Miss Adventure

by Geralyn Corcillo

Gabriel hangs onto the bars of Pacquito’s cage as they try to push it into the van. One man lifts an arm to swipe him away.

  “Don’t you touch him!” I get right up into their faces. “Or I’ll have the cops on your ass so fast for child abuse—”

  “Then will you get him out of here?”

  “Pacquito!” Gabriel wails. The dog has inched forward in the cage to lick Gabriel’s teary glasses through the bars.

  I struggle to bite off my words. “Then tell me what you’re doing.”

  He thrusts a piece of paper at me. “Look, lady. The new owner called us and told us to get all the strays out. That’s what we’re doing.”

  “But look at them!”

  Pacquito has a nasty gash down his front right leg, and two skeletal greyhounds sit on top of one another in a bigger cage on the sidewalk. I can’t even look at the two huge dogs in the van, drooling through their leather muzzles. “They need medical attention!”

  “Are you gonna give it to them?”

  “Someone has to!”

  “Fine.” The man jerks his head toward his partner and they take Pacquito’s cage out of the van. The man then takes out a clipboard. “All of them?” he asks. “Even the cats?”

  I look at the cages of cats, seven of them. Some of them look a little worse for wear, and two of them look pregnant. “All of them.” A burst of righteous power shoots through me.

  He hands me the clipboard with a document to sign. Something about helping stray or unwanted animals marked for termination, so I sign it.

  “So you’ll make sure they get to a vet?” I ask.

  They take out the cages of muzzled dogs and then close the van’s big back double doors, leaving all twelve caged animals on the sidewalk.

  “No, lady. You will.” He tears off a pink carbon copy of the document I just signed. “You just claimed in writing that you’re taking responsibility for all these animals.”

  My mouth drops open. I did what?

  “You saved Pacquito! You saved Pacquito!”

  I look down at Gabriel. He opens Pacquito’s cage door and crawls in with him, hugging the dog like Diane Keaton hugs Warren Beatty outside the train in Reds.

  “That’s right,” I say, shoving my hands onto my hips with unmistakable authority. I take a deep breath and look at all the animals. “I’m going to need a truck.”

  * * * * *

  I wake up to the sound of water dripping. It’s rat-tat-tatting at a pretty rapid rate. I blink. It’s the shower. My shower. The shower I now own.

  As it turns out, I needed way more than a truck for the twelve animals. Nothing less than a house with a yard would do. Jack Hawkins would say that this is what I get for going off half-cocked. But what choice did I have?

  Raffi wasn’t too happy with the number and species of my new roommates. Honestly, I don’t blame him. I’m still getting used to it myself.

  Twelve abandoned animals.

  I needed a house.

  Quick.

  And I did my best. I did.

  I decided I didn’t need any damn realtor to suck me dry, so I bought the house myself. Eight-hundred thousand dollars for a three-bedroom bungalow that smells like beer.

  I stare up at the water-damaged ceiling as my heart tries to claw its way out of my chest.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  My six million that I was trying to be so careful with is now diminished by a full sixth. Sure, the house was only eight hundred thousand, but tack on everything else so far, and I’m out a million. Or, I will be as soon as I tie up all the loose ends on this place.

  I know. I can still do lots of good with five million. But I’m scared. Maybe I’ll let another million slip away, then another.

  I look around at the marked up walls of the tiny bedroom. Truth is, I’d be a lot happier if I’d gotten a little less of a dump for almost a million. A stucco ranch with no central air in the Valley. Eighteen hundred square feet, a detached garage and a dead yard.

  At least there are a few trees. And a fence around the big dirt backyard. Sagging, rusted chain link. It’s ugly, but good enough to hold back Aaron, Christian, Pacquito, Fred and Ginger, and that's the material point.

  I wince, thinking about the vet bill. Twelve spays and neuters, and two of the cats were extra because they'd been pregnant. Plus the patch up jobs and de-worming. And de-flea-ing. Then the shots, the tests, the teeth cleanings. But then again, I don’t regret it. I want to do good with the money, right?

  I take a fortifying breath and get out of bed. I go to the kitchen to put on coffee and feed the rascals. This really isn’t so bad. My own kitchen, my own coffee, my own safe haven for me and my impromptu family of ragtag misfits.

  Okay, so it will take some time and effort to find the home underneath all the grime of this house. But what else can I expect?

  This place was rented to frat boys for years before I bought it. And okay, maybe I was totally screwed by a greedy owner capitalizing on the combination of my desperation and the vicious real estate market.

  But why bemoan the purchase? Can’t be undone. No place to go but forward.

  And despite the pervasive beer smell, there is hope for my hovel. The army of maids I had sanitize the place the day before yesterday actually did a pretty good job making the house recognizable as a place that one might live.

  Anyway, the best thing of all about my new pad is that nobody knows I’m here. I didn’t tell anybody.

  The day after my Jack debacle when all my ID was stolen, I got myself a P.O. Box so no one could figure out where I lived. So really, my dumpy house is my own private castle.

  By seven a.m., I’m out in the front yard, digging up all the naked Barbie dolls that have been buried waist deep. All five dogs run around in the fenced-off backyard, but as long as they can see me, they behave. And honestly, I think the stench of beer is making them a little drowsy.

  The cats are in the house doing God knows what. I haven’t seen any of them since I let them out of their cages yesterday morning. But I know they’re eating because their food disappears when I’m not around.

  “Well, hello there, pretty lady.” A sweet, scratchy voice from behind me has me turning around on my knees.

  Just then, the dogs start barking up a storm. A little late as guard dogs, but they make up for their tardiness with volume.

  An older lady with a platinum blonde perm shakes a rose-painted nail at me. “Are you the new tenant?”

  I stand, dusting off my hands along the thighs of my jeans. “Owner actually. I’m Lisa.”

  “Ohh!” She claps her hands together. “Even better! This neighborhood has put up with those college boys long enough.” She thrusts out both hands. “I’m Dolly Blue.”

  We shake, and Dolly encloses my dirty hand in both of hers. I take a good long look up the street. Pristine houses complemented by manicured lawns. Every last one.

  I twist around to look at my house. Peeling pool-blue paint reveals the pink stucco underneath. The dead grass makes the yard look like a hayfield harvested by one-legged zombies.

  “Those guys must have been aggravating,” I say, feeling guilty. I mean, my house is bringing down the whole street. I’m a Neighbor now. I have responsibilities. “I guess I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “Are you all alone?” Dolly looks around. “A pretty girl like you?”

  I look toward the now quiet back yard. Aaron and Christian prance and wag their tails in Dolly’s honor. Apparently, the other dogs have gone to hide. Yup, great guard dogs. “I’ve got the dogs to keep me company.”

  “Oh!” Dolly swats at me, grinning at my ‘joke.’ “Well,” she says, giving my arm a squeeze, “I’ll let you get back to work now. Nice to meet you!” And she toddles off down the street to the peach stucco house with sea green trim. Two magnificent birds of paradise stand like sentinels on either side of her front stoop. I turn around to look at the Barbie torsos decorating my dead grass. I guess they're someone’s version of paradise.

>   I’m just putting the last few dolls into the trashcan when I hear, “Hey there!” from off to my right side.

  I look up and there he is.

  I mean, WOW.

  It’s Neighbor Guy. He’s walking across his lushly emerald lawn toward my demented scruff of tumbleweed. He’s smiling from beneath his ball cap. The dogs are kicking up a hell of a fuss, so he walks right up to the edge of the fence and talks to each of them, calling them good boys, even Ginger, until they quiet down.

  He turns to me, and I swear, he’s too awesome to be real.

  And by that I don’t mean that he’s impossibly amazing or anything. But he’s just cute enough and wholesome enough to make one believe that life can be as simple as finding a good man. Furthermore, he’s right next-door. Not that he’s the boy next door.

  Better.

  He’s The Man Next Door.

  He walks toward me. Looks to be maybe late thirties or early forties. Brown hair. Nice smile. Goes-to-the-gym-every-morning-but-doesn’t-take-steroids-or-do-coke kind of body. Grass-stained sneakers, navy blue athletic shorts, white T-shirt.

  Mmmmmmm.

  “Hi,” he says, stretching out his hand. “I’m Casey.”

  Hint of a down-home Southern twang in his salutation. Dear, sweet Lord.

  “Lisa,” I say, dropping a Barbie so I can shake. His gaze follows the doll as she plops back onto the ground, but then it re-focuses on my face. He likes me better than Barbie!

  “You just moved in?” Hands on hips. Uses his chin to gesture at the house.

  “Yeah.” Smile, laugh. Feel like a dork.

  “See you’re working on the front yard.” He surveys the lawn full of Barbie holes.

  I nod. “Looks pretty bad.”

  “You just need to water it.” Casey crouches down and pulls at some of the dead straw-stuff. He looks up at me. “This is grass, not sod. The seeds are here. Water it, and it’ll come back. We should be getting some more rain in the next few weeks, and that’ll do wonders. Add a little seed to those holes, and the grass will come in just fine.”

  “Okay.” I nod enthusiastically, relishing this strange new role as Neighbor Lady. Who knows? I might even be Cute or Sexy Neighbor Lady. I go to dust off my butt with my hands, feeling proud of my workout regimen. But my hand… my hand….

  Oh, God. I think I’ve sat in dog poo.

  My hand is stuck in the dog poo on the ass of my jeans. In front of The Man Next Door!

  I don’t move. I can’t. If I take my hand off my butt, I’ll have a stinky hand of dog poo. So, I simply stand, hand resting nonchalantly on my butt.

  “Wow,” I say. “I should make a list. I need some grass seed. What else?”

  Casey looks around. “This yard doesn’t have a sprinkler system, so you’ll need a hose. I just installed a sprinkler system last summer, so I’ve still got the kind of sprinklers you attach to a hose, but I’m not using them.” He looks over his shoulder toward his place.

  “They’re sitting somewhere in my garage. One should cover the front, another the back. You can have ‘em,” he offers. “They’re just collecting dust.”

  He’s handy and nice. Soooo nice. He must be flirting. Maybe he’s noticed my butt, but not the dog poo, and admires all those squats and crunches I’ve done.

  “Great,” I say brightly. “I’ll get myself a hose. Then, I’ll be all set.” I wonder if we’re talking in double entendres, so I think I blush.

  Casey puts his arms out like Jesus with the fishes and loaves. “We can get you all set right now.” A corn-fed smile breaks across his face like the sun rising over a Carolina pasture. “There’s a great hardware store not far from here on Colfax. I’ll lend you hoses until you can pick some up, and I’ll go get some grass seed from Manny.”

  “No, don’t.” Keeping my hand planted awkwardly on my caboose, I kind of chase him as he heads across the street. I don’t know who Manny is, but I fear a ménage à trois based on gardening favors is in the works. I don’t know, maybe that’s how things work in the suburbs. Best be careful since I’m clueless.

  Casey turns at the curb and looks at me.

  “Uh, never mind,” I say, not wanting to lose the heart of The Man Next Door. “If Manny’s got the seed, well…” I laugh. “Thanks. That would be wonderful.” I keep huh-huhing until he heads across the street. Then I turn around with a confident air, as though I always walk with my hand on my ass.

  By the time I change my jeans, Casey and an in-shape man with curling, graying hair are in my front yard with a box of grass seed and a bag of topsoil.

  “This is Manny,” Casey introduces as I walk up to the pair, offering a bottle of water to each. “He and his wife Robin live in that blue house.” He points to a house across the street that blooms in the middle of an elaborate garden of succulents.

  Man, he must hate me already on account of my house.

  “Lisa,” I say and we shake. “Thank you, very much. What can I do?”

  “Come with me,” Casey says. “We’ll go get the hose and sprinklers.”

  I want to bounce on my toes and shake my hands like a Flashdance maniac. He’s taking me into his garage. Nice. We walk across my lawn, up his driveway, and into his open garage.

  We work our way through the dim interior. This is it. I’m sure he won’t make a move or anything, not with the entire street watching, but we’re going to have some sort of awkward or flirty moment.

  I’m sure this impending moment will let us both know we want to get to know each other better. This could be my future, and all for just under a million bucks.

  “Hi there.”

  I spin around to face a petite blonde with big blue eyes and an even bigger smile. “You must be Lisa. I’m Jessica.” She pumps my hand enthusiastically.

  “Hey, hon,” Casey says.

  Hon? Did The Man Next Door and Future Father of My Children just call her hon?

  And did she call me Lisa? What? Did Dolly Blue run home to phone everyone to tell them the frat boys were gone?

  “Have you seen the old sprinklers from last year?” he asks her.

  “On the shelf above the lawn mower.” She looks back at me. “A new neighbor. And not a teenage horndog or somebody’s grandma. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  I want to kill her. She’s got Casey and a size 2 butt and a size 6 rack.

  That’s probably the only reason he likes her, that small butt and those big boobs, and the blonde hair and the innocent blue eyes. Casey’s such an asshole. I bet he’d dump her if she got fat. Suddenly, I’m on her side.

  “Glad to be here!” I chirp with gusto. I want to tell her I’ll be there for her whenever Casey tells her to go easy on the Baskin Robbins.

  “Listen, I’m done grading papers, so I’ll be over in a jiffy to help.”

  She practically skips back into the house. “What does she do?” I ask, taking the hose from Casey.

  “Teaches third grade.”

  Jeez. A sweetly gorgeous elementary school teacher. For real? I bet she sings in the church choir and calls her Mama every morning.

  “Grading papers for third graders?” I ask. All I remember about third grade is recess and my crush on Chad Guazo.

  “Haiku poems and short multiplication.”

  Oh, God. He knows what her kids are learning. He must really love her.

  “Hm.” I try to invest the syllable with interest as we get back to my yard.

  * * * * *

  It’s eleven-thirty as I lock Aaron and Christian in the garage and put the other three dogs in the house to sniff out cranky cats.

  Casey moves the hose and sprinklers to the back yard. Dolly washes the windows in front. Manny and Robin trim back the few bushes and trees.

  Dom and Jeffrey, another couple from up the street, work on the roof. They straighten tiles, clean the gutters, and put all the underwear they find in one big pile.

  Ethel, a faded, down-to-earth old woman from across the street—and yes, her name is really Ethel—does
something with a small gardening tool near the front porch.

  Jessica scrubs my woefully chipped stucco. Mia helps her.

  Mia’s parents dragged her over here two hours ago then waved as they left for their son Dylan’s football game. I asked Mia whether she wanted to go too, whether all her friends would be there, but she claimed she wanted to stay here.

  All these people are jumping in to spruce up the house that has been bringing down their property values for years. Except for Mia, who was sent as proxy for her parents.

  Nobody’s even asked me my last name or where I’ve moved from or anything. They don’t care about me. I don’t count. All they care about is my house.

  Part of me wants to kick them all off my property. Every one of them. I sigh as I kneel on the driveway to start washing off lewd phrases and explicit pictures. I begin to scrub and my stomach growls.

  Of course! I want food, and I bet I'm not the only one. Why didn’t I think of that before? Food always works.

  Twenty minutes later, I return from the supermarket with all the supplies I need to win these people over. I will transform their calculated kindness into true camaraderie.

  I spread an assortment of quilted moving blankets across the lawn, then start laying out the picnic. All sorts of cold-cuts, spreads, breads, condiments, drinks, and snacks abound. I even got Jessica to bring two lawn chairs from her house for Dolly and Ethel.

  “Come and get it!” I beam at them all and beckon, and they flock to me like pigeons.

  Dolly, however, balks at the lawn chair. “I’m not a rickety old relic,” she announces. “I can have a picnic as easily as the next person!” With that, she plops down on the blanket.

  Ethel, it seems, is not to be outdone by the flashier old lady. She says, “Same goes for me. I still do all my own gardening, so I think I’m capable of sitting on a lawn.” She eases herself down more gingerly.

  Once everyone is settled, Manny looks around pointedly. “Any Diet 7-Up?”

  Seriously, Manny? Who buys Diet 7-Up? “Um, don’t think so,” I say. “How ‘bout…”

  “It’s okay,” Robin interrupts. “I’ll run across and get him one.”

  “Get me two,” he shouts as she crosses the street.