Nope, that's not a mistake in this entry's title. (But I do like guys). I like Guy, our next-door neighbor.
His skin is leathery, his hair grey. His teeth -- oh man, they're just NOT esthetic at all. His voice is rusty and smoky. And although he stopped drinking years ago, his beer gut remains. And I'll admit, the first time I laid eyes on him, I was a little scared. The cute rugby player who lived next door moved out and Guy moved in.
He's 50, he's an electrician, and he's always ready to shoot the breeze or lend a hand. He used to be a Legionnaire, and fought in the Congo. He also did some pretty hard living.
So earlier when my husband (caught up in a moment of DIY tension) asked me to go buy him a pack of cigarettes, I gathered up some money and my keys and went out the door. Never mind that I had some things going on myself and didn't want to go out.
I got as far as the car, turned right, and went to see Guy. Because Guy goes to Spain to buy cartons upon cartons of cigarettes and liters of liquor he won't drink, but keeps on hand for his guests.
Guy was happy to see me. We made the transaction, money for smokes, and he offered me a beer.
I gladly accepted the bottle of Kronenbourg he pulled out of the fridge. He poured himself a Buckler, and we stood on either side of the bar that separates his kitchen from the rest.
Our conversation was almost existential. It was really cool.
Easy. Cordial. Mellow.
Neighbors.
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