Page 1 of Finders Keepers
Given all the change I’ve had foisted upon me recently, it’s nice to find that Mr. Farina’s naked torso is pretty much the same as I remember.
Sure, the bulldog tattoo on his left pec is more faded, its jowls a tad droopier, but the egg-like shape of him and the tuft of gray hair exploding from his sternum are heartachingly familiar.
And, oh god, am I really crying about a septuagenarian mowing his lawn in booty shorts?
At least I’m still in the privacy of my car.
Not that I can stay here much longer. My mother keeps peeking through the living room blinds, her giddiness over my arrival broadcasting itself through that single green eye that appears, disappears, and appears again a moment later to see if I’ve made any progress toward the door yet.
I give it five minutes before she can no longer contain herself and comes out here.
Then there will be no avoiding unloading my belongings from the trunk and carrying them inside—a ceremony announcing to the entirety of West Dill Street that Patti and Dave Hunnicutt’s Sad Adult Daughter is moving back home.
I slide my glasses up my forehead to avoid smudging the lenses while I dab at my ridiculous tears with a leftover napkin from my stop at the Auntie Anne’s in the Jon Bon Jovi Service Area in New Jersey.
Four hours ago, I was shoveling pretzel nuggets into my mouth between agitatedly whispering to a nearby pillar plastered with a photo of the travel plaza’s namesake and the quote “It’s ok to map out your future—but do it in pencil” that it could go fuck itself.
Which might have been a little harsh. It’s not like it’s Jon Bon Jovi’s fault that I lost my job, boyfriend, and apartment all in the span of approximately seventy-two hours. But did he really need to rub it in?
Across West Dill, Mr. Farina and his push mower come to a stop at the edge of his front lawn.
He spots me as I’m adjusting my glasses back into place and gives a friendly wave.
I wave back so as not to be impolite, but quickly redirect my attention to the symmetrical two-story brick duplex where I grew up in hopes it will discourage him from coming over to say hello.
Small talk is not exactly something I’m up for at the moment.
Mom’s eye has returned, now joined by her nose and a corner of her mouth as she pushes the blinds further askew in her eagerness.
The voice of my therapist back in Massachusetts pops into my head, asking: What is the best outcome here?
The worst? The most likely? Best would be that I make it inside without anyone (other than Mr. Farina and my mother) noticing me, and also maybe I find a winning lottery ticket on the sidewalk.
Worst would be that, while walking from my car, a plane engine falls on my head and the headline reads something like “Woman Donnie Darko’d While Moving Back into Her Childhood Home,” thereby broadcasting my shame to the entire world.
And the most likely is that a passerby sees me hauling my belongings inside, thinks Oh, she must be staying awhile , and then immediately stops caring because, really, why should they?
Time to bite the bullet, I suppose. Or face the plane engine.
I open the door and get out, my body unsteady after spending so many hours in the driver’s seat.
A few quick stretches work out the worst of the kinks, but I still feel tight everywhere.
I grab my purse, then close the door and head for the trunk and the many bags and boxes I stuffed inside of it before leaving Boston in my rearview mirror early this morning.
That’s when I see movement on the porch of the mirror-image house conjoined with my parents’.
There’s a man there, slowly pacing back and forth.
I’m not sure how I didn’t notice him before, unless he only just came from inside?
He’s fairly tall, pale, with brown side-parted hair and rounded cheeks that prevent his strong jaw and aquiline nose from giving him too severe a look.
He appears to be close to my age, somewhere in his early to mid-thirties.
Mom mentioned that the Singhs moved out last month, so it’s possible this guy is the new tenant.
Or maybe he’s from the property management company that’s been taking care of the house since Mr. Bell left in ’09.
Could even be a real estate agent, I guess, if the place is finally going to be put on the market.
That would explain why he looks like a Brooks Brothers mannequin come to life in his well-tailored navy suit, white dress shirt, and light blue tie.
Whoever he is, I have even less desire to chat with him than I do Mr. Farina.
At least Mr. Farina has already seen me in all sorts of embarrassing states since I was a small child (including my baffling and ill-advised eighth-grade glam rock phase).
He probably wouldn’t even register my stained sweatshirt, unwashed hair, and puffy eyes as particularly notable.
But this guy pacing the porch of 304 West Dill and I have not established that sort of rapport.
The only thing worse than hitting rock bottom would be having to advertise the fact to a handsome, professionally dressed stranger. No thank you!
So I do the only thing I can think to do under the circumstances: squat down and hide behind my car.
With my eyes positioned just above the back seat’s window, I can monitor the situation like a human periscope.
The man continues strolling the short span of the porch, talking into his cell phone.
After a few seconds, he stops pacing and leans on the railing, focusing more intently on whoever is on the other side of the call.
As he listens, he sucks on the corner of his bottom lip in a gesture that immediately triggers a memory: my childhood next-door neighbor perched atop that same railing, lip disappearing into his mouth as he practiced peeling an orange in one long, spiraling piece.
One of our ridiculous, incessant competitions of who could do it the fastest (me—I won—it was me).
But Quentin Bell moved away a long time ago, and this dapper stranger bears little resemblance to the petite redheaded boy I once dared to eat an ant.
The guy shakes his head before saying something into the phone, then mimes strangling himself with his tie as he listens to the response. It’s unexpected and silly, and the gesture brings a smile to my face. It’s an expression I haven’t worn much lately; reassuring to know I’m still capable of it.
Shit—he’s looking over here! I duck farther down.
I have no idea how long I’ve been hiding, but my calves burn and my thighs are shaking thanks to this extended squat. Is it safe to get up yet?
Just as I’m about to declare the coast clear, a whistled tune drifts into my ears.
Unfamiliar, it doesn’t seem to have a defined melody so much as a refrain that chases its next note with the exuberance of a dog let loose in a room full of tennis balls.
It’s increasing in volume and getting closer.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. The whistler must be heading straight for me.
Could it be Mr. Farina? A quick glance behind me confirms he’s still on his steps across the street, sipping his can of Natty Boh and listening to the Orioles game on the old transistor radio my father has repaired for him a dozen times.
He’s either not noticed or has already lost interest in my bizarre behavior.
The tune grows even louder. What do I do? I’m running pretty low on dignity here; it would be nice to save whatever pathetic scraps I can.
The whistling ceases at the same time the car parked behind me unlocks with a flash of its headlights and a mechanical click.
Of course—because my luck is apparently on an indefinite hiatus—it’s the man from the porch who steps out from between the back of my old, beat-up car and the front of his much nicer one.
And now, with the late day sun shining on him, it strikes me that his hair isn’t the dark brown it appeared to be from afar, but a rich, red-heavy russet.
The kind of color that a youthful carroty orange might transition into over time.
He tilts his chin in my direction, the barest acknowledgment of my tragic existence. “Nina,” he says prosaically, then flashes a brief, devastatingly smooth smile before climbing into his car and speeding away. All this before I can even manage to get myself out of my awkward crouch.
Frankly, I think I would have preferred the plane engine.