Sunday, November 13

homemade cookies and the apocalypse: a love story

I liked what Mandia said tonight when she and Steven popped over from next door.

Yes!  We have a new neighbor in The House Next Door! And we're 98 percent certain she's not yet running a brothel out of there or stabbing people or stealing bikes or otherwise engaging in illegal and/or similarly immoral activities. So far, the only really disturbing thing she's done is bring over a bottle of whiskey and a cherry/apple pie, claiming that "the gas isn't on yet" and she needs our oven. She also borrowed four double-A batteries the other day which raised some eyebrows around here. I mean, we'll see. But so far, so good.

So. Quick recap. I already recapped this once and then Blogger ate it. So this recap will probably be quicker than the first one.


(her real name)

lived next door for awhile. She may or may not have actually sold meth out of her house. What I know is that she and her boyfriend used to fight a lot and throw things at each other and abuse dogs, if we correctly interpreted the noises. There was also bike-stealing. Eventually, Angel got a restraining order against the boyfriend and he moved out. Sort of. Mostly. After that, approximately seven large tattooed men (and one or two scary-looking women) apparently moved in with Angel. And that place is small - maybe five or six hundred square feet. I'm not sure. You'll have to ask Mandia.

They did some stuff or whatever, and the cops came at least once a month, and everybody got arrested a time or two, and then Angel got evicted because she stopped paying her rent.

After that, Jesus

(his real name)

moved in with his wife and small son. We all lived in harmony for about two months, and then Jesus threw a party.

A very loud "f*** you, b****, you f***in' drink that s*** or I'll f***in' **** *** **" kind of party that lasted for about seven hours. We took the high road, because it was during the day, and didn't call the cops. And at dusk, they quieted down and quit with the drunken cussing and we thought all was well with the world.

Until Jesus and a friend took themselves a drunken constitutional through the neighborhood and attacked a random stranger and then got theirselves stabbed at the Circle K down the street.  Oh that night! What a night! It was all very police-y. With lots and lots of caution tape and giant scary dogs and big guns. We never saw Jesus or his family again.

"What next?" We asked ourselves despairingly. "Who's going to move in now? God?"

Luckily, the next guy was generally a pretty decent alcoholic who was not named God and who liked dogs and fashion design and had a basil plant. But he moved out recently and unexpectedly, and so we spent a few weeks trying to convince everyone we know to move in. And Mandia was the one who answered our prayers.

Which bring us to tonight when she popped over with a cold cherry/apple pie and a bottle of whiskey and said (not right away, but later, when the context was more appropriate): "Someday the world will implode (emotionally) and martial law will be imposed and everyone will start running around with shotguns and looting and raping and whatnot, and while that's all going on, Jenny and I will be baking cookies." Or something to that effect.

And I was all like, Mandia that's awesome because it's SO TRUE!!, while, meanwhile, waiting for my maple-walnut bars to cool and thinking, that kind of already has happened on this block.

The end of the world doesn't scare me. I've lived next door to Angel and Jesus. I will offer the zombies a plate of strawberry thumbprint cookies. I'll give the crazy shotgun people some kind of chocolate-raspberry torte, and the guy trying to hotwire my truck (good luck to that guy) some orange-pistachio-milk-chocolate-chip cookies, and whoever thinks he's in charge a Spoon Cookie, and then Mandia and I will stand together in our soot-covered aprons with a hot nuclear wind blowing back our hair and pans of cookies in our mitted hands, and when God pulls up in His rusted-out Lincoln Mercury, we'll say something really pithily and searingly profound, and then we'll gaze together off into the distance (the "future") and the credits will roll.


Anonymous said...

Ah, you are back and in fine form. Life is good (even though your neighborhood seems a little dicey - at least on paper). And I'm a social worker!

Mary Rose said...

man, your neighborhood is fucked up. or my life's just boring.

Manzilla said...

1: I kind of wish you had written this before I moved in.

2: I might have to start selling meth, or at least meth laden cookies. Or better yet, I'll start a cock fighting ring (because there is certainly enough space in the backyard for that), where I will sell my methookies as snacks.

3: I would approximate the space between 400-500sq feet. Barely enough room for a gal and two cats.

4: I might not have a holy name, but I certainly will allow you and Raphael to worship me with offerings of batteries.