novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- \"You guys really made Columbo's day over here,\" said Angela, later. Gabe is visiting Ang. Gabe sometimes talks like a robot and confuses me. I love Gabe, even though the first time I met him, he punched me in the face. They don't have your run-of-the-mill relationship; theirs is comfortably low-key, lived across a continent. But he's here for a month, and suddenly I see less and less of her, especially now that she's started her new job. It's fun to watch people take off. Go onward. Upward. Anyhow, Gabe. He's a math genius and an expert problem-solver. He lives in a warehouse in a hip area of New York and teaches math at a respectable university. He fixes computers for fun, takes payment in pizza. He's tall and thin and has unruly hair. An unruly auburn beard to match. And eyes that don't seem to blink. The other day I am driving home from a sweaty, laborious day. There is a silver Honda Accord parked directly in front of our driveway, and my housemate Mike is squatting on the sidewalk nearby. His face is hesitant as he seeks out mine; when he registers that I'm pissed as hell, he breaks out into a grin and flips open his cell phone. I park parallel to the Honda, in the street, with my emergency lights on. This way the Accord is blocked in, so we will have a chance to confront (read: YELL) at the driver before they can get away. "Did you call the cops?" I ask by way of greeting. Mike smiles. "I'm calling them now." There's a school directly across the street from our house. Harassed-looking hip yuppie parents regularly block our driveway, and only our driveway, sending us into undignified conniptions, a chance to roommate bond. Mike is always the most offended. After school hours the school grounds offer Jazzercise. Ang is watering the side yard, and hears us talking. "So the car's still there?" We group in the backyard, and that's when Gabe finds out. Today Gabe isn't wearing the pajama bottoms with hearts all over them; he's got on threadbare khaki Gap slacks and a checkered shirt so aged that it looks artfully punk. Barefoot, he tip-toes through gravel up to the front of the house and inspects the car. He comes back with all sorts of interesting details: the lady's name, profession, dietary habits, license plate number. Gabe whips out his laptop and announces that she's founded a literacy program. I've never seen his fingers move so fast. She's got a doctorate in linguistics. He finds her contact information and decides to call her, but hangs up once her machine picks up. He makes several more trips to the driveway. We learn that there's a handicapped placard and a cane in her car. "Then why would she need to block our driveway? There was an empty handicapped space right across the street." "Why would she be doing Jazzercise if she needed a cane?" "Why would she leave the cane in the car and not take it in to Jazzercise?" After about twenty minutes, Gabe informs us that the Jazzercise ladies are exiting the school. We wait and see, but the Honda Accord lady doesn't turn up. Mike gets a call about half an hour after that, from a small blonde policewoman idling in our street. I move my car, she informs the tow truck. Now that the police cruiser has settled like a shark in the middle of our street, Mike, Gabe and I line up awkwardly in our empty driveway facing the car. We realize there's nothing much else to do, and start to fan back to our pockets of the house. Gabe calms down. He crosses his arms and places his palms in his armpits, still on tip-toe even though standing still in my driveway, watching the lady cop work, intently, almost jealously. 9:36 pm - 06.16.08 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||