I nodded toward the apartment building. “What about some of your friends and neighbors?” I knew what the answer would be but I was stalling.
“Aw, they don’t have any space, man. You know garages don’t come with those places, unless you pay beaucoup extra. Come on, man, it’ll only be for a short time.” “I can’t, Eddie. We really are using all the garages.
He stared at me with a mixture of frustration, disbelief, and then stifled anger.
“But hey,” I said, “I really want to thank you for the offer of the dope, man. That was real neighborly of you.”
“Yeah, that’s ok, but. . .”
“Thanks again—see you around.” I backed into the house, closing the door between us.
I knew who Roxie was. Most evenings of the week she could be heard and seen rushing around getting ready for a night shift as a cocktail waitress. If I happened to be down in our yard, watering the plants or something, I could hear her opening and closing drawers and cupboards, swearing as she went from room to room getting ready to leave. She always seemed to be running late. She never closed her blinds so sometimes I caught glimpses of her half-dressed. Her breasts were small and her hips were narrow, but watching her blow-dry her hair while topless was hard to ignore. I didn’t think she was an exhibitionist—she just didn’t seem to know, or care, how visible she was with the lights on inside her place. Then she would emerge around 6:30 in a short black uniform pinched at the waist and trimmed in white ruffles. It barely covered her bottom and wouldn’t if she bent over. She’d lock her door, rummage through an oversized purse for a cigarette and light up. Then she’d hurry down to the street to look for her car, smoke trailing behind her.
Soon after Eddie’s visit, he and most of the apartment building crew piled into their vans and muscle cars and towed a dune buggy out to the desert for one of their off-road weekends. The leader of the pack, the one with the stripped and converted VW, was older than the others— pushing 40 maybe—and most of the group spent a lot of time in his unit getting high and listening to music. Even from our place, we could tell he had the best stereo among them. Megan and I had nicknamed him Rommel because he looked and dressed like a desert rat. His usual attire consisted of a khaki hunting vest over a bare chest, cut-off pants, and mirrored sunglasses under a sweat-stained bush hat.
After they cleared out, Megan broached the idea of putting a fence along the walkway that ran between our yard and the apartment building, and to
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