Wednesday, February 19, 2003

I’ve got a social inconvenience

I’ve got a social inconvenience on my hands.  See, we’ve got neighbors just up the block who’ve been around since we moved in.  They’ve always had dogs, as have we, so we’ve been pulled into a sort of salutation-based relationship with them: hot enough for you, how’re your allergies, looks like rain, that sort of thing - obliged to acknowledge each others’ presence with pleasantries. 

Except the guy - he’s German, I think, white hair, booming voice - he’s making it a little uncomfortable.  First, he’s very enthusiastic about these meetings - he acts as if these brief crossings of paths are the highlights of his retirement.  And also, he complains.  A lot.  “Awww, too cold!  My leg is killing me!  What ugly flowers!  Those bums - I could shit in their faces!” (This last oath is one he’s repeated to me many times in different contexts, each time arousing in me a strong sense of disgust.) But he expresses these negativities to me in a conspiratorial undertone, confiding in me as if I were his most trusted friend, leaning in toward me and shielding his mouth from eavesdroppers (of whom, clearly, none exist).  I don’t think I’m getting any special treatment from him - I think this is just the way he acts.  I’ve seen him do the same with other neighbors who stand by their stoops, shifting their weight impatiently as they endure his harrangues.  But this is what he does, and now I have to say hello to him.  And his wife.

They’re the original odd couple (thanks Troy) - she’s a diminutive Japanese woman who moves slowly and speaks softly and often reluctantly.  We’ve had a few chats but nothing protracted or significant.  We try to leave each other respectfully alone.  She’s okay.

Except: we work in the same part of town, and on similar schedules.  We often ride the same bus, sometimes twice a day.  Se we wind up standing at the busstop or terminal together.  Neither of us wants to talk.  We have nothing to say to each other.  But convention compels us to say hello.  And then we stand there, silently, uncomfortably, waiting for the other to speak or say goodbye.  We’ve started trying to place ourselves so we aren’t in each other’s line of sight.  We avoid each other’s gaze.  And when we’re some distance apart from each other, safely ensconced on the bus, we smile and nod to each other.  That’s all either of us wanted in the first place - positive acknowledgement.  But now we have some kind of social guilt about it.  It’s inconvenient.