My neighbor grills in the nude. He is aware that I can see him when he does this. In fact, it well may be that he believes this will cause me to have deep inner longing. I might begin to think of him as an avenue for some unfulfilled lust and call on him to satisfy my needs. This is NOT going to happen. First, I don’t have time for deep inner longing, and if I did, I’d lust for a piece of calorie free chocolate cake and bathroom break that lasted more than twenty-six seconds and could be had in a bathroom with a dead bolt. Second, if I am going to have an affair then I will need both a time machine and the ability to make a literary character come to life because only Jaime Fraser will do. If hes not available then my Physicist-Geek of a husband will simply have to suffice.
I think its a very likely possibility that Nude Neighbor used to fill in for Bozo the Clown when Bozo had one too many and needed to sleep it off. He has an enormous belly that he likes to cover with Bass Fishing T-shirts. I have never seen him wear any shoe other than a Birkenstock and at first glance its easy to mistake his toe hair for a small rodent. His matted rat’s nest bulges out above his ears and neck, but stops short of covering the crown. I only wish the glare reflecting from his shiny bald head blinded me completely when I find myself cornered in the front yard while he stands panting in front of me like a dog in heat. He spends his afternoons working his way through a case of Budweiser Select and chuckling over Bewitched reruns. When we first moved in I had only one child (ah, the days) and spent long hours gardening in the front yard. He’d spot me and quickly lumber over to openly stare at my breasts. He seemed to have an affinity for knowing when I was wearing a v-neck shirt or the humidity was so high that my sweat had made the shirt virtually see through and he’d make a run for it before I could slam the door in his face. On days that it was really worth his time, he would attempt to recite tax law in an effort to keep me, and my sweaty breasts, in his sight at all times.
Hes often told me to call him I need anything, especially during the days – and nights- my husband was out of town. I have a sneaking suspicion that he doesn’t mean for me to call if I find Buzz Lightyear is clogging the kid’s toilet or I need a cup of canola oil. He is likely envisioning us laying naked in a bed with satin sheets slowly working our way through a bucket of KFC extra crispy while he licks chicken fat from my fingers. I can tell you this is not going to happen. Although becoming a mother of three has lowered my standards in regards to bathing, household cleanliness, and a balanced diet, my Gag reflex remains firmly intact. Unless that takes a serious hit I don’t think I will be able to endure an affair with him. So perhaps, just maybe, he might consider keeping his damn pants ON while grilling from now on. Pretty Please. I’m not above begging.