PAUL MOONEY DIED OF A BRAIN ANEURYSM IN 1991. On Easter.
I don’t know if Joe Mooney chose me to replace his dead twin brother because we shared a name or if there was some other reason. We were roughly the same age. I had brothers, one of whom was around pretty often. I kept enough of a distance from my neighbor that reality was never going to get in the way of his fantasy. There were plenty of possible reasons for it, but that’s definitely what happened.
Joe Mooney kept the journal that Josh and I found in that desk drawer meticulously. He began writing in the fall of 1989, and he wrote a one-page entry--no more, no less--every Saturday until the night before he broke into my house. The book was thick, made thicker with the dozens of newspaper articles he had neatly clipped, folded, and inserted between pages here and there. The clipping between March 30th and April 6th of 1991 was an obituary:
Paul Mooney, 24, of Mayville, IL, died in his home on Sunday, March 31, 1991. He was preceded in death by his father, Joseph. He is survived by his mother, Paula; his brother, Joseph, Jr.; and his wife, Carrie (Millis). There will be a visitation from 5 to 8 p.m. on Thursday, April 4, at the Lockwood Funeral Home and Crematory in Mayville. There will be no funeral services.
His April 6th entry makes no mention of his brother. But the following week, this is what he wrote:
APRIL 13TH, 1991
I miss Paul. He hasn’t visited in over a week. I know he’s not busy--I saw him sitting on the porch drinking a beer not two hours ago. I even bought a case of Sierra Nevada for him when he comes over. I know it’s his favorite. I think he’s still mad at me for telling him to leave Carrie. I don’t care. He is too good for her. She’s mean to him. And she keeps him away all the time. Anyway, I hope he forgives me soon. Maybe I should just go over there and apologize. He would forgive me and we could watch a ballgame or something. Maybe we could walk down to Cobb’s and shoot pool. Anything. I just miss my brother…
Over the next eight years, every entry that mentions Paul is a reference to me. There is a newspaper picture of me at a church function and a clipping of an article in which I was mentioned because I worked on Mary Derringer’s staff when she ran for mayor. My name is neatly highlighted in yellow.
As I said, Joe Mooney's last entry is dated the night before he broke into my house to prepare a ham, and it makes no mention of me or his plan. Maybe that's not the kind of thing you plan. I don't know. And I couldn't tell you where he is right now. A good guess might be Florida. Possibly South America. I always imagine places with pineapples.
I REMEMBER THE SPRING OF 1991. It wasn’t ice cold, and it wasn’t even snow cold. In fact, it was unseasonably warm. I remember that I spent a lot of nights sitting on my porch listening to baseball that spring. I was almost a year out of college, proud of myself for landing a job with a salary that afforded me the opportunity to own my own home when most of my classmates were still living in their parents’ basements. I was alone and I was happy. Joe Mooney was just alone.
Showing posts with label joe mooney. Show all posts
Showing posts with label joe mooney. Show all posts
Friday, May 16, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
joe mooney (part 4)
THE FRONT OF THE POSTCARD FEATURED THE SUN SETTING ON A GENERIC CITY SKYLINE. The back said, “Paul, I’ve missed you. Check the top left desk drawer. Key’s in the planter. Joe.”
I stared at those words for three days, curious and scared. The police had brought Joe Mooney in that Easter night two months earlier, but they released him when I chose not to press charges. Then he ran away.
I approached my neighbors more in the two weeks that followed than I had in the first four years I’d lived on Beckman Avenue combined. Someone had to know something about Joe Mooney, I thought, but it seemed that I was wrong. All I got was a string of useless adjectives: quiet, nice, polite, etc. I decided that I needed to check out Joe Mooney’s top left desk drawer, and if I was going to do that, I needed daylight and company, so Josh came over on Saturday morning and we headed for the blue A-frame down the street.
The key was poorly hidden in a green planter on the front porch. We stepped inside half-expecting to find a bloody altar in the living room, or at least a strange odor wafting up from the basement, but at first glance, there was nothing worth noting. It wouldn’t have been impossible for one to imagine that Joe Mooney had simply stepped out for the morning, perhaps to get breakfast at Al’s. It wouldn’t have been impossible to imagine that Joe Mooney would be sitting there in his bathrobe drinking a cup of coffee, a thought that made me uneasy for a moment.
“Pineapple mirror,” Josh said.
“What?”
“The mirror. It’s a big pineapple.”
“Right. Let’s just find the desk.”
We checked out the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, and the den. Unremarkable. The place was mildly cluttered, but certainly not dirty. No bizarre hobbies or interests were discernible from the cursory glance we gave to his rooms. Quiet, nice, polite, I thought. Sounds about right.
The first four rooms were without desks, but our fifth stop was what appeared to be Joe Mooney’s bedroom, and in the far right corner there sat a cheap-looking desk--the kind you buy at Target and assemble yourself. It was bare except for a few old National Geographics stacked neatly in one corner. It featured a thin middle drawer and two bigger drawers on either side. I wanted a second to prepare myself, but before I could take my obligatory deep breath, Josh had pulled out Joe Mooney’s top left desk drawer.
I stared at those words for three days, curious and scared. The police had brought Joe Mooney in that Easter night two months earlier, but they released him when I chose not to press charges. Then he ran away.
I approached my neighbors more in the two weeks that followed than I had in the first four years I’d lived on Beckman Avenue combined. Someone had to know something about Joe Mooney, I thought, but it seemed that I was wrong. All I got was a string of useless adjectives: quiet, nice, polite, etc. I decided that I needed to check out Joe Mooney’s top left desk drawer, and if I was going to do that, I needed daylight and company, so Josh came over on Saturday morning and we headed for the blue A-frame down the street.
The key was poorly hidden in a green planter on the front porch. We stepped inside half-expecting to find a bloody altar in the living room, or at least a strange odor wafting up from the basement, but at first glance, there was nothing worth noting. It wouldn’t have been impossible for one to imagine that Joe Mooney had simply stepped out for the morning, perhaps to get breakfast at Al’s. It wouldn’t have been impossible to imagine that Joe Mooney would be sitting there in his bathrobe drinking a cup of coffee, a thought that made me uneasy for a moment.
“Pineapple mirror,” Josh said.
“What?”
“The mirror. It’s a big pineapple.”
“Right. Let’s just find the desk.”
We checked out the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, and the den. Unremarkable. The place was mildly cluttered, but certainly not dirty. No bizarre hobbies or interests were discernible from the cursory glance we gave to his rooms. Quiet, nice, polite, I thought. Sounds about right.
The first four rooms were without desks, but our fifth stop was what appeared to be Joe Mooney’s bedroom, and in the far right corner there sat a cheap-looking desk--the kind you buy at Target and assemble yourself. It was bare except for a few old National Geographics stacked neatly in one corner. It featured a thin middle drawer and two bigger drawers on either side. I wanted a second to prepare myself, but before I could take my obligatory deep breath, Josh had pulled out Joe Mooney’s top left desk drawer.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
joe mooney (part 3)
I HAD TO PARK MY COROLLA ON MY FRONT LAWN when we returned home that night because my brothers’ cars were in the driveway, and my brothers were heading out. I glanced at Joe Mooney’s house as I climbed out of the driver’s side door. It was dark.
“Call me Tuesday if it warms up,” Josh said as he started his truck. Josh and I were the brothers that stayed in Sheffield, and we played golf on Tuesday nights all summer. We were hoping to get out that week, but it was ice cold out that Easter, and Josh was skeptical of the weathermen who told him that temperatures would reach the low 50’s in a scant 48 hours. I told him I’d call him and he backed out, leaving me with the house to myself for the first time in three days.
I walked to the mailbox, knowing that it would be empty, buying time and giving myself an opportunity to continue to scope out the house that I was now sure belonged to Joe Mooney. I stood on the sidewalk for maybe a minute, my hands drawn back into my coat sleeves, my breath foggy in the cold, before I decided that it was Easter, and what the hell? I walked to his front door and knocked. No answer. I knocked again. No answer. I rang the bell and waited for another minute before deciding that I had done my neighborly duty. Ninety seconds later, I opened my own front door, entirely unprepared for a tuxedoed Joe Mooney to tell me that the ham was “almost ready.”
“I ALMOST GAVE UP ON YOU,” Joe Mooney said as he slipped a plaid oven mitt onto his chubby paw.
Every light in my house was off, but there were four candles ablaze on the dining room table. The candles didn’t look familiar, but the white tablecloth was one I kept in the linen closet for special occasions. The table was set with two plates, two wine glasses, two sets of my good silverware, and two burgundy cloth napkins. A large bowl of salad--the kind that comes in a bag--sat to one side, and another smaller bowl with half a dozen baked potatoes sat to the other. A bottle of Charles Shaw wine--“Two Buck Chuck” we used to call it--had been opened and looked about half-empty. Joe Mooney’s tuxedo--a standard black and white with a cumberbund rather than a vest--looked a little snug.
“Remember this?” he asked.
“Remember what?”
“The tux. I noticed you noticing it. It’s the one I wore to your wedding.”
“Joe, what’s going on?” He hadn’t introduced himself, but by this time there could be no doubt that it was indeed Joe Mooney standing in my kitchen.
“I brought wine,” he said. “Pour yourself a glass.”
“Joe?”
“Yes?”
“What’s going on?”
Joe Mooney paused for a moment as he pulled a glazed Virginia ham garnished with pineapples out of my oven.
“Is something going on?” he said.
“How did you get into my house?”
“I used your spare key.”
“What spare key?”
“The one you gave me in case of an emergency." I'm sure that I looked puzzled. Joe Mooney took note. "Oh, I know this isn’t an emergency, but I thought it would be a nice surprise,” he explained.
“I’ve never given you a spare key to my house.”
Joe laughed nervously, awkwardly. “Who’s the crazy one now?” he said. “You gave me that key years ago.”
“Joe, I’ve never spoken to you before today. I wasn’t even sure who you were when you called me this morning.”
Joe Mooney looked hurt, like a child whose father has just told him he’s too tired to play ball. He reached for a knife, which made me nervous, but as he began to carve the ham, he smiled.
“I can never tell when you’re being serious, Paul. You had me going there for a minute.”
“Joe, I’d like you to go.”
“I hope those potatoes aren’t overcooked,” he said. “You said you’d be home around seven.”
“Joe,” I said more harshly than before.
“But I don’t think you can overcook potatoes. I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere.”
“Joe!” I shouted.
“Don’t yell at me!” he shouted back. I was still standing in the hallway in my winter coat, and I took a small step toward the front door. Joe Mooney’s bottom lip trembled, and he closed his eyes tightly as he spoke. “First, I invite you over for lunch and you back out at the last minute. Then you invite me over for dinner, and I make this beautiful meal, and you don’t even want to enjoy it. Well, you know what Paul? I think you’re being an asshole.”
He was probably right, at least partly. I was being a little bit of an asshole--he clearly needed something, and I was trying to blow him off--but I was nervous, possibly terrified.
“Joe,” I said. “I appreciate what you’ve done here, I really do. But this isn’t the best time for me. Would it be possible for me to take a rain check?”
I didn’t believe that Joe Mooney was a violent man, but it was a relief to see him set the carving knife down on the counter anyway. He stepped back and stared blankly at his hands as he wiped them with a dishtowel. He chuckled in a way that didn’t make me feel better.
“Sure,” he said. “Rain check. You got it.” Then Joe Mooney set down the dishtowel and walked toward me. He stopped, and without making eye contact, he hugged me. It was an awkward hug, and I did not reciprocate. Then he walked to the door, opened it, and turned to face me. He stood for a moment, opened his mouth as though he were going to say something important, then smiled and shook his head. “See you, Paul.”
I locked the door as soon as it was shut, then I sat in the dark and watched Joe Mooney through my front window for ten minutes. Clad only in his tuxedo, he stood in my front yard staring into the ice cold night sky. Finally, I called the police.
“Call me Tuesday if it warms up,” Josh said as he started his truck. Josh and I were the brothers that stayed in Sheffield, and we played golf on Tuesday nights all summer. We were hoping to get out that week, but it was ice cold out that Easter, and Josh was skeptical of the weathermen who told him that temperatures would reach the low 50’s in a scant 48 hours. I told him I’d call him and he backed out, leaving me with the house to myself for the first time in three days.
I walked to the mailbox, knowing that it would be empty, buying time and giving myself an opportunity to continue to scope out the house that I was now sure belonged to Joe Mooney. I stood on the sidewalk for maybe a minute, my hands drawn back into my coat sleeves, my breath foggy in the cold, before I decided that it was Easter, and what the hell? I walked to his front door and knocked. No answer. I knocked again. No answer. I rang the bell and waited for another minute before deciding that I had done my neighborly duty. Ninety seconds later, I opened my own front door, entirely unprepared for a tuxedoed Joe Mooney to tell me that the ham was “almost ready.”
“I ALMOST GAVE UP ON YOU,” Joe Mooney said as he slipped a plaid oven mitt onto his chubby paw.
Every light in my house was off, but there were four candles ablaze on the dining room table. The candles didn’t look familiar, but the white tablecloth was one I kept in the linen closet for special occasions. The table was set with two plates, two wine glasses, two sets of my good silverware, and two burgundy cloth napkins. A large bowl of salad--the kind that comes in a bag--sat to one side, and another smaller bowl with half a dozen baked potatoes sat to the other. A bottle of Charles Shaw wine--“Two Buck Chuck” we used to call it--had been opened and looked about half-empty. Joe Mooney’s tuxedo--a standard black and white with a cumberbund rather than a vest--looked a little snug.
“Remember this?” he asked.
“Remember what?”
“The tux. I noticed you noticing it. It’s the one I wore to your wedding.”
“Joe, what’s going on?” He hadn’t introduced himself, but by this time there could be no doubt that it was indeed Joe Mooney standing in my kitchen.
“I brought wine,” he said. “Pour yourself a glass.”
“Joe?”
“Yes?”
“What’s going on?”
Joe Mooney paused for a moment as he pulled a glazed Virginia ham garnished with pineapples out of my oven.
“Is something going on?” he said.
“How did you get into my house?”
“I used your spare key.”
“What spare key?”
“The one you gave me in case of an emergency." I'm sure that I looked puzzled. Joe Mooney took note. "Oh, I know this isn’t an emergency, but I thought it would be a nice surprise,” he explained.
“I’ve never given you a spare key to my house.”
Joe laughed nervously, awkwardly. “Who’s the crazy one now?” he said. “You gave me that key years ago.”
“Joe, I’ve never spoken to you before today. I wasn’t even sure who you were when you called me this morning.”
Joe Mooney looked hurt, like a child whose father has just told him he’s too tired to play ball. He reached for a knife, which made me nervous, but as he began to carve the ham, he smiled.
“I can never tell when you’re being serious, Paul. You had me going there for a minute.”
“Joe, I’d like you to go.”
“I hope those potatoes aren’t overcooked,” he said. “You said you’d be home around seven.”
“Joe,” I said more harshly than before.
“But I don’t think you can overcook potatoes. I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere.”
“Joe!” I shouted.
“Don’t yell at me!” he shouted back. I was still standing in the hallway in my winter coat, and I took a small step toward the front door. Joe Mooney’s bottom lip trembled, and he closed his eyes tightly as he spoke. “First, I invite you over for lunch and you back out at the last minute. Then you invite me over for dinner, and I make this beautiful meal, and you don’t even want to enjoy it. Well, you know what Paul? I think you’re being an asshole.”
He was probably right, at least partly. I was being a little bit of an asshole--he clearly needed something, and I was trying to blow him off--but I was nervous, possibly terrified.
“Joe,” I said. “I appreciate what you’ve done here, I really do. But this isn’t the best time for me. Would it be possible for me to take a rain check?”
I didn’t believe that Joe Mooney was a violent man, but it was a relief to see him set the carving knife down on the counter anyway. He stepped back and stared blankly at his hands as he wiped them with a dishtowel. He chuckled in a way that didn’t make me feel better.
“Sure,” he said. “Rain check. You got it.” Then Joe Mooney set down the dishtowel and walked toward me. He stopped, and without making eye contact, he hugged me. It was an awkward hug, and I did not reciprocate. Then he walked to the door, opened it, and turned to face me. He stood for a moment, opened his mouth as though he were going to say something important, then smiled and shook his head. “See you, Paul.”
I locked the door as soon as it was shut, then I sat in the dark and watched Joe Mooney through my front window for ten minutes. Clad only in his tuxedo, he stood in my front yard staring into the ice cold night sky. Finally, I called the police.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
joe mooney (part 2)
MY BROTHERS WERE IN TOWN OVER EASTER WEEKEND OF 1997, and we had spent Saturday night howling at the moon. I was sleeping hard, my head at the foot of the bed and my feet up top, when Josh flipped on the light in my bedroom at 5 a.m.
“Phone,” he said. I strained to lift my head, my eyes still closed tightly.
“What?”
“Phone. Some guy. Mooney? Moody? I don’t know.”
He dropped the phone on the pillow next to my head and went back to his place on the couch I’d taken from our grandparents’ house after our grandma had died the previous fall.
“Yeah? Hello?” I said.
“Hey, Paul. It’s Joe.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Joe Mooney. From down the street.”
“Oh sure,” I said, but I had no idea who I was speaking to. “What can I do for you Joe?”
“Happy Easter!”
“Thank you.”
“I’m thinking of throwing something together for lunch. You busy?”
“Today?”
“Of course today!” he said loudly, reminding me of the four--possibly seven--shots of Jagermeister I had downed the night before.
“I can’t today. My brothers are in town. We’re going to see my mom.”
“Mom, huh? Where’s she at again?”
“Elderhaven. Over in Cranston.”
“Right, right,” he said. He paused for a couple of long seconds. “Well, I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it today. Like I said, I’ve got people coming over. Tell her I said hi.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, still trying to make sense of these last couple of sentences, but he hung up before the words came out.
“RUTH HENDERSON IS A WHORE AND THAT’S ALL I’VE GOT TO SAY,” said my mother when Josh, Scott, David, and I were settled into her cramped apartment.
“Mom, you can’t say that,” said Scott.
“You don’t believe me?”
“That’s not the point. It’s just that you can’t go around calling Mrs. Henderson a whore.”
“Miss Henderson!” my mother said. “It’s miss, and don’t you forget it. She doesn’t want anyone thinking she’s off the market. And don’t you tell me what is and is not the point. I’ll tell you what the point is. The point is that Ruth Henderson is a damn whore. David, do you remember that little tart you brought home the summer after you graduated?”
“Mom!”
“Well, even she would have been embarrassed to see the way Ruth Henderson flounces and struts around this place.”
My mother had been at Elderhaven for about six months, and she wasn’t happy. The people were nice, but my mother was a caretaker--the one who made pancakes for breakfast when your friends spent the night or woke up at dawn to make sure the shirts that you and your brothers wanted to wear were properly ironed. What she didn’t like about Elderhaven was that she was now the one being taken care of.
Over the next few hours, we talked, played cards, and went for a walk, but I couldn’t shake the thought of Joe Mooney’s early morning phone call. I still didn’t know which neighbor I had spoken to, but I had a picture in my head of the overweight guy in the blue A-frame because he was single and reclusive, and I figured that those things had to be true of a guy to whom it wouldn't occur that most people would already have plans for Easter. I wondered if anyone would accept his invitation. Maybe everyone would. How did I know? Maybe Joe Mooney was a celebrity on Beckman Avenue, and I just didn’t know it. He seemed nice enough.
“Phone,” he said. I strained to lift my head, my eyes still closed tightly.
“What?”
“Phone. Some guy. Mooney? Moody? I don’t know.”
He dropped the phone on the pillow next to my head and went back to his place on the couch I’d taken from our grandparents’ house after our grandma had died the previous fall.
“Yeah? Hello?” I said.
“Hey, Paul. It’s Joe.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Joe Mooney. From down the street.”
“Oh sure,” I said, but I had no idea who I was speaking to. “What can I do for you Joe?”
“Happy Easter!”
“Thank you.”
“I’m thinking of throwing something together for lunch. You busy?”
“Today?”
“Of course today!” he said loudly, reminding me of the four--possibly seven--shots of Jagermeister I had downed the night before.
“I can’t today. My brothers are in town. We’re going to see my mom.”
“Mom, huh? Where’s she at again?”
“Elderhaven. Over in Cranston.”
“Right, right,” he said. He paused for a couple of long seconds. “Well, I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it today. Like I said, I’ve got people coming over. Tell her I said hi.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, still trying to make sense of these last couple of sentences, but he hung up before the words came out.
“RUTH HENDERSON IS A WHORE AND THAT’S ALL I’VE GOT TO SAY,” said my mother when Josh, Scott, David, and I were settled into her cramped apartment.
“Mom, you can’t say that,” said Scott.
“You don’t believe me?”
“That’s not the point. It’s just that you can’t go around calling Mrs. Henderson a whore.”
“Miss Henderson!” my mother said. “It’s miss, and don’t you forget it. She doesn’t want anyone thinking she’s off the market. And don’t you tell me what is and is not the point. I’ll tell you what the point is. The point is that Ruth Henderson is a damn whore. David, do you remember that little tart you brought home the summer after you graduated?”
“Mom!”
“Well, even she would have been embarrassed to see the way Ruth Henderson flounces and struts around this place.”
My mother had been at Elderhaven for about six months, and she wasn’t happy. The people were nice, but my mother was a caretaker--the one who made pancakes for breakfast when your friends spent the night or woke up at dawn to make sure the shirts that you and your brothers wanted to wear were properly ironed. What she didn’t like about Elderhaven was that she was now the one being taken care of.
Over the next few hours, we talked, played cards, and went for a walk, but I couldn’t shake the thought of Joe Mooney’s early morning phone call. I still didn’t know which neighbor I had spoken to, but I had a picture in my head of the overweight guy in the blue A-frame because he was single and reclusive, and I figured that those things had to be true of a guy to whom it wouldn't occur that most people would already have plans for Easter. I wondered if anyone would accept his invitation. Maybe everyone would. How did I know? Maybe Joe Mooney was a celebrity on Beckman Avenue, and I just didn’t know it. He seemed nice enough.
Monday, May 12, 2008
joe mooney (part 1)
THERE IS A KIND OF COLD THAT EXISTS IN THE MIDWEST. I don’t believe that it exists elsewhere. That’s not to say it doesn’t get cold elsewhere--I know that it does. But I am from Wisconsin, and if you are also from Wisconsin, then you will know precisely what I am talking about. The rest of you have probably visited Door County, or you’ve been to a party in Madison, or you have a cousin in Fond du Lac, so you won’t know it precisely, but you’ll be able to imagine it.
First, you stand in your living room and you can see the cold. It makes everything look clearer, like the drive home from the eye doctor on the day you got contact lenses. But it’s a little scary. It presses its nose against the bay window and watches you wrap your scarf around your neck with mittened hands. As you step outside, it finds any uncovered skin. It crawls through the space between your mitten and your coat sleeve. It clings to the hairs in your nose when you breathe it in. It bites your ear. I do not associate this kind of cold with snow, but rather with ice. Snow cold is softer. Ice cold is harsh. Snow cold pushes you around. Ice cold slaps you in the face. And while this kind of cold is most prevalent during the winter months, it sometimes continues on into March, and occasionally into April. Sometimes this kind of cold sticks around for Easter, and on Easters when the ice cold comes to visit, I think of Joe Mooney.
Joe Mooney was a fat man who didn’t seem to mind, and he lived three doors down from me in a blue A-frame. I was in his house only once, but the house itself was pleasant enough. There were empty beer bottles here and there--he was a bachelor after all--but it was mostly well-kept. The only thing that really stood out to me was the pineapples. They were all over the wallpaper, and I think there were pineapple-shaped soaps in the bathroom. On the kitchen counter was a pineapple cookie jar filled with Double Stuf Oreos. Other than the pineapples, Joe Mooney’s house was unremarkable.
Unremarkable. The word is a fitting descriptor not only of Joe Mooney’s house but of the man himself. He was the kind of neighbor that is easy to ignore, a quality I appreciated. I moved into my brick ranch on Beckman Avenue in the spring of 1993. Four years later, I was deeply familiar with the habits and eccentricities of my neighbors, but the same could hardly be said of my acquaintances with the people themselves. I knew that the fellow in 444 mowed his lawn at 7 a.m. every Sunday, but I couldn’t have told you his name. I knew that the kids across the street were named Emma and Jason--as in, “Jason, leave Emma alone!”--but for all I knew, they could have been anywhere from five to fourteen. I knew that Elaine, the single mother on the corner, had a butterfly tattoo on her lower back, but to this day I couldn’t tell you why she’s single. I was an observer on Beckman Avenue, and I preferred it that way--still do. I am a loner by nature and by choice. I am active in my church, friendly with my co-workers, and close with all three of my brothers, but on my own time, I am happiest frying a steak and washing it down with a Sierra Nevada while I sit on the porch listening to the Brewers. I suppose that I too am unremarkable.
First, you stand in your living room and you can see the cold. It makes everything look clearer, like the drive home from the eye doctor on the day you got contact lenses. But it’s a little scary. It presses its nose against the bay window and watches you wrap your scarf around your neck with mittened hands. As you step outside, it finds any uncovered skin. It crawls through the space between your mitten and your coat sleeve. It clings to the hairs in your nose when you breathe it in. It bites your ear. I do not associate this kind of cold with snow, but rather with ice. Snow cold is softer. Ice cold is harsh. Snow cold pushes you around. Ice cold slaps you in the face. And while this kind of cold is most prevalent during the winter months, it sometimes continues on into March, and occasionally into April. Sometimes this kind of cold sticks around for Easter, and on Easters when the ice cold comes to visit, I think of Joe Mooney.
Joe Mooney was a fat man who didn’t seem to mind, and he lived three doors down from me in a blue A-frame. I was in his house only once, but the house itself was pleasant enough. There were empty beer bottles here and there--he was a bachelor after all--but it was mostly well-kept. The only thing that really stood out to me was the pineapples. They were all over the wallpaper, and I think there were pineapple-shaped soaps in the bathroom. On the kitchen counter was a pineapple cookie jar filled with Double Stuf Oreos. Other than the pineapples, Joe Mooney’s house was unremarkable.
Unremarkable. The word is a fitting descriptor not only of Joe Mooney’s house but of the man himself. He was the kind of neighbor that is easy to ignore, a quality I appreciated. I moved into my brick ranch on Beckman Avenue in the spring of 1993. Four years later, I was deeply familiar with the habits and eccentricities of my neighbors, but the same could hardly be said of my acquaintances with the people themselves. I knew that the fellow in 444 mowed his lawn at 7 a.m. every Sunday, but I couldn’t have told you his name. I knew that the kids across the street were named Emma and Jason--as in, “Jason, leave Emma alone!”--but for all I knew, they could have been anywhere from five to fourteen. I knew that Elaine, the single mother on the corner, had a butterfly tattoo on her lower back, but to this day I couldn’t tell you why she’s single. I was an observer on Beckman Avenue, and I preferred it that way--still do. I am a loner by nature and by choice. I am active in my church, friendly with my co-workers, and close with all three of my brothers, but on my own time, I am happiest frying a steak and washing it down with a Sierra Nevada while I sit on the porch listening to the Brewers. I suppose that I too am unremarkable.
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