Busybody Barb

When I first moved to the Nations, it was a ragtag assemblage of historic homes and old-timers who took pride in the neighborhood, despite the fact that much of it had fallen on hard times. It was kind of a dangerous place back then, replete with drug dens, gang bangers, and ladies of the night. I was blissfully unaware of the neighborhood’s reputation when I bought my 1918 Victorian. But I soon came to find out those things were the least of my worries because there was a greater menace lurking just a few houses away.

The first person I met was my next-door neighbor, Donna, who lived in a Victorian identical to mine. Approaching me with a wave and a smile, she introduced herself and quickly issued a warning. But rather than expounding on the unsavory characters I’d soon encounter on a daily basis, she pointed to a silver-headed woman standing in front of her run-down, one-story 1950s cinderblock house.

"That's Barb," she frowned. "You gotta look out for her. She calls codes on everyone! Some gang banger sprayed graffiti on the side of my garage, and when I didn’t get it painted over fast enough, I got fined because of a complaint from an 'anonymous source.'" She spat, framing her statement with air quotes. 

Despite Donna’s warning, I decided to adopt a get-to-know-your-neighbor policy with Barb, and a few days later, while walking my overly large and under-obedient dogs, I paused to say hello. At least, that was my intention. 

She stood on the sidewalk in front of her bunker, surveying her little corner of the world. Arms folded and eyes peeled, she reminded me of an ancient, gnarled stork, perched atop impossibly long and spindly legs, craning her neck in every direction so as not to miss a single codes violation. 

Intending to make this a drive-by exchange, I corralled my dogs as best I could and stopped to introduce myself.  "I'm your new neighbor," I nodded at the green Victorian that flanked the alley a few hundred yards away. 

She gave me the once over and frowned. "You gotta watch Donna," she pointed to her house with her bony index finger. "She's always up to something." 

And then, before I could make a comment or even take a breath, Barb was off to the races; once she started talking, there was no stopping her. The list of transgressions other neighbors had committed were as long as her bean-pole neck.

The house next to hers had a lawn that was perpetually out of control, while the guy across the street had two non-running vehicles parked in his backyard that had been there for weeks. The house on the corner had a dog that barked too much, the folks down the street had a perpetual pallet of lumber piled in their driveway, and the kids that lived behind her played their music too loud.

Seeing as how my hopes for a drive-by had been shot to hell, I smiled and cocked my head as if I found this information fascinating. But the only thing that fascinated me was how oblivious she was to the fact that my 180 collective pounds of hound had just tried to dislodge my arms from their sockets after spotting a cat they were desperate to maul. Wondering what infraction she might report me for, I finally managed to extricate myself from my busy-body neighbor’s diatribe and scurried up the alley towards home.

As the years passed, I became better acquainted with Barb, although I always avoided her house when walking my dogs. She continued to watch our block with an eagle eye, and there were actually a couple of times I was glad she was doing so. But then, one afternoon, Barb’s steady resolve to keep the neighborhood in check failed miserably. While peering out from between the slats of the white vinyl blinds, she kept perpetually drawn, she watched as two men liberated the contents of the house across the street, loaded them into a truck, and drove off. When the guy who lived there arrived home from work a few hours later, she dashed over to tell him she’d witnessed the whole thing.

“Why didn’t you call the cops?” he demanded.

“I was afraid to get involved,” she replied. 

“You’re not afraid to call codes on everyone,” he shouted, waving his arms around wildly. “You call them so often you’re probably on a first name basis with the entire department! But I guess a pile of lumber wouldn’t dream of retaliation,” he spat as he returned to his all but empty dwelling.  

By all accounts, hers mostly, Barb should be long-gone by now. She did a stint in the hospital a couple of years ago, and I must admit that I worried for her. But that was before she came home and took to walking up and down the alley, her small green canister of oxygen firmly in tow, peering with beady-eyed precision into yards and over fences, looking for something amiss. I’ve taken to bringing her little cheesecakes and soft cookies when I stop by because she loves sweets and has a hard time chewing these days.

But despite her health challenges, she still takes her job as hall monitor very seriously. And as we stand there chatting about everything that’s changing around here and how much she hates all the new builds on the block, she points to a large hedge that’s long been neglected and grown so tall that it blocks her view of the alley and my backyard entirely. “If someone could just cut a hole right in the middle of that thing, I could see what’s going on,” she whines. 

I smile at her and nod my agreement, but that’s as far as I intend to go. There is absolutely no way I’d ever let that happen. After 20 years of living in Barb’s sightline, I finally have the privacy and the reprieve from Codes I’ve always wanted. And that’s the way I intend to keep it.