5:00 p.m. — “Jim” and “Writer” taking cocktails on purple porch. More laughter.
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Post Message: Log Date, November 19, 2017
9:00 a.m. — “Jim” is weeding again. Must admit Jim is busy bee. Good work ethic. Perhaps of Hispanic origin?
10:00 a.m. — Now “Jim” is fixing fence. Nailing loose pickets.
2:15 p.m. — Now “Jim” is weeding sidewalk in front. Looks up, waves to me (on my second-floor balcony).
“Jim”: “How are you this morning, Mr. Nowicki?”
She is clearly exhausted from hard work. Where is that “Writer”? Probably snoozing away the day on his couch in his pajamas. Has gotten himself good deal. Beautiful young handyman/servant. Hot day, even though November always pretty hot. I make glass of Lipton iced tea and bring it to her. She thanks me.
While we are both in yard, school bus stops in front of park, down street, per usual. Same three miscreants exit, backpacks bumping on their backs as they chase each other down street. We can see them easily because “Jim” has clipped the hedge back.
They see me. “El diablo!” they scream — and throw their wrappers in “Writer’s” yard, laughing, running away.
“Jim” hands me iced tea. Vaults the fence like superhero (maybe gymnastics?) and runs down the street after them. Next thing I know she is dragging two of them by the shirt back down the street.
“Jim”: (giving them a shove) “Pick it up.”
They gather up wrappers.
“Jim”: “Apologize to Mr. Nowicki.”
They apologize. One is crying (younger one, maybe seven years old).
“Jim”: “Do you accept their apology?”
Me: “Yes.”
“Jim”: “If I ever see wrappers in my yard again I am going to hunt you little fu**ers down and kill you. Get it?”
They nod. She lets them leave.
“Jim” takes glass of tea back from me and finishes it.
3:30 p.m. — Note: Not sure what to think about this turn of events. What is your opinion?
4:00 p.m. — Note: “Jim” said “my” yard.
5:00 p.m. — “Jim” on porch drinking cocktail. “Writer” nowhere to be seen. Yard is spick ’n’ span, fence is fixed, but where is “Writer”? Not drinking tea this morning, not checking his “Little Library” and having his cocktail at five, per usual.
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9:00 a.m. — “Jim” chops up “Little Library” with axe. “Jim” is expert with axe.
“Jim”: (noticing me watch from balcony) “Hey, Mr. Nowicki, I know you hate this ‘Little Library.’ It attracts scumbags, am I right?”
Me: (I don’t know what to say, so just take photo [attached here].)
“Jim”: “Got any more of that Lipton?”
9:30 a.m. — I bring tea out (excuse to gather info).
Me: “What does the ‘Writer’ think of you getting rid of the ‘Little Library’?”
“Jim”: “I’m taking care of things now.”
Me: “But he checked that ‘Little Library’ every day.”
“Jim”: “Exactly. He needs to focus.”
Me: “I’d like a word with him.”
“Jim”: (repeating herself) “I’m taking care of everything now.”
Me: (not knowing what to say) “That’s nice of you.”
Jim: “I’m not nice. I’m family.”
Me: “What do you mean?”
“Jim” sits down on purple porch, drinks tea, proceeds to tell me long story. I can’t quote the exact words. But here’s a summary:
— She’s “Writer’s” sister! Half-sister.
— She comes from the first wife. (Means “Jim” must be in thirties, has that Asian thing where never seem to age.)
— The father called “Jim’s” mother “The Mistake.”
— Father abandoned them, father became fancy head librarian at research university, married second wife, had a kid, a bookworm: the “Writer.”
—“Jim” grew up in the library. Mother couldn’t afford babysitter so she would hide “Jim” in the stacks when she went to work.
— Both kids bookworms, but “Writer” became a “writer,” “Jim” became a dropout from Fresno School of Cosmetology.
—“Jim’s” mother died two years ago, “Jim” tried to see father. He rebuffed her.
Me: (after long story) “But why are you chopping down the ‘Little Library’ then? If your mother loved libraries? If you’re a bookworm?”
“Jim”: “I never said I loved libraries. I said I grew up in libraries. Books are bullsh**. Books are just a way not to see. You and me, Mr. Nowicki, we see. I know you know what I mean.”
Me: “But... you were stealing his boots.”
“Jim”: “It’s a joke we like to play on each other.”
Me: “But—”
“Jim”: “I like you, Mr. Nowicki. You keep your eye on things, make sure everything is on the up and up. Don’t even need to buy a security cam with you around. If I didn’t have that lemon tree in front of the window, you could see right into my house, couldn’t you?
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Post Message: Log Date, November 21, 2017
9:00 a.m. — “Jim” is power-washing the Prius. No sign of “Writer.”
11:00 a.m. — Screamer in park again. “Jim” marches out of house, carrying something. Walks into park, right up to Screamer, says something.
Screamer: “Fu** you, ma’am.”
“Jim” holds up something to his face. Screamer screams in a different way, holds eyes. Must have been mace. “Jim” says something else. Screamer stumbles out of park, hands over eyes, not toward McDonald’s, toward Emeline Public Health Services. “Jim” walks back into house.
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Post Message: Log Date, November 22, 2017
I haven’t seen “Writer” in four days, not in the morning, not in the evening. No tea, no cocktail. Has anyone seen writer? Private message me if you have.
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Post Message: Log Date, November 25, 2017
I’ve been doing some Internet research. Found an interview of “Writer” in Catamaran Literary Reader. Interviewer asks “Writer” about origin of his story “Rubber Boots.” “Writer” said parents died in a fire two years ago. Suspected arson, but no one ever caught. All that was left: father’s rubber boots on doorstep. Everything else burned. “Writer” used inheritance to buy house in Santa Cruz, etcetera. “Writer” says he is only child.