I met my new neighbor today. In truth, I met my new neighbor’s father. He’s Paul, and he lives on Long Island. His son and daughter-in-law will be moving in next week. They’re expecting, too (a baby).
Paul was setting up the apartment for the young couple. We exchanged banalities. He asked me what I like and don’t like about the building. I was honest. I like how quiet it is. Our apartments are in the back of the building, away from the street. Quietest New York apartment I’ve lived in. I don’t like anything that compromises that quiet. Like a baby. Fortunately, I have an upright piano that I can play fortissimo to drown out the addling screams of a newborn desperate for sleep it can’t find due to the constant piano noise from next door.
I was out raking the yard when I met him. The trees have shaken themselves bare for the winter. To leave the leaves on the ground is to find a heavy, rotting morass come springtime. I don’t mind raking though. As yard work goes, it’s fulfilling in that you can see your progress. Today, the leaves come up easily, flaking off the stone deck like properly-cooked halibut. I build equal-sized piles in the corners of the yard. Then I shake open a black trash bag and fill it with my bare hands, bunching the leaves from each pile and stuffing the loads deep into the bag, letting the cold, damp handfuls secrete their juices between my fingers, smelling my fingers, my back aching from the work, tasting my fingers.
That’s when Paul calls to me. “Hello neighbor,” he says, like television. He compliments my piles, how thoroughly I’ve scoured the yard. I smile bashfully, “growing up, I’d rake all the lawns on our street. People called me the neighborhood rakist.”
Perhaps it is this personal anecdote that emboldens Paul to ask to borrow my rake. Looking back, I don’t think I indicated that I was prepared to bestow such a favor. We only spoke for a moment. I said one thing about raking as a child. Surely that’s not enough to convince him that he’s entitled to my tools. I would never be so bold—nay, so manipulative. Does he think I’m a soup kitchen of landscaping equipment? Does Paul take me for a fool? Is this how neighbors treat each other on Long Island? No wonder it has such a poor reputation.
I hesitate for an instant, the handle of the rake hovering in the space between us, unsure whether to move forward. He places his hand on the handle but I hold firm, grinding my teeth imperceptibly. Then I smile and relinquish it. In a flash, I see the scene differently: I pass the rake tines-first, stumble in the exchange and glide the spindly fan across his throat, not blinking against the red mist peppering my forehead; then he, gargling, clutching his mutilated voice box, crumpling to the soft, unraked floor of his yard; and he looking up, feeling his soul unplug, preparing to slip away, and I looking down, leaning in, whispering “you should have bought your own rake, Paul.”
But that doesn’t happen because it’s only a rake. Only a rake! Paul will return it. And even if he doesn’t, I can buy another. Of course! Don’t be silly haha. It’s only… only a 12-gauge 32-inch prograde spring brace bow rake with an expandable reinforced steel 16-tine head and custom telescoping forged ash weatherproofed handle for optimal roof debris FUCK YOU PAUL YOU FUCKING RAKE CUCK I’LL MOUNT YOUR BOWELS ON A 12-PACK OF CVS BRAND RAKES BEFORE THE WEEK IS OUT.
I watch him from my window. I had them tinted like a rap singer’s car. Paul grinds the rake along the ground, causing sparks to flare and bounce like atoms in a reactor. I cry out but stifle my mouth with my hand as tears flow over my trembling white knuckles. He takes a break, leans the rake carelessly against a faux teak deck chair to answer a call on his first generation earbuds. He doesn’t see it coming but I do. The wind whips into the yard and the handle jerks, edges towards the edge of its perch. I bang on the window now, betraying my watch, no sense in hiding anymore. The monster doesn’t hear me. I’m cracking my open hands against the glass, so overcome that I don’t think to raise the window and yell. The rake totters for a second on the precipice as if teasing me. Then, it falls.
I see it bounce against the ground. I feel the tremors instinctively through my palms. I collapse against the wall, sink to the floor, wailing openly now.
Hours pass. The light fades.
Eventually, I pull myself up using the windowsill. I peer out through the gloom. The rake is still there, untouched, cold, forgotten. My blood runs cold, then boils.
I won’t go over to fetch it out of principle. The rake is meaningless now. It is stained by the discourtesy of a heathen from Long Island. Instead, I will plot a lifetime of subtle discomfort against my new neighbors. Should they face the vengeful flames ignited by their insidious father? Perhaps not. In a perfect world, I’d be able to let them live in peace.
But I know better.