Mrs. Martineau is not going to be happy about the spy satellite in my front yard. It doesn’t matter that it’s not my fault. As far as she’s concerned, I can’t do anything right. In her narrow little mind, the hunk of scorched aluminum and copper jutting out of my azalea bed will be just one more sign of my anti-social tendencies, like my habit of putting the recycling bin out by the curb before 7 p.m. on the night before recycling day, or the “parade of questionable characters” who come and go from my house at all hours.
Things started off okay with Mrs. Martineau. On the day I moved in, she brought over a plate of cookies.
“Welcome to Timber Trails! We’re so pleased to have a famous writer in the subdivision.” Mrs. Martineau apparently knew more about me than I knew yet about life in Timber Trails. “Will your wife be joining you here soon, Mr. Morton?”
“Please, call me Daniel. But I’ve never been married, Mrs. Martineau.”
Her right eyebrow twitched, then relaxed. I could feel her sense of discomfort. An unmarried man, and clearly past 40 years old? I could almost hear her thoughts as she reconsidered the worthiness of my credentials. But she recovered quickly.
“Well, Daniel, it’s a pleasure meeting you. I hope you’ll enjoy our peaceful corner of the world. We’re very proud of Timber Trails.”
Proud isn’t the word I would have used.
Two days later, I was pecking away on the typewriter in the dining room that I’d made into my new office. I spotted Mrs. Martineau standing on the sidewalk in front of her house, staring up the street. I peeked out between two slats of the mini-blinds to see what had captured her attention. The only motion I could see was Jenny, who lived at 2818, walking her black lab puppy in our direction.
Author’s note: The assignment here was to write about something “utterly unexpected.” Max gave the example of the spy satellite weighing several tons that’s going to fall to earth some time in the next few weeks. I couldn’t think of a real surprise from my past that felt like a good topic, so I decided to use his example, but to place it in a neighborhood that doesn’t much like surprises—an uptight, deed-restricted subdivision that’s a slight exaggeration of the one I’m living in.
Unfortunately, what you see above is as far as I got with the story before I ran up against two insanely busy days. And now I have to crank out three days’ worth of assignments to keep up with the class, so I’m going to leave this unfinished and get on to my next project. Maybe I’ll return to this later. (Please feel free to tell me what you think so far.)
What was about to happen: Mrs. Martineau was going to storm across the street and read Jenny the Riot Act for letting her dog take a dump on my lawn, which gives you some idea of the kind of neighbor she is. I’ll say something about my boyfriend, who reluctantly takes my advice to park in the garage and sneak in the back door to avoid her spying eyes when he visits me. (He’d rather get up in her face, but he doesn’t have to live across the street from her.) I’ll describe the escalating tension between Mrs. M. and my decadent and decidedly un-suburban self. And sooner or later, the story will get to the day that the seven-ton satellite crashes in my flower bed.
Oh, I do love a lampoon of surburbia! Great details — the outlaw black lab puppy from 2818, the azalea bush, the mini-blinds. Chuckle. Wish there were more….
I think there will be more eventually. There’s just so much to lampoon….