Recollection Of Questionable Events

Not Noah's Ark.

(9) Not Noah’s Ark:

Araceli Torre

 

“Good, so now what?” I questioned, still completely befuddled with the situation.

“Is that the end of your story?”

“Uhh, not really-”

Riggs waved his hand, not-so-secretly telling to me to get to the point. Everyone’s patience seemed to be running low.

“…the man came back,” I started.

 

 

Although my neighbor hadn’t radiated any ‘serial-killer’ vibes, I decided that precautionary measures were necessary. So I waited in my foyer for ten excruciatingly long minutes, crouched down and discreetly peeping through the door window.

When nothing exciting happened, I figured he’d just gone home. Another quick look through the peep-hole, verified that the coast I was clear and I made my move.  

As I inched my way up the stairs towards my apartment, the silence shocked me. No noise filtered through the paper thin walls, and it could only mean that my crazy aunts were up to something else.

With each cautious step, filtered voices from the upstairs landing got louder and louder. Part of me wanted to run back outside, but morbid curiosity propelled me forward.

The changes in my home décor didn’t surprise me: purses, belts, and other random accessories were stacked into neat little piles all over the living room. Someone (probably Monica) had taped makeshift labels, cut unevenly from old school posters in front of each row.

The first two rows were items for the upcoming (and infamous) Torre Yard Sale, the second row contained items that were “graciously” being donated, but really were just items that no one wanted. The last row belonged to my (still) quarrelling aunts.

“That’s mine…ladrona,” my aunt yelled at my mom, who’d just stolen something from her pile.

“Not true, you took it from my pile first,” my mother said.

Separately my mother and aunts were typical adults, but put them together and they all acted like five-year olds let loose in a candy store.

“Ma, can you stop fighting?”

“We’re not fighting,” they both said in perfect harmony.

“Well… you’re doing something, AND you didn’t even realize that your own daughter was attacked by the neighbor.”

“Don’t exaggerate Araceli,” my aunt reprimanded (nothing bad happened in her world).

“I’m not, and he wants his garbage back.”

“Ooooooh,” Monica offered from somewhere in the room, lost under all the mess.

“Too bad, he threw it out and now it’s ours,” my aunt said, as she fussed around with the piles. She discreetly moved things around so that she would end up with the best pile.

“Finders keepers, right?” Monica butted in again. “Now that we resolved that, is anyone else hungry?”

It seemed like the appeal of stealing garbage had worn off for Monica, leaving her exhausted. I spotted her lying on my couch (under everyone’s coat), with two small handbags held firmly in her grasp.