Fiction: Gotcha!

By Susan Brink O'Flaherty                                                                                                            

 

We’re out the door for our usual early morning walk to Blue Bottle, braving forty-mile-an-hour hot wind gusts as the sun rises. “Fuck, Felix. It’s January, not September.” I swear we all died and are living in some alternate universe. 

Felix gives me the look that says, “Language, please.”  

“You’re right. Too early. I clearly need coffee.” 

Except for the Santa Anas, the street is relatively quiet, and it’s apparent I’m overdressed in my sage green Vuori tracksuit Felix made me buy––any respectable Millennial has one (nobody over thirty wears ALO.) I remove the jacket and tie it around my waist. “What? Yes, I’m in a tank top. Get over it.” 

We continue walking east, past our favorite Spanish duplex with custom Hackney Artemis drapes in the windows. “Dreamy, right? It’ll happen someday. Trust.” We tried for that apartment originally, which is how and why we ended up in Beverly Hills 90212. Instead, due to circumstances I’m not prepared to discuss, we landed in a subpar, bastardized 1930s duplex that’s still in its Home Depot phase: brown and black granite counters, beige floor tiles. Thank God for the crown moldings and Miele appliances––old, but stainless steel. 

Halfway up the street, that sexagenarian, shriveled psychopath we witnessed molesting the hood of his sports car a week ago pulls the canvas condom off his Mazda. Not a Ferrari, mind you. Not a Porsche. A Mazda Miata. 

“Felix,” I whisper. “It’s about to happen again.” 

I can tell that Felix has already clocked the action. 

“Oh, don’t slow down. You’re a glutton for punishment.” I pretend to look the other way, but the imagery is too rich. “Wait for it,” I whisper as we approach from a few yards away. “Oh, God. He’s about to have unprotected sex with that thing again.” 

Sure enough, the skinny-legged, pasty white, hairless oddity dips a golden chamois into a red bucket of presumably high-pH presoak (only the best for his thirty-thousand-dollar car) and in a camouflage unitard (let me tell you, not government-issued,) the psycho European gently applies the liquid from top to rear in delicate, circular motions. His expression makes me want to vomit––half-cocked grin, flushed, melty eyes. Vile.

“Are you watching? This scene is already at NC-17, Felix.” I lock eyes with my partner in crime and in true Felix fashion, we’re redirecting to the other side of the street. “That’s what I thought. You pretend these things don’t affect you, but––”

Fuck my life. I shouldn’t have glanced around.

Our “neighbor” (I use that term lightly because “neighbor” would imply helpful, hospitable, kind, lovely) Ida, comes beelining––more like wasplining––her brittle body across the street after us, navigating at least twenty downed palm fronds. Ida, who should be dead from heart disease, is somehow still able to raise her Broadway stage voice through another round of gusts. Allegedly, she understudied Patty Lupone in Evita. Doubtful. She’s got the charisma of a wet wipe. 

“Don’t make eye contact. Pretend we’re in a deep conversation,” I side-whisper, but Felix is checking out the swaying top of the trees. 

“These winds. My word!” Ida projects from a few yards away. Her entire body must be supported by that ridiculous diaphragm––the bass in her voice puts mine to shame. 

“Be nice, Felix,” I whisper through clenched teeth. 

Just as Ida’s about ten feet from us, a dramatic, warm gust brings down a frond almost on top of her head. It bounces heavily on a patch of Bermuda grass near the curb. 

If only…But luck isn’t something I’m familiar with. No, I’ve had to scratch and claw my way to everything I have. Thank God for Felix. I suppose finding him was lucky.

“Sah-nta Ah-nas!” Ida declares, wearing high-waisted, pleated pants in an ungodly shade of putty and a matching mohair cardigan, even though it already must be in the high seventies. She’s preceded (with the help of the hot easterly wind) by her disgusting Opium by Yves Saint Laurent. I know it’s Opium because my mother (God rest her slot-machine-addicted, meddling soul) wore it until she croaked in the early nineties.

“You both walk so quickly.” She’s huffing and puffing. 

Maybe ease off the Virginia Slims. How the medical profession allowed any type of surgery on someone so unhealthy, so crusty… 

“Might I have a word?” Her smoker’s-Lauren-Bacall-wanna-be-low-register hurts my ears and my soul. 

The countdown to my Cortado is getting longer. I sense Felix’s eye roll, but I look to the blustery sky. Literally. And I can’t state this more frankly, but from the moment we moved in, this piece of work––and, oh, let’s talk about that work, shall we? What hasn’t been modified (aside from her 1970s perfume?) has done nothing but make our lives miserable. We were bringing the first of the plants upstairs (as I recall, a healthy rubber tree and a prolific rhododendron) when we heard from the bottom of the steps, “Don’t water those on the patio. That's all I ask.” Let me tell you, I stopped cold, placing the rubber tree on the ground before righting myself, tucking my shoulders behind me, and, accessing the two years of Barre and Level Two Pilates, promenaded with purpose, and to hopefully telegraph my disdain, to the edge of the landing. Below, stood the most brittle, hollow-eyed white woman I’d ever seen (and I’m German stock from Northern Maine), cradling her saggy, over-blushed cheek in one of her palms, reminiscent of Gloria Swanson. “It’s just that the water drips onto my patio.” Oh, it does, does it? Then, there were various notes on our door like, SHOES OFF PLEASE. And PLEASE MODERATE THE VOLUME ON YOUR TELEVISION. Followed by a phone call from the building owner, “Blenders should not run before eight or after ten.” This rule-setting went on and on. Meanwhile, she let her five cats outside to fend for themselves during coyote season––two go “missing” and she has the audacity to knock on our door to perform a thorough search. As if we’d steal her feral felines. Nothing against pussies, but with my yellow Roche Bobois sofa, that’s so not going to happen.

“Well! This is more than a breeze, wouldn’t you say?” Ida blots her forehead and cheeks as if the wind has anything to do with how bizarre her face looks––pulled, planed, plumped.

Two school buses pass us. Felix is sound-sensitive, and the groan of the diesel engines makes him stiffen. Every day this week, the Beverly Hills High swim gym has hosted an early morning meet. You couldn’t pay me to get into cold water in a Speedo before noon, and there’d better be a margarita. Which reminds me, the one win in moving into this neighborhood is the occasional Greg Louganis sighting. Girlfriend is the complete package. Even though he’s way before my time, I’d consider getting into the water before noon if it meant breaststroking in a lane next to that Olympic scorcher.

“I was going to leave a note, but since I found you…”  

To make nice, I pull my full, exfoliated lips into a smile. To be clear, I’d rather be on a plaid blanket watching Mr. Auto Erotica than in this cloud of Opium with Ida the Horrible, but we do live directly above her. Like it or not.

“I wanted to ask you to be extra careful burning your candles on the patio. Especially with the lack of humidity.”

No, she did not.

Felix’s expression says, Yes, she did.

“Hold, please,” Ida instructs like a 1950s telephone operator, her thin, wrinkled finger in the air.

Hold, please? 

She’s tracking someone near our building who’s about to get into his car. It’s the new neighbor, a tall, dark, tatted-up Persian bear from the Spanish triplex next to us who’s apparently in his third trimester (carrying high, so it’s a boy.) He looks our way, but his body language screams, “I need to get out of here. Quickly.” Join the club.

“Dariush!” Ida shouts.  

Felix and I start to walk away, but Ida’s hand reaches the crook of my elbow. 

“Just a moment,” she instructs.

Every molecule in my body seizes as I attempt to wriggle out of her bony hand. I want to use all my force to fling her to the ground, but Felix urges me to calm the fuck down. Luckily, an enormous gust of wind interjects, and Ida has to batten down the curtains of her damaged, shoulder-length faux-blonde tresses and I’m able to pull free.

“Dariush! You read my note?” Ida shouts her query.

So, we’re not the only ones. What could she possibly have to complain about to someone living in another building? Do I really have to ask that? 

Dariush takes his time walking over. His face might be flushed. Or is it the world-is-ending-crimson morning sky? And did Dariush once-over me on approach? If Cunty McCunterson hadn’t been cockblocking, I might have let Felix walk ahead so I could bask in Dariush’s contemplation a little longer.

Ida’s strangely deep yet shrill voice cuts through the wrestling palm fronds above. “Dariush, if you’ll recall, the black bin in the back is for trash, not recycling. Since we share, I thought I’d remind you.”

To his credit, Dariush completely forgoes the expected rebuttal and turns to me and Felix. “We met last week. I forgot your names.” He runs his strong, meaty hand through his dreamy waves of hair.

I can practically taste Ida’s anxiety at being ignored, and I’m here for it. “Oscar and Felix. Like the Odd Couple.” I hesitate to use that reference, because it’s so pedestrian and not at all sexy, but it can’t be helped. And, honestly, Dariush’s eyes are deep pools of seventy-five percent cocoa, and I feel a little off my axis around him suddenly, despite the beer baby bump. IfI’m completely honest, because of it.

I sense that Felix is annoyed at Dariush and my innocent flirtation from his droopy expression.

“Oscar…and Felix. I won’t forget,” Dariush says before turning to Ida. “Yeah, got it, Ida.” 

“Nice to see you again, Dariush,” I say, watching him lumber to his BMW.

Ida’s peach-caked lips open. “And the candles. You’ll––”

“Keep it in mind.” I hold back the urge to go full Housewives Lisa Rinna on her and simply put one foot in front of the other, following behind Felix toward the school, trying, with each step of my Nikes, to work out the fury. I mantra Cortado. Cortado. Cortado. Ten or fifteen strides later, my shoulders drop from my ears. I’m so booking red light therapy and a massage after work.

Dariush passes us and takes a right turn toward Santa Monica Boulevard. Maybe he works out at the Century City Equinox. I can imagine him there––not using the weights, but frequenting the sauna, maybe visiting the smoothie bar. 

When I catch up to Felix, he’s got that look. “Don’t tell me you don’t think that bear is cute, Felix.” I side-eye him and catch that he’s turned his face away from me entirely. “Stop! You know we’ve always been open to the dark burlies.”

As we round the corner, the swim gym echoes with whistles and shouts.

I holler, “Good morning!” to the security guard standing outside the building.

Apparently, my overly enthusiastic greeting doesn’t land with Felix. He stops in his tracks and gives a sarcastic, sidelong glance.

“What? Yes. It’s easy to be nice.” I turn away before appending, “to people I don’t know. Please don’t start.”

Felix isn’t paying attention any longer. He’s inspecting something.

“Not this morning. Let’s keep it together, please.” 

Felix shows good restraint. We’ve been working on that.

 “There’s clearly no time for Blue Bottle,” I can feel my shoulders slump at the loss of my Cortado and the concept that we won’t get close to six thousand steps, but maybe we can make up for it later. “How about a Starbucks, or is that too pedestrian for you?” I know it is for me, but Felix deserves a sweet treat, and it’s two blocks away.

Suddenly, a strong blast of wind kicks up, and with it, the unmistakable fierce snap of a tree limb reverberates from Robbins Road, followed by Ida’s throaty scream. Then a thud. Then, silence.

I suck in air. My skin is buzzing. The follicles on my shaved head tickle. I look down at Felix, and our eyes catch for what seems like an eternity. “Felix! Did she…?” 

Another enormous gust sends a whip of dust across my upper lip. In my frozen stance, I taste musty dirt. I spit away from the wind.

In my periphery, I see the swim gym security guard racing toward the scene. My chest lightens as I picture Ida under a heavy branch, her diseased heart escaping its miserable confinement, and instantly hear my mother’s deathbed words, “You must be so relieved.” 

Felix trots quickly on toward the park, nose in the air, as if life as we know it hasn’t just been completely altered. He glances back, wearing the same sneer as when he shits under Ida’s Please Pick Up After Your Dog sign. 

“Oh, you’re cold.”

Susan Brink O'Flaherty is an LA-based writer and former sommelier whose work has been published in Blood + Honey lit, Ex Pat Press, The First Line literary Journal, Queens Review, and others. Her debut novel, Taste, will be published at the end of the year.