Domestic Disputes Meet the Streets

So, there's a piano moving truck outside of my window. It's seems strange enough. The walls are so thin in my apartment---I can't imagine anyone wanting to have a piano inside of their place. I just hope whoever is ordering it is good. Bad piano practicing is not as bad as a squeaky violin or a drum set, nevertheless I'm not too keen on having Poor Piano Skills as my newest neighbor.

Aha. The recipient enters stage left. She runs over to the piano moving truck. Looks as if she's out on a morning jog. She has a really springy ponytail.

Enter character number two. Marcus. I'll discover his name later in the story. He's the frontman for the moving company, apparently (he meets and greets the customer). He pulls out his clipboard to verify the delivery with the recipient. At the same time he lights a cigarette and asks the girl signing for the piano if she was associated with the blue Jeep that kept following them on the way over.

She's a little confused. The ponytail bobs left and right. Her grasp of the English language isn't so great. They chat about the delivery; then, I guess, she goes away.

Two moving guys begin to shift things around in the truck to unload her piano. Seems fairly ordinary, so I dial up Jennie (she offered to help me with setting up my blog).

(I should note that I work from my home office, so I spend a lot of time in here, observing the events of my intersection. I enjoy it. I grew up more or less in the middle of nowhere, so it's a bit of a treat to have so much activity 'out there' for me to enjoy. Better than watching grass grow, I assure you. It's nice. I become the silent observer. Three floors of safety between me and the street. It's like I have my own reality TV show every day. The snow trucks drive by, or the lawnmowers and construction equipment kick off the day (depending on the season). Next is a quiet stretch, followed by the lunch rush, a bit of an afternoon lull, and then the kids get off of school. They are always up to something. After a while, things die down, then the 5 o'clock rush hits. I piddle around my kitchen for a while, flip through a book, then return to the front room to hear the goings on at the bar across the street. Sometimes I tune in directly. Sometimes I prefer for it to all unfold in the background.)

Nearing the end of my phone conversation with Jennie, three other characters must have arrived on the scene below me. Two Cleveland Heights police men, and the very husky lady wearing construction boots at stage right that is bellowing all manner of accusations from across the street. "Stop following me! Why don't you stop following me?! Look at me when I speak. Yeah, you."

Randy, one of the piano movers, has somehow gotten involved. Must have happened when I was on the phone. He's wearing one of those croaker things that's made of spongy stuff that hold your sunglasses around your neck. Is that what they're called?

The two policemen aren't doing much. They waffle a bit---what will become their role? Crowd control? Counsel? They pace around and write very important things (apparently) on little steno pads. So, they're present. But not really.

Husky is now pleading her case. "He approached the vehicle!" "He approached the vehicle!" (You have to read that with a very harsh, thick Clevelander accent. Sort of long and drawn out, too. Read it With Strength and Conviction, as Julia Child would say.)

The argument escalates. So, there's some yelling. Randy keeps insisting that she is crazy. She's yelling out a number.

"Sir, I know. 2!1!6!7!4!3! (I'll leave the rest out for her privacy though Randy the mover insists that she's lying about the number, whatever it is, and dials it up on his cell (with flourish) to prove to the cops that she's nuts)"

She beckons Marcus over to her side of the street. He looks back at Randy and sort of dawdles over. She whispers something conspiratorial (it appears) into his ear. He walks away from her and shakes his head.

He motions to his men. They start up the truck and roll away.

She remains with the police men. Still yelling. Other parts of the story emerge that I can't quite piece together...."Danny" got killed. Someone got sued. And now she has 21 million dollars. And she has so much money that she doens't have to worry about her things getting stolen. Now she's clasping her hands and saying, "Sir, I understand that you don't know the whole story. God Bless You. Imagine that you pull into a gas station, swipe your card and then the man steals your credit card. Just imagine with me for a minute...........

The cops grow weary of her babble and walk away midsentence.

She, disgruntled, I think, storms over to her Jeep and drives away.

It's 59 degrees outside according to my desktop weather icon. Lawnmowers cut the grass in the distance. My regular street sounds resume. It's starting to rain. I think I'm cold and am considering heating the kettle for a cup of tea.

Mondays.