NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR

Letter to:

                                           Next-Door Neighbor

Mr. Bellamy

    Like any street in my town, your town, it is your town too I suppose, being that you pretend to live here. It is a nondescript place I suppose, a speck in the universe, and yet, it is my speck. I came here by accident; time, place, a backlash in history, and now I am for all practical purposes, who I am, because of it. 

    You, the one next door, and your family, although I’ve never met you in the year you’ve lived here, are rumored by others, not to exist. But why you would fabricate a life or family you do not have, is beyond conjecture. Nonetheless, it is evident, that no one has interacted with anyone on the premises of 218, Octagon street; George Washington Bellamy, resident, ever.

    Mr. Bellamy, you, appearing to be a man of years, can be seen on most nights sitting on your porch, directly adjacent to mine, pretending to read your paper in the dim light of the burned-out porch bulb, and I might add for clarification, the same paper, at exactly the same time, every evening. Because your face is normally hidden by said paper, I can only assume it is you. I, however, testify, that I have seen the same unidentifiable individual, sitting in the same chair, wearing more or less the same shroud, summer, and winter, for the past year. Now, you may speculate as to how I obtained these details, so I feel compelled to respond to that presupposed implied assumption that I am a snoop, if not an outright overtly inquisitive spy, and if I might add, a busybody. I categorically, deny your inference. I feel obligated in this instance, to explain my observations in an attempt to respond to your speculation. There is a difference between being suspicious and being inquisitive.

   Mr. Bellamy, you are either made of wood or are an illusion, both of which I would refute by entering into evidence, pictures of George, you, on your porch. You will note the time stamp in the far-right corner of the pictures indicate, they have been taken over a period of weeks, using my thirty-five-millimeter telephoto lens with light enhancing capabilities. I also draw your attention to your unwavering ritual of being out of doors, only after the sun has long set. I can only assume you have an aversion to sunshine or are predisposed to star light.                                                                                                                                                                                

    I could tell, by the obvious rancor in your voice at our initial meeting, and the voracity of your answers to my innocuous questions, that you are the elusive type. I have only spoken to George, you, I assume, once in the past year, and that was on that night you and your supposed family arrived. I inquired as to your activity and noise, remember, over the impenetrable fence that prohibits unfettered observation of the rear yard, but with no results. Muteness!   

    I was awakened during the night by a commotion in the street.  I saw the lights of several vehicles, parked in the driveway adjoining my own, from my bedroom window. I saw no activity, human or otherwise, during what I assumed was the moving in process.  The house had been vacant for several years, and the for-sale sign had recently been removed, without so much as a notification from an agent or representative of the agency, Cryptically United. I later found the sign suspiciously propped against the garbage receptacle near the alley.

    The ghastly, at least in my opinion, name of the agency, caused my suspicions to peak. At various times, during the vacancy of the adjoining property, unexplained bluish pulsating lights could be seen during the night, coming from what appeared possibly to be, a television set, in what I speculated to be the living room. This blue flickering light, could not be confirmed definitively, as the curtains and shades were drawn; it was the only inference that I could make of the light escaping the curtain edges. I assumed it was an attempt to conceal the on goings of the interior of the house. I attempted, for safety purposes, to determine the source of light, and who might be responsible for its existence, with no success.

    Over the following days I observed, not only lights emanating from the house, but sounds resembling the high-pitched screams of a Guinea pig, trapped by a house cat. Now, you may ask how I would associate the sounds I heard with a trapped G-pig.  My answer: I personally witnessed and heard a G-pigs response previously when confronted by my cat, Butterfield, in the living room of my home. My son, the owner of said G-pig, and solely responsible for its keep, will verify and attest to, the noise accompanying the event described. My description of the noise is in no way meant to describe the source of the sound coming from your house, other than to draw similarities as to the afore mentioned sound. The same could be said for the reference to the light, and the television inferences. I wish only to be as definitive as possible in describing my observations. I know you’ll understand the necessity of clarity in situations like this.  

    I would not have been so suspicious, had the for-sale sign not disappeared in the middle of the night, after years of being left unattended.  The sign was covered with graffiti and cobwebs, not to mention the disturbingly graphic renditions of body parts. I should add at this point, that I attempted to call the telephone number on the sign, and was told by a computer-generated voice, that it no longer was in service, or had been changed. This piece of information also fueled my suspicions about said agency, and who, after the signs removal, might be inhabiting the house. 

    We all know of deep state activity that is involved in everything from the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa, to the reincarnation of Walt Disney, or was it Ted Williams, no matter. That implication was exemplified by the fact that I never observed a newspaper being delivered to the home after Mr. Bellamy, you, if that is your legal God given name, moved in. The only reason I even know your name, is that I went to the tax office and inquired as to the ownership of said property at, 218 Octagon Avenue. 

    I need to make something absolutely clear. I hold no ill will towards you Mr. Bellamy, or your shy family. What a man does in his own home, is his business, as long as I might add, it is legal, at least as far as the recognized social norms of a community are concerned. If you wish to encourage the image of a family man, despite the lack of family, that is your right. I also am empathetic to the suspicions of neighbors concerning the nonexistence of said family; not knowing if they do exist, and may be living within striking distance, of a … well you can imagine what I mean.

    We are all prone to being influenced by exaggeration and innuendo, especially when confronted by suspicions, daily. I wish, in no way, to impugn the reputation of you Mr. Bellamy, or your family, imaginary or not. I only wish to relay to you, that suspicious activity, light, and sound, have a detrimental effect on the equilibrium and stability of a community.  The neighbors, especially those within hearing and sight, of the suspicious goings on. Please forgive me if I have offended your sensibilities by exposing verifiable abnormal behavior, but you of all people, should know how protective we in the neighborhood, and that includes you I suppose, are of our families.

     We have decided, by we, I mean to include other neighbors who wish to remain anonymous, and therefore exempt from possible retribution.  You are entitled by law, to act in any manner you wish, as long as you do not impose that manner on those who have no choice but to observe your peculiar habits or are exposed to your daily porch antics.

    If you are in need of assistance, of any kind, be sure and visit our local mental health facility, they’ve done wonders for the neighbors on the other side of me, and the Frankfurters, who live in that green and yellow house on the corner. No need to be embarrassed, or skeptical of my intentions. I am committed to neighborhood cohesiveness and cordiality. Life is short as they say, so I believe there is time, and reason for us to put aside your differences, and get to know one another, therefore expanding our mutual understanding and acceptance of one another. 

    I invite you to the Halloween Party I host, in honor of those who attempt to break the repressive supplication of eternity but have failed to do so.  I fear however, you will not abandon your neighborly apartheid and come.

    I would ask, as I am an advocate of saving trees and therefore not wasting paper, when the outcome can be determined by simple insinuation or deduction, which ever you prefer. If however, you do not agree with my assessment, feel free to RSVP at your earliest convenience. I would appreciate though, as well as millions of other tree lovers, that if you do respond, which I have no reason to believe that you will, please use recycled paper, or better yet, make the paper yourself from the bark of our beautiful boulevard trees. The ones that shed their bark voluntarily, not the trees with acorns, just in case you may be unsure of the biological diversity of our streets.

    Also, my invitation includes the family you claim to have, but no one has ever seen. There will be plenty of non-fructose beverages, and enough glucose free treats to satisfy all but the most scrupulous of food critics.

     Speaking of food, I have recently discovered a radio show hosted by Kathy Lou, on how to stay fit by mentally engaging your muscles; providing obstacles, brainular of course, that encourage muscle activity through mind manipulation. No need to leave your porch. I believe you could also continue reading the paper once the initial stimulation is conjured from the cerebral cortex, and applied to the physical aspects, of one’s personage.

    I hope you do not find my intrusion into your seemingly dull and unexciting life by providing a means of pre-emptive escape, too proactive, but it is just the type of person I happen to be. Born that way, trained dutifully by loving adoptive parents, and admonished only by those who do not appreciate the intricacies of the mind over matter principles put forth in the ephemeral, but pungent Doctrines, of Martin Luther Lewinski, Patron Saint of crossing guards.  

     While I have your fleeting attention, I would also like to inform you of our book club meeting this coming week, Tuesday, Uptown library, 7 PM. We are presently reading, and will be discussing, a book by John Pierre Sartre, “Glimpses of Hypertension.” He’s also written other books I’m sure you’ve not heard of, and probably not read, “Volcanic Remembrances,” and “Glue, the Sticky Stuff.” All his books investigate the interworking's of inner workings. Mr. Sartre will be there and has agreed to read excerpts from his book, as well as sign purchased books.

      Given your present unsettled state, you might find the book signing endeavor to your liking. Mr. Sartre gives personal readings for anyone purchasing his book, that is, if you don’t mind being touched. Some of the members are squeamish when it comes to indiscriminate touching. Just thought I’d warn you in advance, in case you do show up, and are opposed to indiscriminate touching.  

    My robot, Jocelyn, has just rung me. It is time for my snack, an infusion of vitamin D, which she claims, “keeps your nails shinning like a stone at the bottom of a celestial pool.”

    I know we have had our differences, but I hope to make amends for your evasive behavior, by inviting you and your family to come to the Party. I’ve received nothing but accolades from those that have attended, and even a note from the police commissioner stating that neither he, nor any of his men, have ever been erroneously dispatched to one of my galas, as he refers to them. I believed he was joking, but then it’s difficult to tell with some people, especially the pretentious ones who wear their uniforms to every event, as if we’d forget their importance to our community, at large, if they wore normal attire. 

    I truly hope we can bury the hatchet, and I don’t mean in that old apple tree of yours that continues to drop those scabby imposters of fruit on my weed free lawn. But I jest, I’ve come to appreciate the bees that frequent my yard, encouraging pollination; if it were not for the fact that my son could die if stung by one of your bees, I would not have broached the subject, as I am in favor of fertilization, by bees in particular. If for some reason you feel, you can’t or won’t attend, please don’t spend valuable time indicating your intention to me, as I am very busy planning the party and have no time to spare on trivial rejections that magnify the superficial integrity of some neighbors.

Sincerely.

214 Octagon Avenue.