I stood in my elderly neighbor's front yard, admiring the lush flowers she'd somehow coaxed from the arid ground. Mrs. Cope prattled on about fertilizers and pesticides, before confiding that she got a little extra help from the alien living down the street. I was pretty sure she got a little extra help from the bottle of coconut vodka peeking out of her housecoat, but who was I to judge?
Rhythmic clicking drew my attention to the opposite side of the street. A tanned and shirtless boy on a skateboard was cruising down the sidewalk. I allowed myself a moment to ogle his ripped back - with those muscles, he had to be at least 18, right? – before forcing my eyes upward to admire the blonde hair that fell just below his broad shoulders.
Mrs. Cope leaned in and whispered,"He's been doing this every day. Back and forth, back and forth. Can't believe his wife puts up with it, giving the neighborhood a show like that."
"Married? He barely looks old enough to be out of of high school."
"Don't let him hear you say that." she sniffed."They've been married for years. Actually, Sue is his second wife."
"How can that be?" Well, maybe if they're from the south, I thought but didn't say. Mrs. Cope herself hailed from Mississippi, and I had no desire to instigate a discussion about the cultural differences between regions.
Her hand drifted down to the bottle in her pocket. "I heard he was told he needed to do something to lower his stress level. With him and Sue spending so much time together, they've been driving each other crazy. Too much friction, or maybe not enough friction, if you get my meaning. So he joined a gym. Then he bought that skateboard. Next thing you know, he's got a tattoo and is growing out his hair like a girl. It's a disgrace."
Tattoos and long hair were pretty much the norm these days, but I wasn't going to waste my breath arguing the point. "I'm sure it's just a phase."
"He's a damn fool. If it were my husband…"
An image of my geriatric neighbor rolling around with the built skateboarder popped into my head, and I tried not to gag – then felt guilty. Ageism is as bad as sexism, I reminded myself. Someday you'll be that old and…Nope, still gross. Guess I needed to work a little harder on that whole enlightenment thing.
We watched as he executed a perfect heel flip.
Mrs. Cope harrumphed in disgust. I wished he would face us so I could scope out his abs.
Suddenly he stopped and fished a phone from his back pocket. After a brief conversation he stowed it, then picked up his board.
Oh, please turn around...
He crossed to our side of the street and offered a friendly wave as he passed.
I made a grab for Mrs. Cope's vodka.
Turns out my 70 year old neighbor, Dr. Cullen, has great abs.