The Equity Issue

“That house looks so perfect when he’s not home!” says every neighbor whether they know it or not. Through my smiling teeth, I could say this too, cleaning miscreant leaves that blow west to east, from Todd’s front lawn right to my front door. We stop to take a rest, Sam, and I, before cleaning this leafy mess. Then we get into a discussion about who’s leaving. Uh going away.

“Todd lived here twenty years and the police only had to come twice.” Harumphs Sam, pointing to the house in the middle of our respective, um respectable homes. “Terrible gambling addiction though! I doubt there’s much equity left in Todd’s house.”

“I don’t see your point,” I say.

Sam glares at me. “When was the last time you talked to Todd?”

I threw it right back at him. “When was the last time you talked to Todd?”

Let's see. When do I notice Todd? Is it when he cuts his lawn at 7:15 in the morning? Or is it when we both duck our heads down when we see each other, running from car to house as if it is pouring outside? I knew this much. Back when neighbors used to talk to each other, there would be so many things we knew about each other. Now when you see a neighbor coming, it’s like you’re thinking what have I done or not done? That neighbor is trying so hard to look casual, with his wry, half laugh, like he told a joke twenty years ago and just got the punchline. And when he gets close he sighs. Like this will be the hardest thing he has done in a week, to tell you that he would really appreciate it if you did “X” instead of “Y.” You are left wondering “Y” he did it! “X” marks the spot where you want to bury him! Why not just put up with it? I mean I put up with lots of things and never say a word to anyone.

Anyway, it’s all scandalous gossip to my ears. I’ve only been here forty years! I’ve got more equity than Sam has teeth. Dentures he has. Gums up the works getting old. Sam can’t leave the house to the kids; he’s living too long. Sam, he wouldn’t tell me anything. It’s a pact between us. My house would be on fire, and Sam, he might casually say, there’s a problem you might want to have a look at. That Sam. He’s a neighbor’s neighbor!

But what is all this talk about houses? The only people who own houses are old people. I bought one house for 24 thousand and sold it for 90. Bought another for 130 and sold it for 199. I bought my last house for 150 and it's worth 700. I could be rich but then I would have no place to live! But that is equity for you. Makes you feel wealthy and important when you're not.

Now Sam turns his eyes on me. Might as well take advantage of this once-in-a-year opportunity. Searchlights he has for eyes as he stares at me, with his mouth half open. Conniving looks aside, I think I will hitch my wagon to my wife. She always says I talk too much. Like what I hear from her after I’m done talking to Sam.

Why did you have to tell Sam that I had a hysterectomy? Then you said you hardly ever see the kids. Next, you’ll tell him what we used to pay on our mortgage or how many operations you’ve had. You hardly see him. He’s not your friend you know.

Oh, to have a friend, like in the old days, before they all up and died. No, seriously not died. Just left sort of. Well, they don’t leave. When you retire, you expect to see your friends around somewhere. At some place, every few years, you’ll run into Paul, and it goes like this:

“Hey Paul, long time no see. Todd is leaving.”

“He died?”

“No, he ran out of equity.”

“What’s that?”

And I would explain everything to Paul but I’m in a hurry. Got to get home to watch Netflix. Poor Paul, he only ever had an apartment. It was his divorce. The wife took the kids, the house, the car, the cat, and the dog. Paul, he was left with the job. Janitor. Oops! Custodian. He was nice enough, just a little lacking between the ears. But you would never let him feel too out of it. When he would ask about the latest project the team was working on, Paul would get the headline and the press release. Then he would say, “Oh, I see.” And that would be the end of it.

***

Paul’s apartment. What a strange word. A part of what? Coming apart meant something? And that makes me think that getting old is a word game. You sit for ten minutes, and half an hour goes by! Then your wife says to take out the trash and you don’t hear her. She says to take the trash out and you don’t hear her. She says if I don’t take the trash out, I will hear her. But she doesn’t scream so loud now, it’s almost tolerable. It’s sort of a choked scream. I can’t get it quite right. “I hate it when you…cough, cough…then she panics!” Runs to the fridge for the bottled water that I didn’t bring up from the basement. Well, she doesn’t really run anymore actually. It’s kind of comical. Half run, the left leg hurts, pretend to walk, then run on the good leg for a second, remember how it hurts too. You get the picture.

The other day, Tim had something to say about Todd. Timothy. No one calls their kid Timothy anymore. No one calls their kid Todd anymore. Sam? Who in Sam Hill calls their kid Sam anymore? Me, my name used to be Jim. No one calls me that anymore either.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, Paul was talking to Tim about Todd. Get this straight. Old farts who never hardly talk are gossiping. Why do we do it? It’s not like any of this matters! There’s no test to bone up for. But you want to hear what Tim had to say about Todd after he talked to Paul? Well, I ran into Tim at the grocery store. He was with his grandkid. I should say grandchild, but I refuse. Grandkid. This kid is grand. He’s perfect! Like whining constantly. I have seen way better-behaved dogs. You want to say, you are spoiling this child terribly, but that is impossible. You want to say that this child is very noisy but that is impossible. You want to say that this child should stop running around in the store but that is impossible. Everything is impossible when trying to ram three years of not talking to Tim into three minutes!

Tim lets his grandkid play with his shiny gold iPhone 16 Max Ultra VR Pro Everything. No case on that sucker. Sort of like the Olympics of smartphones. Grandkid is squeezing it. He thinks it’s an Xbox series X controller! Then Grandkid waves his arms around, pretending to be a flapping bird, just like in the game he plays! But Tim is taking it like a grand old dad. 

"Paul told me that Todd is moving out because of an equity issue,” says Tim.

“Yeah, that’s right Tim. It’s hard to make ends meet when the money keeps going.” I say.

“So, he’s being sued by someone over an equity issue?” Tim finally snatches away his iPhone. He explodes. “Go pick out that chocolate bar you want!”

“I didn’t hear that. But yeah, maybe something like that.” I say. Tim is looking kind of peaked. Pink and stressed. Where is Grandma to take care of him? Then Tim kind of sidles away, crab-like. Grandkid has three chocolate bars.

***

It’s a soccer game. The grey-haired cheering section has a problem. They’re so into the game, they’re kicking air and jumping up and down. Then some of them fall over, gently like old people do. "Here I go, this is really happening!" But those ambulances are standing by, engines running. It’s those gold-plated medical insurance plans we retired gents have. Hot and cold running nurses and doctors. Richard just so happens to be at the soccer game. He’s so wide awake, it’s embarrassing. Woke, I mean. Sheesh! I just can’t keep up. Me, I have such a hard time sleeping. Five hours tops! How can I be woke?

Anyway, Richard has serious connections to everyone and everything. People would hop to it when he had something he wanted to be done. And being woke just added a whole new dimension to Richard, the power broker. Say the right words in the wrong way and you’re history! Say the wrong words in the right way and you’re history! Say no words and never speak and you might still make history!

“Wanna beer?” Richard says. Richard never had a beer he didn’t love.

“We’re in a public place, Richard! There are kids all around us!”

He shrugs. “I’m seventy-five. What do I care?” I take a beer and try hiding it in my windbreaker.

“Did you hear about Todd?”

What now? I think.

“Paul told Tim who told me that Todd is in a lot of trouble. Something about a lawsuit?”

“A lawsuit?”

“Yeah, the Human Rights Commission is going to get involved. An equity issue. He’s going to lose his house!”

“You don’t say!”

***

The Toronto Star reporter is so young and pretty. I just read in that rag that Robert DeNiro and Al Pacino just had newborns. Gotta admire that. They still got it.

“Do you know Todd’s last name? I need it for this story for the Star I’m working on,” she asks.

“Outhouse. I’m almost sure of that.”

“Todd Outhouse! Todd is out of his house! So cute!” She chortles.

She has this upturned nose. Ski jump I think people call it. And those freckles, so fresh and perky. If I didn’t hurt all over, I might have had something to say to the Toronto Star or the police when they finally showed up for the third time, Todd being led away in handcuffs and all. But who listens to me anymore anyway? You get so old, it’s almost like you are invisible.