Six months ago, something meaningful happened. Suddenly and out of the blue, I had two neighbors. I didn’t want to mention here in this blog, mainly because I knew that a few of you would make a lot of noise about it, particularly in the “See??!?! Things are improving!!! You have TWO NEW NEIGHBORS!!! YAYYY!!!” department. Just call it a hunch.
Well, the hunch was right. I was correct in not mentioning the couple that moved in to Cholondron, the failed-housing-project-bordering-the-jungle where I live…. because they lasted only ten days here before quitting on it like a bad job.
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Yesterday was a very interesting day. One of my neighbors had decided to drop by in a red pickup truck. He wasn’t visiting; he was certainly going to use that pickup to, well, pick something up. I won’t mention his name; I’m withholding it to protect the innocent. All I will tell you is that he’s thirty-five years old, of Latino extraction, rather big and tall for his heritage. Latinos tend to be sprightly, thin people of small body frame, so he particularly sticks out like a sore thumb. He’s married.
Married. Mark that one as the vital keyword that will underline this entire episode.
Last year, he moved into this hellhole with his wife, a petite cinnamon-skinned brunette. She belongs to the high-maintenance kinda-woman sort, as Billy Crystal once described her class in the movie When Harry Met Sally. She’s also a small terror and a bitch, to boot. I sort of pity and envy this guy at the same time; she may be a nasty hellion, but at least she adds some warmth to his bed.
Their moving day to Cholondron then had been your typical Hey-well-met-fellow-homecoming sort of thing. They bought out a house here as everyone does, full of hopes about finally owning their small home and a piece of land. Cynically, I smiled inwardly and bit my tongue. Little did they know. They would learn how to cope with Cholondron, eventually.
This couple even invited me to their small New Home’s Inauguration Day barbeque, as it’s customary around here. I had my fill of prime beef and zonked myself out with three light beers; it was so long since I last tasted any alcoholic beverage that I was already buzzing lightly by the second half of the first one. Yeah, I know: I’m a freeloading scumbag, but let’s not make much a fuss about it.
The couple played their party music loud and nasty; Latinos are wired that way. Not me. I hate loud salsa music, but my belly was full of good food and getting high by the end of my second beer can so I didn’t mind the noise. It was Saturday, anyway. Who gave a ****.
This couple had a lot of guests coming and I did my best to mingle, while trying to not get too personal at the same time. The reunion was about to propel itself into the stratosphere like a rocket fueled with 18-year old Whiskey… and then the music died down all of a sudden. The power had just gone out as it is customary in this place; I remember (barely) that I snorted with laughter into my beer.
The little woman was already berating her poor husband to do something about it. He went to his car and switched on the stereo, playing Salsa music as loudly as before. The party tried, truth be told, to regain its previous alcoholic height, but it had crash landed for good by then and the general mood had burned to a crisp.
Then the car’s battery gave up its ghost, too. Dead. Kaput. Zilch. Niente. Nada. It was completely out of juice.
It goes without saying that I exited stage left, without uttering a sound
You know… I really didn’t want to hear me break into the best fit of laughter I ever had in years.
Stay tuned for the continuation of this little amusing tale.