“Dad!” My cellphone almost vibrated with my daughter’s enthusiastic exclamation. “I love Meg!” I was in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to help my brother get ready for a hospitalization. My youngest daughter and I had decided to cohabitate, given that I am my granddaughter’s weekday caretaker, and Lauren’s burst of joy on the phone reflected her increased acquaintance with our next-door neighbor.
When I reluctantly ended my 6-year tenancy at my old apartment, I found another in the same Irvington neighborhood that I have grown to love. When I went to view the new place, I saw a sign on the other door of the double: “The Basement Players Club.” I thought, “That’s a cool name. This might be an interesting place.” After inspecting the apartment, I arranged for Lauren to see it; she liked it, so we moved in, and eventually met Meg, who is, as my landlord had advised me, “a writer, too.” I would see Meg coming and going with her two dogs, but we were merely nodding acquaintances; she and Lauren developed a relationship, and my granddaughter would eagerly raise her arms to Meg. One day, Lauren asked me to sign for an important package that Meg was expecting to be delivered. I agreed and did; I got freshly roasted coffee beans for my (very little) troubles. Freshly. Roasted. Coffee beans. Heaven in a brown bag.
In late July I had traveled to Pennsylvania to see my brother and Lauren and Myah and Meg spent a lot of time together. Lauren would call me, saying, “Dad! We love Meg!” She’d cite some adventure the “neighbs” — a term that Meg coined — had shared. When the Greyhound bus I was riding arrived back in Indy, Meg picked me up at the station. We chatted in her car as she ran an errand centered around coffee beans; I learned that she had a brother in Pittsburgh. Later that day, rocking her brown fedora, she took me to my favorite cidery so that I could refill my growlers. As Meg tasted some of the ciders that I recommended, I noticed a couple sitting near us; the woman was smiling, watching Meg sample cider. I smiled at the woman and said, “You seem to be enjoying watching her tasting.” With a puzzled look the woman turned to her companion; the man proceeded to explain my comment, using American Sign Language. And Meg amazed me by starting to communicate with the couple, using sign language. Lauren soon told me that Meg was moving away, which explained why the Woods family was being gifted with valuable things that she could not take with her. I do not say “goodbye.” I have an admittedly irrational objection to the phrase. I’ve told my children and grandchildren that “goodbye” is permanent, and that I plan to see them again, which is why I say, “see you later.”
Lauren gets verklempt when Meg’s name comes up; she misses her. Sixteen-month-old Myah toddles to her door and knocks on it, not understanding that neither Meg nor her dogs will answer and admit her. Their caring has enveloped me, has made me miss Meg as they do. She was our “neighb,” an actor, author, dancer, dog lover, and coffee bean roaster. I was the only one at home when she left, her car loaded with dog and other living essentials, a surfboard and a boogie board strapped to the top. I told Lauren that as she drove away, she tapped “shave and a haircut” on her horn. I silently whispered to her, “see you later.”
There may have been eye moisture.
cjon3acd@att.net