Around the Corner

                                               Just Around the Corner

Where I come from people wave. Even driving by, they slow and shoot their arm out the car window to acknowledge the person they’re passing. It’s a small town, of course. Who waves in a big city?  It’s so small that eventually you’ve gotta leave, like I did. Or suffer the doldrums. 

The long winters, the gossip, the restrictive attitudes. But I miss the waving, now that I am in a big city. It’s hard to ever get noticed here. I try.  I dress colorfully; I smile and initiate hellos; I introduce myself in the elevator. I try to find common interests, to strike up a conversation that might lead somewhere. It’s disturbing how often I’m rebuffed. The brush-offs. Got to catch a bus; in a hurry; can’t talk. They live in my building, right next to me. Have for years.

Where I long ago came from, Vermont, you had to stop and at least say hello, usually more. You lived maybe a ways from people and they might be needed one day – say, when your wheels got stuck in the snow or the mud, or when the play you wanted to put on in town required a certain type. You didn’t want it to be the person you failed to acknowledge last week outside of Campbell’s Market. There were only so many folks to choose from, whatever you wanted. Good graces had to be kept.

Passing the time of day, it was called. It was usually only about the weather – a guarantee of shared struggle in Vermont. Looks like more snow to come, eh? They plowing your road? I’m too close to the line, myself. Neither county will bother. My taxes? Ha!  

I actually liked the small talk. It was a reminder that we were all in the same boat, dealing with the same sort of hassles and happenings. We sent our kids to the same schools with the same bad teachers and bullying bad boys  ; gathered in the town park for the same celebrations; made our way together in life as best we could. I also made one or two good friends. I don’t need a handful.

But here in Washington, DC?  Well. If it’s hard to even get looked at, you better believe it’s way harder to find a friend. They don’t seem to make them here. I try. I’m always on the look-out. Garage sales are good: there’s one around the corner every year, and I eagerly attend just to say hello to a maybe-friend. 

She’s got my taste, my wit; she’s my age. I’ve suggested a walk. No luck. She even bothered to tell me about a walk she does every week. So there it is: she walks, I walk, we’re neighbors. What, my inner Vermonter wonders, is the hold up? Many people in my life have liked me. Wanted to get to know me. Here, it seems, I’m chopped liver. This past garage sale, my fifth extended encounter with her, I was pleased to discover  Linda, her neighbor, for the first time. 

Linda caught my eye right off.  Around my age, she was clearly still kicking. A small, sturdy body, purple eyeliner, saucy bun, colorful attire. Red and orange: my favorites. She stood forthrightly on both her feet.  Everything on her person – except the shoes – and everything on her table, was designed and created by her. And it was all gorgeous. Sweaters, scarfs, ties, vests, handbags. We struck up a conversation about color; I bought one of her orange and red hand-knit sweaters; and, within minutes she and I were posing together attired in the very same jaunty hues. Being outrageous.

My maybe-friend got into the swing of things and ran for her camera. She said she used to love doing photography. Might not get it right after all this time, please forgive her. But she eagerly clicked away, instructing Linda and I to strike a variety of poses and the three of us had a good laugh over our sudden nerve. Strutting old ladies. And the photos were good.  I looked very tall, big, beside tiny Linda, but both of us were grinning, our colors exactly matched and we stood close together. Like friends. It was a red-letter day for me. A balm for my questing soul.

Linda and I ran into each other fairly often after that. On the way to the store. Or she’d be gardening the tiny patch outside her building. She planted bright orange flowers alongside the sidewalks, including, determinedly, right in front of the derelict building that ruins our otherwise lovely neighborhood look. She actually stopped when I came by; she actually chatted. We talked about lots of stuff, and one day she invited me over for ice cream. She was charming; her place was charming. She encouraged me to play her upright piano, and I did. It seemed I was finally making a friend.

Where I come from friendship is treasured. To become friends is to nurture kindness, understanding and trust. I thought we were doing that. I thought I at last might be knitting my respectful small-town values into Washington, DC’s cool urban detachment.  But when I returned from a brief vacation Linda didn’t answer my two friendly emails. Then, abruptly, she did. She demanded that I stop contacting her - forever.  I was stunned. No explanation.

Weeks later I ran into her on the street.  She was pulling weeds around her bright orange offering to the neighborhood.  I called out to her and she rose slowly, brushing her hands against her pants and turning her head reluctantly in my direction. I asked her what I had done to make her so upset. She abruptly turned on her heel, tight-lipped, scowling. I don’t have to tell you, she said. Stop pursuing me. She moved rapidly, head down, toward her building.  And that was that.

It hurt. Sudden, unexplained cut-off always does. Seems I’ll never know what twisted her attitude toward me. What triggered such tight-lipped anger. I would love to work it out with her, to try to understand. Where I come from, that’s what you do. And I truly enjoyed her, before. She was my feisty almost-friend just around the corner, with a keen eye for beauty, do-it-yourself determination, and the courage to stop and chat.  But I live in the city now. And in the city, you just move on.