The Flamingo

Day 53

           I started the day by stopping my tea making process half way through to go study the windowpane. No note. I stuck my head out to see if anything fell, but there was nothing. Only my own disappointment. Alyssa stopped pacing to stare at me as my balding head emerged. I made eye contact with her ostrich eyes. I almost waved, but then I remembered that she doesn't know me, even though I know her. Also, I must look insane with my head out the window on a chilly morning. She abruptly stopped staring and continued pacing. She paced thirteen times today. The therapist effects must be wearing down.

          Feeling discouraged, and a bit naked without my mug, I continued the tea making process. When finished, I spotted Ethel out the window. Ethel was the most perky billion-year-old woman I know. She passes by humming a different 50's tune each Sunday on her way to service. She has a curious affinity for yellow and sunflowers. Even then, in the dead of winter, she carried a single sunflower humming a song I couldn't place, but sounded as old as time. She used to wave when she passed by. After the fifth time of me not responding to the wave she stopped. Every so often she peeks in the window with skeptical eyes. Maybe she thinks, since I never waved back, that I am either not human, or blind, or just an asshole. The way she peers in convinces me she is unsure which one it is.

            Hank trudged by around noon. His mutterings about his screenplay entered my window as he went by. He has been working on that screenplay for so long. To put in a timeframe, I believe he started the screenplay when Ethel was born. Each day I hear something about it that makes me want to read it, even though I know it's probably shit. Today I got something along the lines of, "Fuck, shit, it's all a mess. My mom wouldn't even pay to see this absolute bullshit and disgrace to all written word. Why don't my characters have any depth that is more than that of a kiddy pool? Hank, if a two-year-old cannot drown in your characters, then they need improvement." I think if he just wrote down everything he said to himself, he would have a brilliant screenplay. I'd title it, "Hank, you inglorious bastard!" Due to him calling himself this an alarming amount of times. This draws me to the conclude that it is his full name. It must be what's on his driver's license. The DMV is probably a nightmare for him.

          A new person sauntered by my sight this afternoon. A small Indian woman with a beautifully detailed nose ring that trailed up to her ear. She was on the phone with someone who I assumed was her husband.

          "If you could just take the chicken out before you go to work, it would help me out a lot. Thank you babe, I'll probably be home around seven today. Yeah, I'll tell Rebekah. Yeah. Uhuh. Love you more. Bye."

          Her soft voice sounded like music floating in the frozen air. She was wearing a black puffy coat with a black skirt and tights peeking out from under it. He little kitten heels were adding to her musical effect as they clacked on the cobblestone sidewalk. Once she hung up with her husband she nodded along to the music playing in her ears. She was very intriguing. I hope she takes this way to work more often.

          Bill the man who can be perfectly described as the word "jolly" was returning from his job around five thirty today. He perfectly embodies "jolly" not only because of his fatness, but also due to his devil may care attitude. He skipped by wearing his construction hat. He's been designing a building a few blocks down for some time now. It amazes me that no matter the setbacks at work and the trouble with his children, he always seems happy. It's not even the annoying kind of happy, like the sickening couple, it's more infectious than that. I've seen so many people who he doesn't even know pass by and immediately smile at him. I find myself getting joy from these encounters, but also feeling a little jealous of jolly Bill.

           After dinner, I spotted another stone. This one was a bit larger. White. Still very smooth. Under it lied the piece of paper.

           I get it.

          Well what the fuck was I supposed to do with that?

          Get what?

          Hopefully I can get a more concrete response this time. I left the note under the rock and finished cleaning up. It was gone by the time I came back. She works fast.

         Taylor came by around the same time she always does for her late-night smoke. She met her friend on the side of my house by the alleyway. She was wearing a long skirt and a ballet pink turtleneck sweater. She quickly discarded these and revealed her black ripped jeans and band t-shirt that resided beneath them. Her friend lit her cigarette than handed it to her.

          "How was Friday night at Jim's?" Her friend said in a raspy voice. Her face may have been of a seventeen-year-old, but her voice was that of an eighty-year-old chain smoker.

          "It was...good" Taylor responded, I could almost feel her blush. She passed the cigarette back.

          "What base did you get to?" girl whose lungs must be tar by now asked.

           "Umm I don't know...What base is hand jobs?" A girlish giggle erupted between smoke coughs from Taylor.

           "Taylor! Yes! Get it!" Why does this child's voice remind me of my mother?

           "Do you think we should go even further?" Taylor pulled in enough smoke to start a small forest fire.

           "Uh yeah! You two are great together. Plus, it's a great excuse to see him because he's the preacher's son. You just tell your parents you need to study the Bible extra hard." A laugh that sounded like how car exhaust looks fell out of her mouth. I found myself making a disgusted face even though I knew she couldn't see me.

           "Yeah, it does work out nicely. My parents have no clue. I doubt they will ever find out. Well, we have plans for tomorrow night. I'll see what happens then." Taylor finished off the smoke and grinded it into the ground.

           "Alright, you go rush home." The girl began spraying perfume on herself and then Taylor.

          "See you later, Alisha." Taylor tossed her reserved clothes on and scurried back down the street.

          I worry about her sometimes. I've seen Taylor grow up and how her parents shelter her. Though their over protective ways worked on her sister, Taylor was always the wild child. I would try to help her, but something tells me she wouldn't be ok with a middle-aged strange man trying to talk to her about her love life.

            The hobo across the street woke up and shifted in position until finally falling asleep again. I recorded this and his time of sleeping once again for science. Excited to see if he breaks his record.