“There goes that Goddamn music again!” Irene grumbled as she filled the sink with soapy water to do the lunch dishes. It vibrated through the wall of her duplex. She looked at the clock and it was almost time for her daytime TV. With the music on that loud, she’d never be able to hear what was going on, and she desperately needed to know if John was going to leave Rachel. “Those boys need someone to teach them some manners.”
She threw the dishtowel on the counter and stomped out the back door in time to see the red sports car peel out of her neighbors’ driveway. She didn’t know what kind of car it was and really didn’t care. It looked like the one on that old TV show about the detective with the moustache and Hawaiian shirts. Whatever it was, it was loud and too expensive for this neighborhood.
She marched down the back steps, across her perfectly manicured lawn, and onto the neighbors’ side. It was as if a line had been drawn between the two halves of the yard. Sal had always kept their lawn like a golf course and after he died, Irene had done the same. He’d have a shit-fit if he saw how these boys took care of their own plot. The grass on their side was patchy and overgrown, beer cans littered the gravel spots, and broken glass reflected the light as it lay half buried in the dirt.
About college age but not students, there were three of them that lived there. She never had spoken to them, nor them to her, despite the fact they shared equal halves of the same building.
“It’s time to get neighborly,” she mumbled and climbed the steps that were the mirror image of her own. She patted her hair, her hand smoothing over the enormous golden curls making sure she was presentable, then puffed herself up to her full height and rapped on the door. It swung open, its hinges creaking slightly.
“Hello,” she called over the music. Ha, music, she thought. If you can call it that.
When no one answered, Irene took a step into the kitchen and called out again to no reply. She was pretty sure no one was home.
“I’m going to shut off that Goddamn music,” she said to herself and started across the kitchen floor. She glanced at the table and her eyes opened in surprise. Stacks of money, thousands of dollars, sat neatly piled on the table next to a gun and several packets of white powder. Irene leaned over to get a better look, her hand automatically going to her chest to hold her blouse over her ample cleavage. She tentatively reached her hand out, finger extended to poke one of the baggies, the white substance so much like powdered sugar giving way to her touch and leaving a slight dent. She shook her head with disgust and straightened herself.
Great, I’m living next to drug dealers, she thought. Just shut the music off and leave. No one will know I was here.
She pressed the off button on the stereo and felt the silence as the music died. She blew out a puff of air and headed for the door. Before she could get there, another sight caught her attention. On the counter, still steaming slightly, was a plate of freshly baked brownies.
Her mouth watered. Irene had only one vice: chocolate. The smell alone was driving her wild. She took a step closer to the plate and inhaled the aroma.
No one will notice if I just take one, she thought. Her hand reached out but paused over the chocolaty square.
“What the hell are you thinking?” she admonished herself out loud, hoping her own voice could talk some sense into her. She shook her head and snatched the brownie, taking a bite before she could change her mind.
Ambrosia. She closed her eyes and tasted the sweet cake on her tongue. It had to be the best brownie she had ever had. She took another bite and before she knew it, it was gone.
It’s a big plate. Have another, she thought then shook her head. Stealing brownies, even from drug dealers, is wrong.
She pictured one of those little devils on one shoulder and an angel on the other. The thought made her giggle. She took one more and popped it in her mouth, letting her devil get the best of her.
She peeked out the back window to make sure the red sports car hadn’t returned, though she knew it hadn’t. She’d hear the roar of the engine when it did.
Her mood somehow felt lighter and she took one more brownie, still giggling. She felt a strong compulsion to explore the house.
The living room was a mess, like she expected. Pizza boxes littered the couch and coffee table, some still containing old pizza stuck with congealed cheese to the cardboard. The rug was stained, at least the parts that weren’t covered in dirty clothes or trash. The plasma TV took up the entire wall, way too big for the space they had. There were several game consoles hooked up to it.
Feeling a little light-headed, she looked around for a place to sit. The couch was already ruled out. A big puffy chair looked like just the spot until she noticed it had beer spilled all over it and reeked. A small plain wooden chair in the corner seemed to be the only clear spot and she sat heavily on the seat. She took a deep breath and heard a crack. Before it could register, she found herself in a heap on the floor, broken chair parts strewn about in a circle around her. She could picture how she must look, so undignified, and burst out laughing. She laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks and she was out of breath.
She brushed the brownie crumbs from her chest and got to her feet, pulling herself up by using the banister of the staircase. She leaned on the railing for a moment to catch her breath. Still a bit light-headed but feeling exhilarated, she pulled the curtain back from the front window to make sure her neighbors weren’t on their way back. With no sign of them, she headed up the stairs, curious to see what a drug dealer’s bedroom might look like.
The first of the three upstairs bedrooms looked exactly how she had imagined it from the mess in the living room. The bed was unmade, clothes were everywhere, a condom wrapper glinted on the floor, and a pair of girl’s panties hung on the corner of the dresser. She moved on to the next room without entering.
The second room was much like the first; messy, littered with trash and clothes, a strange smell coming from the bed. She shook her head and went to the third and last bedroom.
This one was different. It was pristine. The bed had a black comforter, the walls were painted a dark red, and there were strange hooks coming off the posters of the bed. She stepped in the room and walked around the edge, keeping close to the wall. There were items in this room that she had never seen before but could make a very good guess what they were used for.
She opened the closet. Whips and chains, leather outfits, and all the trappings of a good S&M romp were hung in neat rows. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the giggle that wanted to come out.
That’s when she heard them return.
“What the fuck, JJ? You left the door open!”
“No, I didn’t!”
“It was open, asshole. Someone could’ve taken all our shit.”
In a panic, Irene looked around the room for an escape route. She could climb out the window and across the porch roof to her own bedroom, but she was sure it was locked. Not only that, she was hardly an acrobat. She wasn’t sure if her portly ass could squeeze through it anyway. Instead, she squeezed herself under the bed.
All those damn brownies, she thought and giggled again. Why am I giggling? This isn’t funny! But she couldn’t seem to stop.
“It all looks like it’s here,” said one of the voices downstairs.
A third voice, one she hadn’t heard speak yet, said with a laugh, “Maybe the dope and money, but shit, someone got into the brownies.”
“Damn! They ate half the plate! Someone must be high as a kite by now!”
High? Oh no, she thought. Those weren’t just brownies, they were special brownies. No wonder I’m feeling so strange.
The giggles seemed to abandon her as paranoia crept in.
They’re going to find me and kill me, she thought, her stomach clenching on the partially digested brownies.
“Shit! Someone broke the chair.”
“What?” The voices carried better in the living room. “Why would someone break our chair?”
“They turned the stereo off too. I know I left it on when I left.”
“JJ, are you sure nothing’s missing from the table?”
“I’ll count again, but dude, it doesn’t look like it’d been touched.”
“Why would they steal our brownies and break our chair, but not touch the goods? That doesn’t make sense.”
It was quiet for a minute then she heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
“How’s your room look?”
“Same shit as always,” the voice said. “Yours?”
“Nothing odd. JJ?”
She could see his feet standing in front of the bed, inches from her nose.
“I smell perfume,” JJ said.
The other two joined him. “Yeah, I smell it too. Someone in here?”
Irene panicked. She couldn’t let them find her hiding like that. The only thing she could think of to do was run. As fast as she could move, she rolled out from under the bed and pushed passed the three men standing there. They looked rough, tattooed and dirty, the surprise on their faces dropping their jaws and bugging their eyes.
She darted out of the room and ran down the stairs, almost falling and letting herself slide the rest of the way down. She ran past the plate of brownies and the table with the drugs and money. She ran down the back steps and across the dilapidated yard. She ran across her own yard, up her own steps, and into her own kitchen. The bright pink walls and immaculate countertops were comforting. She slammed the door and locked it shut, pressing her back to it and taking deep breaths. Would they come after her?
She heard a roar of laughter through the walls next door. The music went on full blast as it had been before and everything seemed to settle back to normal.
Irene fixed herself a snack and went to her own living room, settling into her comfortable chair, and turned on the TV. She pressed the volume button, the sound loud enough to cover the music from next door, and settled back in her chair to watch her soaps.
She threw the dishtowel on the counter and stomped out the back door in time to see the red sports car peel out of her neighbors’ driveway. She didn’t know what kind of car it was and really didn’t care. It looked like the one on that old TV show about the detective with the moustache and Hawaiian shirts. Whatever it was, it was loud and too expensive for this neighborhood.
She marched down the back steps, across her perfectly manicured lawn, and onto the neighbors’ side. It was as if a line had been drawn between the two halves of the yard. Sal had always kept their lawn like a golf course and after he died, Irene had done the same. He’d have a shit-fit if he saw how these boys took care of their own plot. The grass on their side was patchy and overgrown, beer cans littered the gravel spots, and broken glass reflected the light as it lay half buried in the dirt.
About college age but not students, there were three of them that lived there. She never had spoken to them, nor them to her, despite the fact they shared equal halves of the same building.
“It’s time to get neighborly,” she mumbled and climbed the steps that were the mirror image of her own. She patted her hair, her hand smoothing over the enormous golden curls making sure she was presentable, then puffed herself up to her full height and rapped on the door. It swung open, its hinges creaking slightly.
“Hello,” she called over the music. Ha, music, she thought. If you can call it that.
When no one answered, Irene took a step into the kitchen and called out again to no reply. She was pretty sure no one was home.
“I’m going to shut off that Goddamn music,” she said to herself and started across the kitchen floor. She glanced at the table and her eyes opened in surprise. Stacks of money, thousands of dollars, sat neatly piled on the table next to a gun and several packets of white powder. Irene leaned over to get a better look, her hand automatically going to her chest to hold her blouse over her ample cleavage. She tentatively reached her hand out, finger extended to poke one of the baggies, the white substance so much like powdered sugar giving way to her touch and leaving a slight dent. She shook her head with disgust and straightened herself.
Great, I’m living next to drug dealers, she thought. Just shut the music off and leave. No one will know I was here.
She pressed the off button on the stereo and felt the silence as the music died. She blew out a puff of air and headed for the door. Before she could get there, another sight caught her attention. On the counter, still steaming slightly, was a plate of freshly baked brownies.
Her mouth watered. Irene had only one vice: chocolate. The smell alone was driving her wild. She took a step closer to the plate and inhaled the aroma.
No one will notice if I just take one, she thought. Her hand reached out but paused over the chocolaty square.
“What the hell are you thinking?” she admonished herself out loud, hoping her own voice could talk some sense into her. She shook her head and snatched the brownie, taking a bite before she could change her mind.
Ambrosia. She closed her eyes and tasted the sweet cake on her tongue. It had to be the best brownie she had ever had. She took another bite and before she knew it, it was gone.
It’s a big plate. Have another, she thought then shook her head. Stealing brownies, even from drug dealers, is wrong.
She pictured one of those little devils on one shoulder and an angel on the other. The thought made her giggle. She took one more and popped it in her mouth, letting her devil get the best of her.
She peeked out the back window to make sure the red sports car hadn’t returned, though she knew it hadn’t. She’d hear the roar of the engine when it did.
Her mood somehow felt lighter and she took one more brownie, still giggling. She felt a strong compulsion to explore the house.
The living room was a mess, like she expected. Pizza boxes littered the couch and coffee table, some still containing old pizza stuck with congealed cheese to the cardboard. The rug was stained, at least the parts that weren’t covered in dirty clothes or trash. The plasma TV took up the entire wall, way too big for the space they had. There were several game consoles hooked up to it.
Feeling a little light-headed, she looked around for a place to sit. The couch was already ruled out. A big puffy chair looked like just the spot until she noticed it had beer spilled all over it and reeked. A small plain wooden chair in the corner seemed to be the only clear spot and she sat heavily on the seat. She took a deep breath and heard a crack. Before it could register, she found herself in a heap on the floor, broken chair parts strewn about in a circle around her. She could picture how she must look, so undignified, and burst out laughing. She laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks and she was out of breath.
She brushed the brownie crumbs from her chest and got to her feet, pulling herself up by using the banister of the staircase. She leaned on the railing for a moment to catch her breath. Still a bit light-headed but feeling exhilarated, she pulled the curtain back from the front window to make sure her neighbors weren’t on their way back. With no sign of them, she headed up the stairs, curious to see what a drug dealer’s bedroom might look like.
The first of the three upstairs bedrooms looked exactly how she had imagined it from the mess in the living room. The bed was unmade, clothes were everywhere, a condom wrapper glinted on the floor, and a pair of girl’s panties hung on the corner of the dresser. She moved on to the next room without entering.
The second room was much like the first; messy, littered with trash and clothes, a strange smell coming from the bed. She shook her head and went to the third and last bedroom.
This one was different. It was pristine. The bed had a black comforter, the walls were painted a dark red, and there were strange hooks coming off the posters of the bed. She stepped in the room and walked around the edge, keeping close to the wall. There were items in this room that she had never seen before but could make a very good guess what they were used for.
She opened the closet. Whips and chains, leather outfits, and all the trappings of a good S&M romp were hung in neat rows. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the giggle that wanted to come out.
That’s when she heard them return.
“What the fuck, JJ? You left the door open!”
“No, I didn’t!”
“It was open, asshole. Someone could’ve taken all our shit.”
In a panic, Irene looked around the room for an escape route. She could climb out the window and across the porch roof to her own bedroom, but she was sure it was locked. Not only that, she was hardly an acrobat. She wasn’t sure if her portly ass could squeeze through it anyway. Instead, she squeezed herself under the bed.
All those damn brownies, she thought and giggled again. Why am I giggling? This isn’t funny! But she couldn’t seem to stop.
“It all looks like it’s here,” said one of the voices downstairs.
A third voice, one she hadn’t heard speak yet, said with a laugh, “Maybe the dope and money, but shit, someone got into the brownies.”
“Damn! They ate half the plate! Someone must be high as a kite by now!”
High? Oh no, she thought. Those weren’t just brownies, they were special brownies. No wonder I’m feeling so strange.
The giggles seemed to abandon her as paranoia crept in.
They’re going to find me and kill me, she thought, her stomach clenching on the partially digested brownies.
“Shit! Someone broke the chair.”
“What?” The voices carried better in the living room. “Why would someone break our chair?”
“They turned the stereo off too. I know I left it on when I left.”
“JJ, are you sure nothing’s missing from the table?”
“I’ll count again, but dude, it doesn’t look like it’d been touched.”
“Why would they steal our brownies and break our chair, but not touch the goods? That doesn’t make sense.”
It was quiet for a minute then she heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
“How’s your room look?”
“Same shit as always,” the voice said. “Yours?”
“Nothing odd. JJ?”
She could see his feet standing in front of the bed, inches from her nose.
“I smell perfume,” JJ said.
The other two joined him. “Yeah, I smell it too. Someone in here?”
Irene panicked. She couldn’t let them find her hiding like that. The only thing she could think of to do was run. As fast as she could move, she rolled out from under the bed and pushed passed the three men standing there. They looked rough, tattooed and dirty, the surprise on their faces dropping their jaws and bugging their eyes.
She darted out of the room and ran down the stairs, almost falling and letting herself slide the rest of the way down. She ran past the plate of brownies and the table with the drugs and money. She ran down the back steps and across the dilapidated yard. She ran across her own yard, up her own steps, and into her own kitchen. The bright pink walls and immaculate countertops were comforting. She slammed the door and locked it shut, pressing her back to it and taking deep breaths. Would they come after her?
She heard a roar of laughter through the walls next door. The music went on full blast as it had been before and everything seemed to settle back to normal.
Irene fixed herself a snack and went to her own living room, settling into her comfortable chair, and turned on the TV. She pressed the volume button, the sound loud enough to cover the music from next door, and settled back in her chair to watch her soaps.
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