Page 8 of The Neighbor
Not that I have any interest in women breaking barriers or men performing any roles considered untraditional, although I can’t help but wonder what those kids of Tim’s would be like if he actually spoke up sometime and told them to behave.
I set my bowl of salsa and family sized bag of tortilla chips on the table under the tent and take the red cup of beer Harold hands me. The scent of steaks barbequing a few feet away makes my mouth water.
“Those smell great,” I say to him, raising my cup to salute his talent at grilling.
“It’s an old Marshall family secret,” he says, tilting his chin up in pride. “My father was a master at cooking on the grill. The secret is to not fuss with the meat like most people do. They insist on turning and turning the steak. This isn’t a spit. That’s the mistake everyone makes, and it means the steak is going to come out like shoe leather. You just have to be patient and let the grill do its work.”
Tim’s explanation gets a steady stream of nods from me. Beside me, Harold stuffs his face with pretzel twists he’s grabbing straight from the bag.
“He’s right. It’s the same with cooking fish. Actually, it’s the same with everything about fish,” he says as pretzel pieces fly out of his overstuffed mouth. “Patience. It’s the key to everything in a man’s life, don’t you think?”
The two men proceed to list every part of their lives that has improved since they realized they just have to be patient. Harold just keeps listing things that have to do with fish and fishing, but Tim focuses on his work and his kids, although he lists Kimmy as one of those areas of his life that have become so much better once he accepted that patience was the key to everything.
Harold laughs at his mention of his wife and adds, “Same with Marilyn. I used to get pissed off when she arranged all these little parties. I mean, who the hell needs to stand out in the street ten times a year, for God’s sake? Not that I don’t like you guys, but you know. Then I realized one day that’s her thing. Her roses and these neighborhood parties, so I roll with it. So I miss a day out on the water. The fish will be back there tomorrow.”
“How about you, Adam?” Tim asks as he clicks together the metal rods of the tongs above the steaks. “You aren’t married, so that has to mean you have far less need for patience in your life, I’m guessing.”
My first name sounds odd coming out of his mouth. I liked being Mr. Prentiss, but I guess all good things must come to an end. It’s just that now that they know my first name, it feels like they’ve inducted me into whatever club they have with the other men in the neighborhood, and I’m not sure I’m liking that.
As for patience, well, I’m the king of that.
“My job requires patience. I have to do a lot of searching online for the companies I work for, and that can get tedious sometimes. That’s when I have to sit back and take a breath. Everything happens when it’s supposed to.”
I sound rather Zen saying that. I’m not, but I like the idea of my neighbors thinking I am. Calm people are able to control situations better.
Harold points his stubby, wrinkled finger at me and smiles. “That right there is the key. It’s even more than patience. It’s knowing things happen when they happen. You try to force it, and you know what you get? Bupkis.”
Tim clicks those metal tongs together again and nods. “It’s true of everything. I told Kimmy the other day not to push things. She’s not in tune with patience at all, let me tell you. The twins ate a whole pack of gum last week, and it’s been a goddamned nightmare trying to get them to shit it out. Shehas those kids on the toilet for hours every day doing all that pushing. I swear to God they’re going to blow out their assholes. I told her to just let it happen. That gum will come out. It’s not like it’s going to stay in them forever.”
Sure my expression shows how disgusted I am at hearing about his kids’ bathroom habits, I turn my head and focus on the giant bag of chips I bought. Maybe if I can pretend like I’m struggling with getting them open, I can avoid having to hear more about the constipation of two four-year-old boys.
Thankfully, Jared joining us under the tent means Tim all but forgets to continue his discussion of what sounds like damn child abuse by his overeager wife. With a huge smile, he welcomes him.
“It’s about time! Where the hell have you been? I thought maybe you were going to duck out today.”
Jared throws his head back and laughs. “Thought I’d leave you guys to have to deal with your women, huh? I just got back from a late run. That’s all. Suzanne is still at the office, but she said she’ll definitely be here this afternoon. What’s that you’re cooking there, Tim? It smells fantastic!”
“Steak,” our grill master proudly answers. “Not that you’re going to have any since you’ve been all vegetarian.”
Holding his hand up as if to stop Tim before he goes any further, Jared says, “I abandoned that weeks ago. I ate chicken you made on the grill at the Fourth of July party, remember? That vegetarian thing just wasn’t for me. I was fine with the food, but it was killing my running. My protein level went way down. Can’t have that.”
“Chicken isn’t steak,” Harold teases him.
That makes Tim join in again. “Yeah, chicken is different than steak, but I’m glad to hear you gave up on all those damn vegetables. A man needs to eat meat. It’s an unwritten law. Menequal meat. I don’t make the rules. I just live by them,” he says with a chuckle.
I’m already wishing Kimmy would step in under the tent so this conversation could end, but then again, that might bring us all back around to her kids’ intestinal difficulties, and I definitely could do without hearing any more about that. All three men continue to jabber on about what it means to be a man, even as I wonder if any of them truly know.
“Tim, I can’t find the white tablecloth I bought at Walmart yesterday,” his wife calls out from their front doorstep. “Did you see it?”
He rolls his eyes before looking at all of us for sympathy. As if Kimmy and her overzealous need to have the perfect party are the worst of his problems and not those kids, half of which can’t shit for the past week.
“I don’t know where it is,” he answers her, sounding whiny. “Check the hall table. I think you might have left it there.”
For her part, his wife is all smiles and waves at us standing there with him. “Okay, thanks! I hope you guys are making enough for everyone. You know, women get hungry too!”
She turns around and heads back in the house as he rolls his eyes again. “Women. You can’t live with them. You can’t shoot them,” he says, butching up his voice compared to how it sounded when he answered her.
Interesting how he so nonchalantly mentions attempted murder or actual murder of his wife, even as a joke, and not one of us bats an eyelash. If I said anything close to that to anyone at the companies I freelance with, I’d be relieved of my job on the spot. But in suburbia, casual mentions of killing the woman you love go by without even a single gasp of surprise.