Neighborly(3)

I need to find my next someone to talk to. The vibe is incredibly friendly, and I’ve got my own balloon arch. There’s nothing to worry about. I just need to look around and leap.

By and large, the clusters are gender-specific. Doug joins a male minyan, and I scan the quorums of women. I notice how variously dressed they are, yet so easily commingling. This isn’t like high school, where social organization is by type—jocks with jocks, brains with brains. Here, I can’t tell who the popular kids are.

The vast majority of women appear to be in their thirties through late forties, so in that way, I fit right in at thirty-four. Some are in lululemon; others are outfitted from REI, like they just got done with a hike; there are lots of sundresses; a few women are done up like Real Housewives, in high fashion with perfect coiffures and full makeup and expensive jewelry; there are a couple of pairs of frumpy knee-length shorts; and one woman wears cat’s-eye glasses with a retro print romper, an arty tattoo vining along her arm and up her neck. There are different body types, some much more toned than others, but obesity seems to have been outlawed. Two obviously pregnant women are chatting with each other, mirror images, each rubbing her belly in slow concentric circles.

Women spend their lives trying to set up a certain image—through their clothes, their hair, their shoes—that will serve as a dog whistle for other women of similar ilk. Me, I’ve always been a career-minded quasi-intellectual, taking pride in my work. I’m happy to see the New Yorker magazine in the dentist’s office but never subscribe; I aim to look reasonably attractive but not like I’ve spent too much time to get there, with wedge heels and never stilettos, in the requisite cute top and jeans, loath to take any risks with bold accessories. I don’t want to call too much attention to myself; I’m just hoping to blend in. It seems like a low bar, but at a glance, it’s not at all obvious to me where I fit. That I will fit.

As I’m scanning the crowd anxiously, I’m set upon by two men. They’re both tall, but that’s where their similarities end. One has a baby face, silky blond hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and is wearing a pair of jeans and a plaid button-down; the other is craggily handsome, his hair dark with filaments of gray, his muscles on full display in a tank top and tight shorts, his arms tattooed from shoulder to wrist in bright colors, like exotic plumage. I’d guess there’s at least a fifteen-year age difference between them, maybe even twenty.

“Hey there! I’m Brandon and he’s Stone,” the older, tattooed man tells me with a broad smile. “Congratulations on the house! Welcome to the ’hood! We’re so excited to meet you!” He leans down to get a better look at Sadie. She preens for him prettily, a flirt at four months. “Look at this little one! So gorgeous. We need another, pronto.”

Stone’s smile says he’s happy being background to Brandon’s foreground. “She is a beauty.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Have you met Oliver yet?” Brandon asks me. I shake my head. “He lives in that perfectly restored Victorian over there. When Stone and I first moved onto the street, I couldn’t stop laughing.” I must look perplexed because he points to the Victorian: “Oliver,” and then to his partner: “Stone.” I laugh. “This one,” he says, gesturing to Stone again, “calls me Bran. Doesn’t Stone Bran sound like a remedy for the worst constipation you ever had?”

“Stone and Bran should have an ‘Esquire’ at the end,” Stone says, mildly corrective.

“I’ve always felt we’re more of a variety show,” Brandon counters. “We’re like the Mandrell sisters. When I first said that, Stone had no idea who they were. Do you know who they are?” I indicate no, and he does an exaggerated sigh. “You young folk. No sense of history.”

I can tell this is a routine they’ve done before, but I don’t mind. I like them.

“Enough about us. I want to hear all about you!” Brandon says. “It’s Katrina, right?” He pauses to mug for Sadie, who coos appreciatively.

“Yeah, but I go by Kat.”

“I love Kat! So spunky.”

I want to live up to that billing, but nothing comes to mind. “What do you guys do?” Ugh. Could I have seemed any less spunky and more conventional?

“I’m in one of those finance jobs no one wants to hear about,” Stone answers. “And he’s creative.”

“I’ve always got a project going on. I’ve constantly got to beautify myself or Zoe or the house. I’m a fifties housewife trapped in the body of George Clooney.” Brandon dimples. “A much younger, more attractive George Clooney.” He glances over to where Doug is engaged in energetic conversation. “Speaking of good looks, can I just tell you, that husband of yours . . .” He does a little wolf whistle.

“Thanks. He’s a great guy.” I wonder if Brandon’s thinking that Doug is too handsome for me, suddenly selfconscious about my new size-eight body. Before Sadie, I was a four. Doug and I used to be better matched. Physically, that is.

“Special delivery!” A voluptuous woman in a halter dress walks up, holding the hand of a lovely child, dark-haired and dark-skinned and dark-eyed, Sadie’s precise opposite. I’d guess Zoe is between one and two years old, walking semisteadily on plump legs.

“Yolanda!” Brandon plants a kiss on the woman’s cheek. “You’re a lifesaver. Where was she?”