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I've spent the last few weeks getting to know my new neighbors in the most intimate ways and I'm wondering if that's by design on their part or an accidental process. See, the brick sidewalks that line our neighborhood are charming and make nice clip-clop-clip-clop sounds when you walk down them with heels or dress shoes. That's a good thing. The drawbacks are that they reveal lots of little trash items more easily than your average sidewalk. NOT that any sidewalk is capable of concealing pizza boxes and emptied bottles of vitamin water and numerous spent cigarette butts because that's what my neighbors enjoy leaving in front of their $2 million brownstone. They don't own it of course, only rent the bottom floor.
One might think those who have $4800 to pony-up each month for a three bedroom in Boston's South End would be the types who aren't keen on using used pizza boxes and Old Navy bags as trash containers on trash day. One would be wrong. Dead wrong. So like some crazy old man, the type that most every neighborhood has, I make a twice weekly sweep of the sidewalk out front, collecting their bottles and stray boxes. Oh look, somebody got new Steve Maddens. And somebody enjoys X-box games, even if they DO look to be late 30s. Rolling Rock? I would have figured them as Amstel or dark lager types. It's a shame to admit I know the brand of personal hygiene pads my female neighbor uses but it's that or some even more uncomfortable confrontation by asking them to secure their trash bags each Tuesday and Friday. So fine, I invest in a little pack of rubber gloves and consider it my own little community service.
I doubt I'll get a "sorry" or thank-you card from the neighbors. The sad reality is, they're clueless, at least until I blow my top or decide to reintroduce that Rolling Rock bottle to their living room by way of the large window out front. Yeah, I know. I won't do that either, but maybe I'll get some good empty shoe boxes out of it.
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