Neighbors

Chapter One: Welcome to Pear Street

        It was the summer time. The air had a dry and humid feel to it that made you want to sip water every five seconds. The bees were buzzing, and mosquito bites were red and itchy. Children were scattered out the neighborhood, riding bikes and playing hopscotch everywhere you looked. School had just ended, and my summer vacation had just begun.

        But instead of enjoying the summer like any every other college kid on break, I was sweating bullets and swatting mosquitos, working my ass off in the blazing June heat. I had the pleasure of cutting Mrs. Bloom’s lawn, my senile neighbor, who could barely remember what day it was or even the year we were in. Still, I didn’t mind cutting her lawn since she always paid me well. That was something she never seemed to forget to do and for that, I was grateful.

        It was about ninety nine degree’s outside and Mrs. Bloom was sitting out on her porch, watching as I pushed her rusty old lawnmower up and down her yard. I brushed the beads of sweat off of my forehead, as I glanced every so often at the pale white house across the street. A large moving truck was parked in the driveway. There was a certain excitement about having a new neighbor especially on Pear Street, where everyone literally knew everyone. The house had sold rather quickly on the market, according to our neighbors. I guess it was because Pear Street had an ethereal feel that attracted people almost immediately.  

        Mrs. Bloom would casually glance over into the yard every so often, trying to catch a glimpse of the new people who were going to inhabit that raised ranch. Mrs. Bloom wasn’t the only neighbor watching the mover’s carefully bring cherry oak dressers, wooden tables and vases into the house. It seemed like everyone on Pear Street had found an excuse to be outside on this particular afternoon.

        The self-declared housewives of the neighborhood had already prepared their baked goods, and were making their way over to greet the new folks. Ms. Tillman, the single mother, who had shamefully dated almost every available man in the neighborhood, was the first one to step foot in the yard.

        I rested my hands on my hips, as she stood at the ivory door, gripping a basket of store bought cookies in one hand. She was wearing a tight black dress that hugged the curves of her body and her normally tied jet black hair hung across her shoulders. She walked right through the door, without as much as a knock. Talk about self-invitation.

        “Desperate woman that Tillman,” Mrs. Bloom muttered shaking her head. I chuckled as I rolled the lawnmower into the garage. Mrs. Bloom might be senile, but most of the time she had the right idea.

        “I’m all finished Mrs. Bloom, is there anything else you need?” I asked taking a sip from my water bottle.

        “No dear,” Mrs. Bloom answered. “There’s fifty dollars on the table inside for you. Oh and there’s some homemade strawberry jam for your mother too, I know how much she likes it.”

        “Thanks,” I nodded, as I slid open her screen door, grabbing the money and the jam. I was back out on the porch not even a minute later. Mrs. Bloom was still staring across the street at the house. I glanced back over to see Mrs. Tillman flirting with a tall dark-haired man in a polo shirt and khaki shorts. There didn’t seem to be anyone else with him. He must be living alone. That meant every woman in the neighborhood would be after him.

        I rolled my eyes, as Ms. Sampson, a recent widow, made her way down the street clutching what appeared to be some sort of cake. God, these women are pathetic.

        “See you later, Mrs. Bloom,” I said as I swiftly moved down her steps, walking two houses down to my own. I moved through the front door, slamming it behind me, before I walked into the kitchen. The smell of pie drifted through the air, quickly filling the inside of my nose.