There’s a certain pounding on the front door which can only be the police, or someone filled with righteous anger. I do my best to wake at 5am during the week, but not the weekends. It’s Sunday, five in the morning. Becky and I ate a delicious dinner of my famous chicken quesadillas, drank chardonnay, and fell asleep early in front of “Friends” on DVD. Still, there’s no call for this. The pounding is like being shaken awake by parents who overslept, having them yank you out of bed and yell at you to get dressed and brush your teeth because the bus is coming.
Over the pounding, we hear a man yelling.
“Move your car, bro, I gotta get to work.”
I pull on some clothes and open the door to find a man with a shaved head on my stoop. He’s shorter than me but thicker, fit. I think this is Henry, the new neighbor renting the main house. He looks a lot different smoking and drinking on his front step in the evening with a friend than agitated and alone at five am on a Sunday. I thought he was friendly when he introduced himself. Now, he looks mean.
“Huh?” Best I could do at the time, excuse me all over the place.
“Is that your car, bro?”
He points. A car I’ve never seen before is parked against the bumper of his jeep. The woman below me drives a green car much older than this white one, Becky drives Mr. Roboto, a maroon Scion, and I don’t own a car. I shake my head.
“Your girlfriend’s car? Whoever, I got to go.”
“That’s not my car.”
“You don’t know who’s car that is?”
We discuss our neighbor’s green car, the rudeness of someone who doesn’t live here appropriating our driveway, and speculate and how big of an asshole he / she must be. He eventually accepts that I can't help the situation, and apologizes for disturbing me.
“What the fuck?” Becky says as I close the door.
Sleep is impossible. Every time we start to drift off, thinking of that knock brings us back.
“It that your car, bro?” I say.
“Bro, move your car, bro,” Becky says, “I gotta get to work, bro.” Making fun of the way many native Miamians express themselves doesn’t get us to sleep, but it makes us feel better. We decide to make the most of our early rise and drive all the way to Kendall for a big breakfast at The Original Pancake House.
I should’ve reminded Henry that my “car” is the Schwinn parked at the bottom of the stairs; he’s never seen me ride anything else.
I haven’t mentioned the Schwinn? Well, after my bike got stolen, Stacy and Jim found me another (which turned out to be Andi’s old bike). I used it for a few days, then my boss gave me his on permanent loan. I miss the Rusty Nail, and I always find myself checking out bikes and wondering – is that my old..? But it’s nice to be biking again.
As far as the mystery car, Henry took a dump on the windshield, and we never saw it again.
Well, not really, the post needed an ending. Happy Friday!