Their Eyes Were Watching Girls
I became an entertainer at the age of nine.
That year we moved from Undiscovered Ghetto of the All American Valley to Quietsville, USA. The first thing we noticed (other than the notable absence of a crack house) was that the people in our new neighborhood were completely different from our former neighbors . . . even if you ignored the fact that our former neighbors were dealers, addicts, hookers, and unmedicated whackjobs. When we lived on our old street, everyone around us was young enough to run from the cops (who made regular visits). Our new neighbors, however, were just . . . old.
For awhile I was entirely convinced that our parents had moved us into a retirement community. I was disappointed in the quality of the place because I expected more Jell-O. Every now and then the decaying woman in the house next door would call and complain to my mother that her three children (there were only three of us then) should not be allowed to play in the backyard during the afternoon hours because we continually woke up her husband from his nap.
It was when we were banished to the front yard to jump rope or play hopscotch in the driveway that we noticed them. At first it was just Amel, the eighty-something year old man who lived directly across the street from us. Every day he’d plop a lawn chair on his front walk and stare at our house.
“He’s watching us!” we complained to our mother, but she insisted we were paranoid and that the old man probably couldn’t even see that far, and sent us back out to play.
In the following weeks, Amel was joined by Norman (his next door neighbor), and Joe (our next door neighbor). With a combined age of approximately 232, they were a fiery trio. Every afternoon, Norman and Joe would trod over to Amel’s house with their lawn chairs. Then the three amigos would crack open some Budweisers and stare at our house.
“They’re watching us!” we complained to our mother. Again she insisted it was nonsense, that the gentlemen were merely sitting outside, enjoying the weather, and sharing old people gossip.
That’s what she said until the day she got the lawnmower stuck up a tree (another story entirely) and the old men laughed so hard that one nearly had to give himself oxygen and another almost fell off his chair and broke a hip. Mom stormed back into the house. “I can’t work with those geezers watching me,” she huffed.
My brother, who was three at the time, decided to make the best of his audience. Our front yard was a steep embankment that ended near the road with a four foot stone wall. Little brother would hop on his Big Wheels and ride it down the embankment, swerving just before arriving at the stone wall (and subsequent four foot drop into the street). Each time he pulled this little stunt, the elderly trio would jump up and attempt to scurry their brittle bones across the road to catch Evel Knievel before he became a smear on the pavement. I’m pretty sure we witnessed a heart attack because of this game, but I was too young to recognize one.
My sister also used public appearances to her favor. Whenever she was in trouble (for say, kicking a hole in the bedroom wall) she’d run out onto the front lawn to receive her punishment.
“Go ahead and beat me!” she’d yell at my mother. “Hit me. Come on! These people will call DCF on you and you’ll go to jail!” (FYI, my mother never beat her children. My sister could be a tad melodramatic.)
“Stupid, they’re old people,” I’d hiss at her. “They’ll take out their wooden spoons and help!”
Ah, yes. Never a dull moment.
We grew older, and so did they, but after their naps, Amel, Norman, and Joe would faithfully set up their chairs across from our house. I suppose that’s what happens when you can’t afford cable (and competitive cheerleading on ESPN).
Today my childhood home is no longer its own reality show. My family isn’t any less interesting, but Amel, Norman, and Joe have long since passed on. Sometimes I think that wherever they are in the afterlife ether, they may be looking down on us.
And it still creeps me out.