor watched me watching, leaned, and keeping his voice low, spoke to me this conspiracy: “She has a sister, you know.”