Member-only story
The Mystery of Other People’s Houses
As I wait for the polar vortex to swoop in and make me miserable and afraid — or more miserable and afraid than usual — I look at the house behind me and think, as I usually do, “What’s up with that?”
It’s probably warm in that house, if anyone was there to know it. There’s a fireplace. There’s an outdoor AC unit for the summer, and a new metal roof. The owner spent two years repairing and remodeling the place all by himself. I think he had some help with the roof.
Before him, his grandparents lived there. They’d sit on the back patio and watch me mow my lawn. Until one day they disappeared, as old people do.
And then eventually their grandson appeared, fresh from a divorce in California, with a postal service job, a string of bad debts, and a knack for remodeling.
You would not believe how much you can find out about a person from just one piece of junk mail that blows into your yard. You don’t even have to open it. Collection letters all look the same.
A string of girlfriends passed through, nice looking girls with dogs that they couldn’t seem to control. We would have words.
