There Goes the Neighborhood
By Matthew Snyderman
“What’s he doing, now? Lemme look!”
“Shhhhh!”
Carrie re-belted her bathrobe and considered her roommates huddled in the vestibule while Brad Pitt’s latest played to their empty living room and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn. Sheryl, the shorter one, up on tiptoe, had an eye glued to the peephole.
“Aren’t you going to ask him in?”
Wheeling around, the pair re-adjusted their own robes and scooted aside. “Take a peek,” Trisha invited.
It was like peering into the wrong end of a telescope. A man was facing the opposite apartment. He held a bottle of wine and was shifting his weight from foot to foot until the door swung wide. There, leaning coquettishly against the jamb, was a blonde in a kimono. The wine exchanged hands as she admitted him with a toss of her head.
“That’s makes three guests this weekend,” explained Trisha.
“Four,” corrected Sheryl. “That we’ve seen.”
“So she’s a massage therapist.”
“Who brings wine to a massage?” scoffed Trisha.
“Or flowers; the last guy brought flowers,” added Sheryl.
Carrie shrugged.
“She’s a whore,” the two blurted simultaneously.
“So we’re paying all this money to live in a cat house. Nice!”
“Welcome to Oakland,” said Sheryl.
“Really?” Carrie sighed, fists on hips, “That’s all you have to say?”
“Hey, she’s quieter than that family down the hall.”
“Way quieter,” Trisha chimed in before rejoining Brad.
-----
The next few weeks found Carrie scrambling to the peephole at every bump and rustle in the hallway. Sometimes she caught sight of a suspected John. Sometimes it was their neighbor, arms full of groceries, letting herself in. Sometimes the noise was just a noise. And though none of the visitors using apartment A9’s pinecone-shaped door knocker appeared remotely disreputable, Carrie had to suppress any stirrings of those flyover sensibilities she thought she’d left behind in Steadfast, Illinois, population 39,000; sensibilities that dovetailed with the nagging suspicion that her mother had been right about the folly of moving to any big city, let alone the wilds of the West Coast. Only the fear of a libel suit prevented Carrie from posting incriminating photos of the illicit clientele on Nextdoor or circulating a petition demanding action from building management. That and thoughts of disappointing a big-hearted father, the only family member who had openly supported (and secretly subsidized) her move, a stance which had prompted a series of pitched parental battles that drove him to the corner tavern for a boilermaker. Or two.
-----
The dryer tumbled away. Its digital timer was broken, but the wall clock read 11:15 p.m., a slot that typically guaranteed Carrie free access to the building’s laundry room. But somebody had gotten there first. Unwilling to let damp clothes molder overnight, she waited and within seconds of the buzzer sounding was transferring the dry laundry to a nearby basket. Its mystery owner had more lingerie, including the crotchless variety, than Carrie had seen anywhere outside of an intimates boutique. And every stitch was 100% polyester, according to their labels, the kind that could stand up to repeated washings.
“I’m sooo sorry,” said a blonde in baggy sweats, hair held in place with the aid of some chopsticks, while hustling through the door to the dryer. “I totally lost track of time.”
“Oh! No worries.”
“I’m Andrea. You new? To the building?”
“Sort of. I’m in A8. Carrie.”
“Looks like we’re neighbors! A9.”
Carrie nodded toward Andrea’s laundry; “Big weekend planned?”
“HA! I wish,” guffawed Andrea with an eye roll.
-----
Carrie’s peripheral vision picked up the fire-engine-red bowtie first and then the face that came with it, causing her to slide both hands and the iPhone they were clutching beneath her keyboard tray with practiced nonchalance. “Hi, Hugh.”
Her supervisor leaned over the cubicle wall. “Hmm. I hope I’m not interrupting. Come with me.”
Once in the privacy of Hugh’s office, Carrie was surrounded by pictures of his family in various configurations: a professional portrait with his wife and kids, both in their early teens, Hugh and younger versions of the same kids dressed as the Incredibles for Halloween. Semi-legible “World’s Best Dad” artwork. She took a seat and contemplated the tandem wedding photos on his desk; a black and white of the couple posed beside an ornate fountain offset by a candid of them dancing in front of an enthusiastic throng.
Hugh took what seemed like five minutes to polish his glasses. “Carrie, I saw you put in for that Senior Project Manager position.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to tell you that I’m going with Shannon– ”
“But– ”
“I know she’s only been here a few months…” He planted his elbows on the desk. “Look; you’ve had a good year, but it didn’t exactly warrant that big a bump in responsibility. Or compensation. And I’m not the only one who’s noticed that you spend a lot of time on your phone…” With the remainder of Hugh’s lecture reduced to variations on “blah, blah, blah,” Carrie’s mind pivoted to her go-to comfort food.
-----
Somebody had been at the butter brickle. A full pint with its protective covering intact had been reduced to almost nothing overnight. Trisha, a recent convert to veganism, was out of the running, which left Sheryl. Helping herself to a bonus bong hit, Carrie squinted through the smoke, plucked the reprobate’s last Greek yogurt from the fridge, and collapsed onto the couch to finish texting a sorority sister… “At least he didn’t show me the door.”
“There’s always that big office waiting for you in Steadfast.”
“With my mom? I’d rather die.”
“She still sending ‘There’s no place like home’ greeting cards?”
“UGH! Every other month!”
“Can’t your dad get her to lighten up?”
“If he could have, he would have. TTYL”
Yogurt, even fancy yogurt, was a poor substitute for butter brickle. So Carrie tossed the container with a graceful hook shot and set off for a Häagen-Dazs run, all but colliding with a man leaving A9. They gawked in disbelief, each noticing the color rise in the other’s cheeks.
“Hugh!”
“Carrie!...What are you doing here?”
“I, uh, live here. You know Andrea, I see.”
“Andrea? Oh, we’re old friends,” he said slowly, as though trying to convince himself.
“Small world.” Painfully aware of lingering pot-breath and wishing for a Tic Tac, Carrie smiled a bit too hard —“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow” —and felt his gaze all the way to the back stairs leading to the garage.
-----
Hugh arrived at work later than usual and couldn’t have been more obvious in avoiding Carrie’s cubicle on the way to Shannon’s private office. The newly minted Senior Project Manager took a break from putting up her Stanford diploma where nobody could miss it.
Purging emails tempered Carrie’s welling anxiety until the arrival of a summons from Trevor Billings, the inside of whose office employees typically saw on their inaugural and final days of employment. “Perfect,” she murmured to images of herself in a Walmart uniform.
But the VP of People Services was not wearing the expression of one about to bring down the ax and gestured in the direction of a cozy corner table. He even pulled out a chair. “Carrie, I have some good news…”
-----
Carrie made a show of arranging and re-arranging the office supplies and mementos spread across her new desk the following afternoon. Gone was the cacophony of clacking keyboards and ringing phones. Ditto budget lunches and sweating along with the hoi polloi at the local Y. And gone were worries about a snowballing credit card balance and having to request financial relief from home that would inevitably come with thinly veiled conditions. Her burgeoning income easily overcame the waves of resentment radiating from Shannon’s half of the office, the half without a view of the courtyard and its picturesque Japanese maples.
-----
“Is your name Sandra?” inquired Carrie of the woman in a yellow tights and racerback combo between downward dogs at Pinnacle Fitness.
“Have we met?”
“No, but I work with your husband,” she answered. “I recognize you from his photo gallery. Where’d you get that top? It’s cute.”
Their Intermediate Postures session at an end, Carrie invited Sandra to join her at the club’s swanky juice bar for some friendly chit-chat over a couple of $18 “rejuvenating” smoothies.
Another unsolicited raise appeared on Carrie’s bank statement soon thereafter. This time it was not a surprise.
-----
The Steadfast, IL postmark was familiar, as was the sturdy block lettering (dad’s, not mom’s). Inside the envelope, $200 in cash plus the customary note: “Dear Bunny, I hope this gift finds you well. It may not go far in CA, but every little bit helps. Spend it on something fun. I’m proud of you. Love, Dad.”
Carrie read and re-read the message. Twice. Then into a memory box it went alongside yearbooks, photo albums, and a baker’s dozen similar letters.
-----
That intoxicating new car smell – leather, not vinyl – filled Carrie’s nostrils as she stroked the Infinity QX50’s buttery seats. Killing the motor, she shined away a smudge and climbed the back stairs. A flickering lightbulb created a strobe effect on the landing as a woman, trying to look away, barged past without so much as an “excuse me.” Tinted glasses and a headscarf couldn’t obscure her Frieda Kahlo monobrow and Cosmo-worthy full lips that struck a chord somewhere, though not enough to overshadow a beckoning TGIF soirée.
-----
Pre-dawn alarms sounded louder at the start of a workweek and the stacks of Trisha’s dirty dishes just that much higher. Carrie surveyed the wreckage with dismay amplified by a mild hangover, chirping “Happy Monday” to herself through clenched teeth. At least, there wasn’t the customary note with hearts dotting the i’s thanking Carrie in advance for scooping Trisha’s cat’s litter box. Having gleefully appropriated the master bedroom from the recently departed Sheryl, who had moved in with her fiancée, Carrie’s dreams of ousting Trisha ran aground on the financial realities of solo living and the risks of trading the foibles of the roommate she knew for the roommate she did not.
Some muscular French Roast worked its welcome magic. Three stories into the local news feed, Carrie set down her mug, almost missing the edge of the counter. “City Attorney Cortez Kicks Off Mayoral Run.” The article’s accompanying photo featured a slim woman, hair in a bun, gripping the edges of a lectern. Exuding confidence, the candidate seemed taller than her handsome husband and three teenage sons despite being considerably shorter. But it was the Frieda Kahlo monobrow and blood red, Cosmo-worthy lips that caught Carrie’s eye.
So what began the day as an impish flight of fancy matured by bedtime into a full-fledged scheme that caused a spectral version of her father to watch from the wings with growing alarm. The more Carrie rationalized, the more his image faded. By morning, it was gone altogether.
-----
Several uneventful stakeouts in the apartment building’s garage came and went before Carrie spotted those now telltale features gracing a woman headed for the back stairs. That same, presumably satisfied customer was climbing into a black Lexus 90 minutes later. With its taillights vanishing into the gloom, Carrie strolled upstairs, snapped an image of Andrea’s door with the A9 and distinctive knocker front and center. Then she fired up her laptop, ignoring plates and cutlery Trisha had left for the dirty dish fairy. Hours of mining Google, Wikipedia, and the Urban Dictionary produced enough information to fill three pages of a legal pad with various how to’s, from spycraft to crypto currencies. Each abortive note followed its predecessor into the shredder until Carrie had produced the words that would hopefully transform Trisha’s bedroom into the home for a coveted top-of-the-line Peloton bike and kettlebell set: “We know. If you want to keep this quiet, deposit $100,000 in the following Bitcoin account by 12:00 p.m. this coming Wednesday. 4hpmgAAH17ahsdhmh6.”
-----
The gaunt homeless man approached a black Lexus unnoticed – most of the town’s civil servants having vacated City Hall for the evening – and slid an envelope under its windshield wipers. Patting the pocket occupied by two crisp $20 bills, he strolled away as the streetlights flickered to life.
Carrie watched from the shadows of a recessed doorway across the way, stamping her feet against the cold. It was a mercifully short wait. Anita Cortez descended the steps followed closely by a lanky man in a trench coat whose demeanor screamed personal assistant. After a short conversation, he left his boss digging in an oversized purse beside the Lexus. A mechanical beep and she was sliding behind the wheel only to re-emerge and pluck the envelope from the windshield, expelling plumes of steam with each breath.
-----
$70,000 was sitting in Carrie’s anonymous Bitcoin account on Monday. An additional $30,000 joined it a day later.
The next step proved surprisingly more challenging, if less stressful. Months of dipping into the roommate from hell playbook failed to dislodge Trisha. Not relentless nagging over chores. Not hogging the television or playing country music or polishing off cartons of oat milk marked with increasingly conspicuous Ts. Inspiration eventually arrived on the wings of the latest reality show craze, “Jezebels,” exploiting her more voluptuous figure to flirt with Trisha’s male guests, relatives included.
“Eeek!” Carrie giggled two weeks before Trisha finally moved out, interrupting a home-cooked meal with a prospective beau by bursting from the bathroom topless. The soon-to-be ex-suitor spent what remained of the evening looking past Trisha to catch a second glimpse of Carrie’s abundant delights. The coup de grace; making a hearty breakfast of the baked ziti Trisha had spent four hours preparing for him.
-----
The maples were leafing out and Carrie couldn’t help but abandon a stack of quarterly reports to bask in the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves outside. No longer bothering to conceal her iPhone, Carrie sent a series of photos homeward: the office (cropped to exclude Shannon’s desk); every room in the apartment, from spotless kitchen to home gym; wine tasting with friends in Napa. “Hi, mom. Grandpa’s rolltop looks right at home, as u can c. Can’t wait for your visit. I already have the fridge stocked with Old Milwaukee for dad. XOXO.”
“Hugh brought by that prospectus,” interrupted Shannon a little louder than necessary. Carrie reached back for it without lifting her head. A harrumph punctuated with staccato footsteps meant a few precious minutes of privacy, time enough to finalize the details of a much-anticipated two-week beach getaway.
-----
A crew of men in matching coveralls were passing in and out of A9 when Carrie, tanned and sporting a sarong, sauntered down the hall. They carried boxes in and emerged empty handed, discussing that weekend’s upcoming NFL action. One of them ogled her casually. To the side stood the new tenant. Sporting a Philadelphia Eagles cap and Wharton School sweats, she told the crew what went where.
Carrie peeked inside. “Hi?”
“Oh, hey. Sorry for the commotion. You live on this floor?”
“Right over there. I’m Carrie. I had no idea this place was open.”
“We were couch surfing at my aunt’s when our apartment broker called last week. Things move fast around here.”
“For sure. Well, why don’t you come by for a beer when you’re done?”
“Sounds great. Can I bring my husband? He’s in here somewhere. I’m Shawn.”
“Sure. Hope you don’t mind Old Milwaukee.”
“He’s a beer snob, but I’ll drink anything.”
-----
The neighbors chatted to an alt rock mix playing on Carrie’s laptop. Beer cans ringed the remains of some Trader Joe’s Havarti and crackers on the coffee table. They covered the usual introductory topics, from jobs to hometowns, until, inhibitions lowered by the Old Milwaukee, Shawn leaned in conspiratorially. “Is it true that the last tenant was a prostitute?”
“Who knows? I kinda liked her. If she was, she was quiet about it.”
“It’s always the quiet ones,” Shawn replied with a wink.
