I Got the Plate Number
My friend Murphy is annoyed by her neighbors.
At first it was just the one who steps over the foul line in basketball.
All the time.
Which I thought was weird as Murphy weighs two-thirty and does not play.
Now she is annoyed by Helen, the snoop, who lives across the street.
They used to be besties, but Helen started watching Murphy’s house too often.
“Wait just a second!” Murphy says, halfway into a sentence.
“What is SHE doing out there?”
I figure she is talking about Helen. “Helen?”
“No! My other neighbor, the one with the political signs.”
“I think she plans to plant those lilies!”
“And whose black truck is that? Just a second.” I hear a door slam.
In a few minutes I hear her breathing. “I got the plate number,” she told me.
“I think it is that weird neighbor guy.”
I mute my phone. Fix a sandwich. Watch a TV show.
She is still blathering; I can tell by the red bars going up and down.
“You know what I mean?” she says.
“Helen is at my door! I have to get off!”
I am sad to see her go.
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