The Idle Poor

We live in a decent sized duplex; the couple who live in the other half of the duplex are separated from us by an entrance vestibule. Both apartments share a common front door, with individual entrances on either side of the vestibule. The other day around two in the afternoon I was standing in the vestibule in my bathrobe, tying knots in a nylon string that held three stained glass suncatchers. The front door is flanked by two sidelights, each with three square panes of glass, and as soon as we moved in, we put one suncatcher in each pane, suspended by hooks from plastic suction cups. The problem was, our neighbors both tend to slam the door when they come in or go out, and as a result the suction cups were forever popping off the windows and the suncatchers kept falling on the floor. Finally Eric came up with the nylon-string concept, and I was just finishing tying the last knot when Greg, our neighbor, pulled up in the driveway. He holds down two full-time stock clerk jobs. Sometimes when I'm up late doing something on the computer, I hear him leave for work, around 3 A.M. Between his two jobs he comes home and sleeps, then heads off to work again. His girlfriend teaches elementary school.


Anyway, before I could duck through my own front door, Greg came bustling into the vestibule. My bathrobe is below-knee length, loose-fitting, and made of thick terry cloth -- the style you see in the bathroom at hotels or in spas. No one would ever call it suggestive. But it's also not the sort of outfit somebody usually wears in semi-public at two in the afternoon. On days when I have no errands to run or other worldly pursuits to prosecute, I often get up, put on my bathrobe, and forget to change into street clothes. Greg and his girlfriend Jessica look to be in their early 30's, which would make them considerably younger than Eric and me. I have no idea why Greg has to work two jobs, when his girlfriend is well paid and their rent (if what we pay is any indication) can hardly be viewed as extravagant. Eric and I have speculated about it: student loans, a divorce, child support, drugs, alcohol, gambling debts? Greg is short and very intense. While certainly not unfriendly, he is definitely a man of few words. All the conversations I've had with him since we've lived here have been short and to the point. I can't say I blame him for not wanting to stand around chit-chatting; with his schedule, he's lucky to catch an hour or two of sleep before he has to get back to the salt mines.


Walking in with his customary purposeful stride, Greg spotted me standing there in the vestibule in my bathrobe at 2 P.M. on this rather chilly afternoon. I could tell by his expression that he was embarrassed, so I giggled and said "Aha, you caught me" -- and promptly ducked back into my apartment. Later, Eric and I were heading out to have dinner when we happened to run into Greg and Jessica coming back from someplace. They were rosy cheeked and seemed in good spirits. Sometimes when they have a few, they fight like cats and dogs, but this time all was serene. Jessica smiled beatifically, at the same time giving me the sort of look usually reserved for bag ladies or the guy on the street corner with the ARMAGEDDON IS COMING sign. I grinned sheepishly and gestured toward the suncatchers glinting in the vestibule windows. "Finally got them put up permanently," I mumbled, ducking into our apartment before she could reply.

Eric thinks Greg and Jessica view us as rich eccentrics. Neither of us goes to work on a regular basis; from their perspective, we laze around all day undressed until late in the afternoon, when it's time for cocktails and a gourmet dinner. (We share a recycling container with them, so they're familiar with our taste in liquors as well as some of our recyclable food packaging.) I'm sure as Greg forces himself out of bed every morning at 2:30 and heads for the shower, he curses us for our indolence. Neither of us has the heart to tell him we subsist on unemployment insurance and the very small, very occasional royalty check. We can't help it if we radiate idle luxury; nothing could be further from the truth. From now on if I want to fit in, I guess I'll have to start wearing overalls and a beat-up henley, quit drinking so much champagne and cognac, and emulate our neighbors' fondness for frozen dinners and Bud Lite. Oh, and try not to work on public decoration projects in my bathrobe anytime after noon.