At the continuous knocking of the door, I trudged through nose deep fatigue trying to pull any measure of liveliness to the surface like a scuba mask.
Click. Turn. creak. “HIYA NEIGHBOUR. BIT LATE IN THE MORNING FOR YA TO BE SLEEPING INNIT.” The door swung shut of its own accord or maybe I slammed it hoping they’d go away.
BANGBANGBANG “HEY DON’T WORRY ABOUT GETTING DRESSED ON MY ACCOUNT I JUST GOT A QUICK QUESTION.”
Sighing I opened the door bracing myself for the loud obnoxious voice that had to be fake. I mean how does someone sound like a dad from Minnesota on tv shows. That's like a bad Scottish accent no one talks like that.
“THE KIDS WAS PLAYING WITH A BALL AND IT KINDA WENT OVER YOUR FENCE SO I WAS WONDERING IF YOU COULD GET IT FOR US. NOW THE MISSES SAID YOU’D REFUSE SEEING AS YOU’RE ALWAYS SO ANTISOCIAL AND THE LIKE. BUT I TOLD HER. I SAYS DEAR I KNOW HE SOMETIMES SCREAMS LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF HELL AND DOESN’T COME TO THE BLOCK PARTIES OR PARTICIPATE IN THE SECRET SANTA WE ALL DO AND HE NEVER COMES OVER FOR NEIGHBORHOOD GAME NIGHT OR .. ANYHOW I SAID NOW CINDY THAT MAN THERE IS GOOD PEOPLE. SO COULD YOU BE A PAL AND GET IT FOR ME?”
Trying and failing to speak past my sore throat, reminding me not to channel all of my existential anguish into vocal form, I closed the door and went to walk out the back door. Instantly the knocking resumed.
The ball was sitting in the middle of my tomatoes. Carefully stepping around the carrots and green onions and potatoes and pumpkins I picked up the ball and chucked it as hard as I could towards the street.
It went up and up and up and up and down and down and down. Then there was the sound of rubber on metal and a car alarm.
