Neighbors

When landing on an alien planet, parachuting into the jungle, or moving to a new neighborhood, the best initial tactic is silent observation. New to Los Angeles, I'm watching my neighbor in the alley below struggling to light a charcoal grill. In the pouring rain. Joey's an eccentric and unpredictable fellow, but "bahbahkewin," as he would say in his Boston accent, in a torrential downpour seems extreme even for him.

I try to get a look at what he's doing, but I can barely see the deck furniture through the rain as it batters my mud-streaked windows, let alone the stretch of Southern California beach that lies beyond.

"I'm Joe," he said the first time we met. "But you can call me Joey." Struck me as a bit unusual, to call an average looking man in his forties "Joey" like a little kid, but I've met sixty year-old men who still like to be called "Cookie," so whatever. He asked me for my story, and I told him only that I'm from Boston and most recently from San Francisco. Of course he's from Boston too, and he liked that about me, the fact that we grew up near each other. He told me he sells shoes, and I probed for more details.

"Well, you see, ah, I soopahvize the shipments when the boats come in ta Long Beach," he said. "Make shore the shoes get to the waahouse. Shit like that. You know."

Well no, I don't know, but it was clear he didn't want to answer any more of my questions.

I move to a different position at the window and hope this won't expose me. What's he grilling? Steaks, burgers? Kind of soggy.

I first met him a few days after moving into my new place. I was coming out of the alley that runs below my apartment, and he hailed me over to his patio. I say patio, although it's no more than 6 feet long by 2 feet wide. In beachfront real estate terms, being on the walkway by the sand, it's considered primo.

"Best sunsets ya evah saw," he told me. "Awesome cullahs."

I suspect that he favors it less for the vistas and breaking surf than for the close up view of the butt-flossing, plastic-boobed blondes who roller-skate past jamming to Madonna on their Walk-Men every Saturday. Anyway, he had called me over to check me out, being his new neighbor and all, and to introduce himself.

Standing on tiptoe and wedging my forehead against the glass as I open my jaw and peer down my nose, I realize he's not grilling anything resembling lunch. Looks more like he's burning something over the fire, which stays lit since he's beneath an overhung piece of roof. I'm dying to lean out onto the deck for optimal viewing, but if he sees me, the excuse that I was just out for a breath of fresh air and a look at the ocean in the pouring rain might not cut it.

"Ya awright kid," he said to me. "Let me tell ya somethin'. Come down a my house any day, down the Strand five o'clock. Happy Howah. We'll do some pahtyin'. OK?"

"OK," I told him.

Happy Hour at Joey's consists of three cases of Bud. We all sit around staring at the sand, ostensibly watching some old guys from up the block play volleyball.

An assortment of partyers turns up for these little get togethers. Lois, with the tiny sunglasses and pointy nose, seems perennially stoned and I have to be reintroduced to her each time we meet. Which is fine, as anonymity seems preferable with this crowd. Szabo, the Czechoslovakian dentist, a big huge bear-like man with a big huge bear-like dog whose name I can't pronounce but supposedly means Cow in Czech. There's another guy who says he's a screenwriter, and reminds me of an obese cokehead professor I once had. I sit quietly behind my sunglasses, absorbing their conversations.

Lois rearranged her exploding breasts in their too-small fake tiger skin bikini top and turned to Joey with her New Yorky nasal voice.

"So, ya heeyah theeyah're shootuhng some Bevully Hills Nine Oh Tuhwo One Oh beach howse episohdes down heeh next week?" She asked.

"No shit, huh?" he responded, carefully lining up empties on the low wall in front of us.

"Think they're using extras?" Szabo asked. He spread his hands out across his dark thighs, giving me an opportunity to check out his French manicure. I guess wanna-be-movie-star dentists need to take special care of their hands.

"I don't know, but if they option the Baywatch episode my agent submitted, I'll keep you in mind," the screenwriter offered, eyes bulging from behind pony-tail stretched cheeks.

Szabo rolled his eyes and untangled his dog's leash from between its legs.

Joey turned to me, "Hey kid, I ever tell you about the paht I had in the cable TV Sehries?"

Although Happy Hour occasionally adjourns to Lois' verandah up the Strand, I've never accompanied them that far.

Joey has moved a bit now and I can see the grill more clearly. It occurs to me that this is kind of nosy, not exactly neighborly, to spy on the guy like this. I reach for my binoculars.

He has also introduced me to some of the characters that people the Strand. There's "Breadman," who collects old bread for the thousands of birds he reputedly owns. White matted hair flapping behind him like a fake Santa beard on backwards, he rides a shaky old Schwinn with an equally ancient radio strapped to the handlebars blaring John Phillips Souza marching band music.

Then there's "Can Boy," who looks like some poster child for the Nazi youth in northern Idaho, with his tatoos, bald head, and black army pants with heavy black padded jacket even in July. He wanders erratically up and down the Strand with a thirty gallon garbage bag seeking cans. Aware that Joe hides his empties in careful piles behind an old boat in back of his cottage, "Can Boy" regularly comes to collect them. I know because I've witnessed the rendering of this service from my deck. It seems to be a good system for Joe, as there are dozens more cans per week than you would imagine. Having them magically disappear from the alley must be far preferable to stacking them on the curb in the recycling container for the other neighbors to count.

The bags of disappearing cans lurk near where this ritual burning ceremony is taking place. I focus in on what looks like yellow lined paper sputtering on the grill, but Joe replaces the lid, foiling my vantagepoint.

He's shifting from one foot to the other, as if he's trying to get these papers to burn faster. Duh, like you might want to pick a day for burning that's a little less inclement.

At these Happy Howahs, Joe's always proud to show me his latest patio furniture, like the plastic table with the built-in lamp. It looks like a regular table with a lamp on top, but they're connected. He demonstrated this for me by attempting to pick the lamp up off the table so I could see that the table gets lifted along with it. There's also a couch with collapsible foot rests and a fold down arm in the center with cup-holders, like in my uncle's Chevy Corsica. I've never quite felt compelled to reciprocate this gesture of intimacy with ones furnishings. He can't see my deck chairs from the alley, and I certainly haven't invited him up.

What the hell is he burning anyway? Letters from a secret lover? Tax documents? Maybe it's his client database for his supposed shoe business.

Once while we were making small talk about the sunset and the beach and he was telling me he had lived in Miami and Central America, and that the beaches of Costa Rica were the best of the world, his phone rang. He was quick to take it inside and kept the conversation muffled. When he came back, he muttered something like "work tomorrow."

I wondered about that. The monster '76 Cadillac he drives never leaves it's parking spot out on the street. If he really goes to the docks in Long Beach, when does he go? Midnight?

After Happy Hour another time, Joey and I walked up the street to the local Mexican restaurant for some dinner. Food seemed a wise plan as he was lurching a bit, leading me to the conclusion that a sizable contribution to "Can Boy's" cause had been created before my arrival. Over burritos, I got him to spill a few tidbits about our other neighbors: the bi-sexual gynecologist, the British guy who does cartoon animation, the cop, and even my landlord who he said once threw a fax machine out the second floor window at her husband.

As we were getting to our alley on the walk home, he turned to me and asked, "Mind if I come upstehs and lie down with ya for awhile? I promise to be quick."

I promise to be quick. His body wavered forward and back, although his feet were stable on the sidewalk by the stairs to my front door. Candy-cane colored eyes, minus their usual contacts, blinked largely at me from behind heavy lenses.

I promise to be quick. Now there's a hot come-on line. The average woman, desperately seeking romance and intimacy is sure to be sucked right in for that one.

"No thanks Joey," I told him. "Maybe some other time."

Big smile, eyes closed, he concluded with, "OK kid. See yahs lateh." Then he passed behind the gate and stumbled or maybe hopped - I could only hear him - down the steps to his door.

I haven't seen him much since then. I stopped by once, but he was absorbed in big screen football, on the phone, and making notes on a pad. I waved through the window and kept going.

Notes on a pad. I think about that again.

He has taken the lid off once more, and feeds more sheets of paper into the fire. Through my binoculars I can make out some of the writing. Lots of names. Names of people, of cities, of different sports teams it looks like.

So maybe he's a bookie. Or maybe he's a bookie and a drug importer. Maybe his "shoes" have laces filled with pot, and maybe he was a coke trafficker in Miami and Costa Rica. Maybe our other neighbor, the cop who goes on vacations with him, is in on it too. I lower the binoculars. Business as usual on the beach in LA.

Through the open window I can smell the fire through the dampness. A bit like wet leaves burning back in New England.

Joey replaces the red dome on the barbecue once more, and leans back against the wall, looking up. Our eyes meet and my mind flips through possible responses: hide, wave, freeze in shocked panic. Dropping the binoculars to the floor behind me, I step out onto the deck and into the rain.

"Hey Joey," I say. "How's it goin'?"

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