The People Across the Street (Part 1)

Picture in your mind, if you will, a pristine park: The lawn neatly tended, flowers in full bloom, a fountain in the middle of a brick paved path way whos flowing water manages to sparkle in the sunlight perfectly no matter what position Sol has taken in the sky. Birds sing in harmony. Children laugh and frolic. Then, in the middle of the park, a gigantic mangy bear takes a gigantic crap. This would be symbolic of the people who live across the street from me.

My house is in no way decadent - in fact, far from - but the neighborhood is fairly nice. Fairly quiet. Most of the homes are older but well appointed. The house I live in was actually the home of the foreman who ran the orange field that once populated the area this neighborhood now claims. The house across the street, I imagine, once belonged to the slower, less productive cousin of John Wayne Gayce.

I can only say with relative certainty that there are 37 people living in the 2 bedroom ranch house across the way. I say this because, with the exception of 2 or 3 key characters, the cast is a rotating ensamble of deluded and despondant extras that never stays constant for more than a weeks time, and tends to spread over to the duplex next door to it, as well as the old school tin trailer residing in the back lot.

Through the next few blogs, I will begin recounting - chronologically, because that is the only form of logic that can be extracted from these scenarios - the adventures of the people across the street.

Stay tuned, dear readers.