I Will Not Be Ignored
When Jamie first moved into her house, Enid, the elderly woman next door brought over a jar of homemade sweet pickles. I will eat almost anything pickled provided that it is not a part an animal. Also, I won't eat pickled okra.
I ate all of Enid's sweet pickles standing up in front of Jamie's fridge. I threw away the lid of the cute jar, rinsed the jar with water, and poured a beer in it. It became my favorite drinking glass.
For weeks, Enid dropped by to see if Jamie needed help settling in or if she wanted some extra bulbs for her nonexistent garden. They would chat in the yard in a nice neighborly way. One day, Enid asked for her jar back. Jamie said that she would bring it to her directly. Moments later, Jamie called me to see where the lid was. I forbade Jamie to give Enid my favorite drinking glass. If she had wanted to give Jamie just the pickles, she should have brought them over in a baggy. Jamie, because she is only happy when I am happy, informed Enid that she must have lost the jar. Enid was not happy about this and the climate between Enid and Jamie and I has changed.
Enid ignores us.
Usually, I love it when people aren't talking to me. It gives me a break and a chance to talk about them rather than to them. For some reason, it bothers me that Enid is ignoring us.
It started out as a game. We tried to get Enid to notice us. Jamie checked her mail wearing her bathrobe and curlers with a bottle of wine clutched in one hand for a week. We choreographed an interpretive dance and performed it in the front lawn (with tambourines). Jamie trained the dog to crap in Enid's yard. And still, Enid ignored us.
Then, we forgot about the game, but we started doing things unintentionally to get Enid's reaction. Jamie decided to drive her recycling out to the curb at two in the morning. She carefully placed the bin of bottles and cans on the hood of her car and headed down the driveway. Naturally, the bin slid off and landed with a crash that sent all of the neighbors out of their homes in their pajamas. Everyone, that is, except Enid.
We set Enid's bushes on fire one night grilling oysters. Jamie had loud sex with the windows open. The dog ate most of her cat. And still, Enid ignored us.
Saturday morning, after a long night, Jamie drove into Enid's mailbox. Enid was outside, trimming the rest of the singed bushes. Jamie did not stop driving. She dragged Enid's mailbox twenty feet. Sparks flew up around the mailbox. Enid did not look up.
Determined to get a reaction, Jamie slammed on the brakes and emerged from the car. In a mini skirt and heels, she took the cigarette from her mouth and waved. "Mornin', Ms. Enid," she called out in her perfectly southern neighborly drawl.
Enid is still ignoring us.
Maybe we'll get a reaction from the mailman.