Watch Out for the Neighbors
Watch Out for the Neighbors
Al Zeimer looked back at the sink. A poltergeist had turned the running water off. He filled the water kettle and turned back to the stove. The burner he had just ignited—he had heard the sparker click click click—was off again, somehow. How could this happen? It was the ghost of mischief, the trickster of his memory, “a Spaniard in the works.” He was thinking. What was it now? The coffee grinder. Who put it away? And what happened to the great big bag of beans? They were in the freezer, no? No. they were in the cabinet with the pots and pans. Nothing quite made sense. Things were never where they ought to be. Things were off when they should be on.
Mr. Murphy, on the other hand, penalized those who did not do things “right” like leaving the car in neutral instead of the parking gear, the glass of water next to the pillows by the bed, so clearly a disaster-waiting-to-happen, or so he thought. Mr. Murphy loved the “Never happened to me before response” he sometimes heard. The “it's O.K.s” and the “thanks-I-know-what-I'm-doing” replies. Preventative maintenance was Mr. Murphy’s thing. Procrastination, manyana, never do today what can be put off until tomorrow was not Murphy’s kind of thing at all.
Mr. Goldberg was a different sort. He’d get all nervous and flustered over things. Like rushing to do the dishes or trying to do too much too fast or all at once. And almost inevitably, one thing would cascade into another, causing great catastrophic events, like dishes falling off the counter or the extra bag of groceries tearing and the mayonnaise jar breaking all over the walkway to the kitchen because he thought he had three hands, always attempting to do too much. One by one, you could see a succession of things happen, like the dominoes all aligned across the floor. One slip, and they all fall down. It was funny that his mother-in-law, a Mrs. Murphy, no relation to the Murphy man who did things so carefully, had a bed that folded up against the wall, a mother full of latent energy just waiting to unfold.
Nearby, down the street, there was a curious lady named Gladys Stichintyme. She was from the Caucasus. She thought Mr. Murphy was a fool because he worried so much, always puttering around with things, "such a fusser," she often said. She liked Mr. Goldberg better, though my, what a calamity he could be! She absolutely, positively refused to drive with him, not any where, place or time.
When Goldberg or Zeimer, or Zeimer and Murphy got together, just fugedaboudit! It amazed Gladys that they even returned in one piece or at all. Truth was, they did not always come back in a timely manner. Once a strange taxicab pulled up in front of their house and let them out. Gladys wanted to ask what happened, but did not dare. She’d be labeled a nosy stoop-sitter. Another time, and this was more amazing, old Zeimer and Goldberg went off to the Home Depot and they came back three weeks later in a brand new car. Apparently Zeimer was navigating, and Goldberg’s addiction to organized clutziness had led them down the Road to Disaster, and Zeimer couldn’t find Road to Disaster anywhere on the map and they ended up in Erehwon, listening to Neil Young’s song “Everybody knows... this is nowhere." They were so engrossed with this amazing place they decided to hang out, not remembering where else to go. Gladys called this a ‘Goldberg variation.’ Never a single day was it dull around these guys.
Al Zeimer looked back at the sink. A poltergeist had turned the running water off. He filled the water kettle and turned back to the stove. The burner he had just ignited—he had heard the sparker click click click—was off again, somehow. How could this happen? It was the ghost of mischief, the trickster of his memory, “a Spaniard in the works.” He was thinking. What was it now? The coffee grinder. Who put it away? And what happened to the great big bag of beans? They were in the freezer, no? No. they were in the cabinet with the pots and pans. Nothing quite made sense. Things were never where they ought to be. Things were off when they should be on.
Mr. Murphy, on the other hand, penalized those who did not do things “right” like leaving the car in neutral instead of the parking gear, the glass of water next to the pillows by the bed, so clearly a disaster-waiting-to-happen, or so he thought. Mr. Murphy loved the “Never happened to me before response” he sometimes heard. The “it's O.K.s” and the “thanks-I-know-what-I'm-doing” replies. Preventative maintenance was Mr. Murphy’s thing. Procrastination, manyana, never do today what can be put off until tomorrow was not Murphy’s kind of thing at all.
Mr. Goldberg was a different sort. He’d get all nervous and flustered over things. Like rushing to do the dishes or trying to do too much too fast or all at once. And almost inevitably, one thing would cascade into another, causing great catastrophic events, like dishes falling off the counter or the extra bag of groceries tearing and the mayonnaise jar breaking all over the walkway to the kitchen because he thought he had three hands, always attempting to do too much. One by one, you could see a succession of things happen, like the dominoes all aligned across the floor. One slip, and they all fall down. It was funny that his mother-in-law, a Mrs. Murphy, no relation to the Murphy man who did things so carefully, had a bed that folded up against the wall, a mother full of latent energy just waiting to unfold.
Nearby, down the street, there was a curious lady named Gladys Stichintyme. She was from the Caucasus. She thought Mr. Murphy was a fool because he worried so much, always puttering around with things, "such a fusser," she often said. She liked Mr. Goldberg better, though my, what a calamity he could be! She absolutely, positively refused to drive with him, not any where, place or time.
When Goldberg or Zeimer, or Zeimer and Murphy got together, just fugedaboudit! It amazed Gladys that they even returned in one piece or at all. Truth was, they did not always come back in a timely manner. Once a strange taxicab pulled up in front of their house and let them out. Gladys wanted to ask what happened, but did not dare. She’d be labeled a nosy stoop-sitter. Another time, and this was more amazing, old Zeimer and Goldberg went off to the Home Depot and they came back three weeks later in a brand new car. Apparently Zeimer was navigating, and Goldberg’s addiction to organized clutziness had led them down the Road to Disaster, and Zeimer couldn’t find Road to Disaster anywhere on the map and they ended up in Erehwon, listening to Neil Young’s song “Everybody knows... this is nowhere." They were so engrossed with this amazing place they decided to hang out, not remembering where else to go. Gladys called this a ‘Goldberg variation.’ Never a single day was it dull around these guys.
posted by Stonechuck at 9:20 PM
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