Neighbor

Stepping through the gate of the

apartment courtyard, I hear the voices

of Theodore Cleaver, George and Gracie,

Hoss or Vic Morrow as I pass

the open door of his apartment.

I keep my eyes down, uneager

to be seen and engaged in the

same old ground-hog’s-day dialog,

averse to looking into

his pleading, aged eyes.

But when I reach to unlock my door

I find a note “Lily! (he never remembers

my name is Naida)

I need to talk to you.

Chuck”

I brace myself, turn around and walk to his door,

knowing he is out of beer again, and probably

out of money, too, “until the 1st of the month."

He sees all that goes on outside his hovel.

If there is a package for a neighbor

the mail carrier knows to leave it with Chuck

and we find a note on our mailbox.

“Package” written in shaky cursive,

secured with a scrappy piece of duct tape.

No other words necessary.

We know to go to Chuck's door,

if he's not already standing there,

outstretched hand holding our package.

I bang on his door and enter at his invitation.

He sits in a broken-down rocker

in his smoke-filled cocoon with

yellowed, shredded curtains.

I pointlessly try holding my breath

while his trembling, tobacco-stained

fingers, with their long, brown

ragged nails pull out the credenza drawer

filled with cigarette packs, or rummage through

the ash-covered junk on the coffee table,

in a pretense of searching for change.

I shout over the TV

“It’s okay, Chuck. I got it.”

He smooths back his wild hair and tugs

at his shaggy, gray beard, his cancer-filled lungs

almost too weak to power the raspy voice that tells me

again

“I sure do appreciate it.

I promise I’ll pay you back.

I get my Social Security check on the 1st.”

Naida Lavon

Feb. 26, 2013