The Neighbor's Project

The guy next door was halfway out of the moving truck with a weight bench when one of its feet caught on the door frame.

I'd been heading out to get the empty trash can. I stopped at the end of my driveway and watched him try to free it without putting the whole thing down.

"Need a hand?"

He looked over his shoulder.

"Yeah. Actually, that'd be great."

I walked across the strip of grass between our driveways. The truck was backed up almost to his garage, with just enough room left to walk around the ramp. He had the padded end of the bench braced against his thigh.

"This thing weighs more than it looks," he said.

"You moving it in or giving up and taking it back?"

"Getting close to the second one."

I climbed onto the bottom of the ramp and took hold of the frame. Together we lifted it clear of the doorway.

"There we go," he said. "Hang on. Let me get around this side."

There were still boxes in the truck, a rolled rug, and a small wooden dresser with a blanket taped around it. I didn't see any weights. No plates stacked against the wall or dumbbells waiting to roll under somebody's foot.

"Where's it going?"

"Upstairs."

"Of course it is."

He laughed.

"Spare bedroom. If you can just help me get it inside, I can figure out the rest."

By then I had a decent grip on it.

"Might as well get it where you want it."

"You sure?"

"Ask me again halfway up."

We got it down the ramp without much trouble. At his front door, we had to turn it sideways.

"I'm Matt, by the way," he said.

I told him my name and nodded toward my place.

"Right next door."

"Nice to meet you. Sorry this is how."

"I'll remember it when I need something heavy moved."

"Fair enough."

The condo had the same floor plan as ours, reversed. His stairs were on the left, which always threw me off when I went into one of these places. Moving boxes lined the living room wall. There was a couch with its cushions piled on one end and a lamp standing on the floor beside it.

"Want me to go backward?" he asked.

"I've already got this end. Just tell me before I hit anything."

We made it up four steps before I had to adjust my grip.

"Hold on a second."

He stopped.

Something clamped beneath the frame had been pressing into the base of my thumb. I shifted my hand and looked down. It was a metal bracket, bolted tight around the square steel tubing. There was another one farther along, with two empty holes through a flat plate.

"Got it?" he asked.

"Yeah. Just caught my hand on something."

"Sorry. Watch those brackets. Should've taken them off."

I moved my fingers to the other side.

"Okay. Go ahead."

Halfway up, I understood why he'd been having so much trouble in the truck. The bench wasn't just heavy. Every place I wanted to hold it either moved, had something attached to it, or put my wrist at the wrong angle.

We stopped on the landing while he moved a box out of the bedroom doorway with his foot.

"In here."

The room was empty except for a couple of sealed cartons beneath the window. He directed us toward the far wall, then changed his mind.

"Actually, could we put it a little farther out?"

We shuffled sideways.

"Here?"

"Perfect."

We lowered it, and I straightened slowly, rubbing my hand against my jeans.

For a few seconds, neither of us said anything.

Then Matt looked at the bench.

"Should've left it downstairs."

I laughed, still catching my breath.

"Little late. This is where it lives now."

"Yeah."

I flexed my fingers. There was a red mark where the bracket had dug into my hand.

"What are those for, anyway?"

He glanced down.

"The mounts?"

"Yeah. Never seen those on a weight bench."

"Oh. I use it as a massage table, mostly. Those hold the massager."

I looked at the narrow pad.

"On that?"

"It works better than you'd think."

"Fair enough."

I'd never owned a massage table. Maybe the proper ones were expensive. Maybe he already had the bench. It seemed like an odd arrangement, but I wasn't going to stand in a man's spare bedroom and argue about his furniture.

He pulled at the front of his jacket.

"Jesus, I'm hot."

The room was warm. Sunlight came through the bare window, and carrying the bench had done the rest. He unzipped his jacket and shrugged it off, catching one sleeve at the wrist before dropping it on a carton.

He had a faded gray T-shirt underneath.

I noticed the tattoo on his forearm first.

A black bird, its wings spread around his arm. One wing extended toward his wrist, with a single feather separate from the others.

I'd seen it before.

Matt was saying something about the movers. I caught the words "canceled yesterday," but missed whatever came after.

There were plenty of men with bird tattoos. I knew that. I probably saw three every time I went to the gym.

Then he turned to lay his jacket flat, and I saw the inside of his other arm.

A broken pocket watch. Roman numerals. A crack running diagonally across the face.

I looked away.

"You move yourself?" I asked.

He paused.

"Yeah. Mostly."

He might have just told me that.

"My brother helped load the big stuff this morning," he said. "Had to leave for work."

"Right."

I glanced at him again, this time at his face.

His hair was shorter than I would have expected. There was some gray at his temples, and a small dent in the bridge of his nose. He looked about my age.

None of that helped.

I'd never seen his face.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Yeah." I rubbed my palm again. "Just haven't carried anything like that up stairs in a while."

"I appreciate it. Seriously. Can I get you some water?"

"No, I'm good."

"You sure? I've got bottled water downstairs. Somewhere."

"I'd better get back. Let you finish unpacking."

He followed me to the stairs.

"Thanks again."

"No problem."

Going down without the bench should have been easier. Instead, I was conscious of how fast I was walking and slowed down halfway.

At the front door, he said my name, checking that he remembered it correctly. "Eric, right?"

"That's right."

"Matt," he said, touching his own chest.

"I got it."

"See you around."

"Yeah. Welcome to the neighborhood."

The empty trash can was still at the curb. I'd forgotten about it completely.

I went and got it, wheeled it into the garage, and shut the door. Then I went inside.

My wife was at work. Her coffee mug sat beside the sink, with a little coffee at the bottom. Before I'd gone out, I'd been meaning to unload the dishwasher.

I stood in the kitchen with my phone in my hand.

I knew the account name. I didn't have to search for it.

That embarrassed me a little, even alone.

I opened the site and found one of the videos I remembered. With the sound muted, I moved forward until I had a clear view of his arms.

The bird was there.

I enlarged the picture and checked the other arm.

The same watch. The same crack.

For a while, I just stared at the paused image.

Through the kitchen window, I could hear the truck ramp rattle as Matt went back up for another load.

I'd found what I came looking for, but I let the video run a little longer.

It still had the same effect on me. Knowing I'd just been talking to him made me self-conscious about it, even with nobody else in the house.

I closed it before I got carried away and set the phone facedown on the counter.

I unloaded the dishwasher. Then I put my wife's mug in it, wiped down the counter, and checked the fridge to see what we had for dinner. Every so often, I heard something from next door. The truck ramp. A door closing. Once, a scrape followed by Matt saying, "Fuck," loudly enough to carry through the open kitchen window.

I nearly went back out.

He still had that dresser to move. There were probably other things he could use a hand with.

I took the chicken out of the fridge instead.

My wife called a little after six.

"I'm leaving now."

"How bad was it?"

"Today or the parking garage? Because I'm still in the parking garage."

"Both."

She sighed.

"Ask me after I've eaten."

"I'm making chicken."

"I love you."

"I figured that would help."

"Give me twenty minutes."

It was closer to forty. I heard her key in the lock while I was turning the heat down under the pan.

"Kitchen," I called.

She came in carrying her work bag and an unopened envelope. She put both on the table, came over, and kissed me.

"Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize. Dinner's nearly ready."

"Good. I'm starving."

She leaned against me for a moment, her forehead resting on my shoulder. I put my hand on her back.

"Long day?"

She nodded without lifting her head.

I let her stay there until the pan started hissing behind me.

"Hang on. I'm burning something."

"That would ruin a really nice moment."

She moved, and I pulled the pan off the heat.

While I put dinner on plates, she went upstairs to change. She came back in an old T-shirt and the loose pants she wore around the house, with her hair pulled up badly enough that I knew she'd done it while walking.

She sat down and looked at her plate.

"This looks good."

"You haven't tasted it."

"I'm hungry enough to be optimistic."

For a few minutes, we ate while she told me about a meeting that had run over and created the need for another meeting on Monday. I knew most of the names by then. Occasionally I had to ask which person she meant, but I knew the one who'd caused this particular problem.

"The one who sends emails marked urgent?"

"They're all urgent. He could announce there were muffins in the break room and mark it urgent."

"Were there muffins?"

"No. That might've helped."

She reached for her water.

"What did you get up to?"

"Not much. Helped the new neighbor move something upstairs."

"Oh, somebody's finally moved in?"

"Yeah. Guy named Matt."

"Is that his truck outside?"

I nodded.

"What's he like?"

"Seems nice."

"What did you help him with?"

"A weight bench. Upstairs."

She looked up.

"You carried a weight bench upstairs?"

"There were two of us."

"And between you, neither thought that might be a bad idea?"

"My back's fine."

"I didn't ask."

"You were about to."

She smiled and took another bite.

"Probably."

I could have left it there. Instead, I heard myself add, "He's about our age, I think. His brother helped him load the truck, but he had to go to work."

"Poor guy. Moving by yourself is miserable."

"Yeah."

"We should tell him which night the trash goes out. Remember how long it took us to figure out the recycling?"

"You mean how long it took you to believe me?"

"You were guessing."

"I was right."

"Eventually."

She nudged my foot under the table, and we went back to eating.

It had been an ordinary conversation. She hadn't looked at me strangely or asked anything difficult. I'd helped a neighbor carry something. There wasn't much else to tell her about that.

Still, I was relieved when she changed the subject.

After dinner, she insisted on doing the dishes because I'd cooked. I dried the things that wouldn't fit in the dishwasher while she washed them.

"Movie?" I asked.

"Something I've already seen."

"That tired?"

"I want the option of falling asleep without asking you questions afterward."

By nine, she was tucked against me on the couch with her feet under a blanket. We'd spent fifteen minutes choosing something and then put on a film we'd both seen twice.

At some point, a car door shut outside.

I glanced toward the window.

"Is his truck still there?" she murmured.

"I don't know."

"Hope he got everything in."

"Me too."

She shifted closer, and I settled my arm around her.

I could check tomorrow. If I saw him outside, I could ask whether he'd managed the dresser.

There was nothing strange about that.

The next morning, my wife came downstairs with her work bag over her shoulder and one earring in.

"Have you seen my phone?"

"By the toaster."

She picked it up, checked the time, and swore.

"I thought you were going in later."

"So did I."

I'd just poured her coffee. She looked at the mug.

"Can you put that in the travel one? Sorry. I should've said."

While I transferred it, she stood in front of the dark microwave door and put her other earring in.

"Something happen?"

"Apparently the numbers they sent yesterday aren't the numbers we're using today."

"Sounds efficient."

"I'm trying very hard to be pleasant about it."

She took the coffee from me.

"Thank you."

"Want something to eat?"

"I'll get something there."

"You said that yesterday."

She reached past me, pulled a banana off the bunch, and held it up.

"Breakfast."

I kissed her before she could get away.

"Text me when you know what time you'll be home."

"I will."

She got as far as the front door before turning back.

"Are we out of laundry detergent?"

"There's some."

"Enough for a load?"

"Probably."

She gave me a look.

"I'll check," I said.

"Thank you. Love you."

"Love you."

Then she was out the door. A moment later, I heard her car start.

I stood at the counter and drank some coffee.

There was laundry upstairs, and the dishwasher needed emptying again. I'd also been meaning to clean our bathroom. We needed groceries, although I hadn't made a list.

I checked my phone.

Nothing.

I opened the fridge, looked inside, and closed it without taking anything out.

I could do the bathroom first. Get it out of the way.

Instead, I topped up my coffee and went out front.

Matt's rental truck was gone. His garage door was open, and he was crouched beside a small shelving unit. Several flattened boxes leaned against the wall behind him.

I watched him reach for a screwdriver, discover it wasn't where he'd left it, and pat the floor on his other side.

"Behind you," I called.

He looked over.

"By your foot."

He found it and held it up.

"Been doing that all morning."

I walked across the driveway.

"Get everything in?"

"Eventually."

"What about the dresser?"

"Took the drawers out. Wasn't too bad after that."

"Should've taken the bench apart."

He sat back on his heels.

"Yeah, that occurred to me about halfway up the stairs. Didn't think you'd appreciate hearing it then."

"You were right."

He smiled and got to his feet.

"How's your hand?"

"Fine."

I shifted the mug to my other hand, although there wasn't anything wrong with the one holding it.

He was wearing a dark blue T-shirt. Both tattoos were visible.

I'd spent enough time looking at them on my phone yesterday. Now I was trying to work out where to put my eyes without making a point of avoiding his arms.

"Get the truck back okay?" I asked.

"Yeah. Just before they closed."

"That's good."

"It was a relief to get rid of it."

I nodded and took a drink.

Behind him, the garage was full of things he hadn't found places for yet. A vacuum cleaner stood between two dining chairs. There was a toolbox open on the floor and a lampshade balanced on top of a carton.

"Your wife off to work?" he asked.

"Yeah. Running late."

"What about you? Got much on today?"

"Few things around the house."

He glanced at my coffee.

"Getting an early start, then."

"I'm working up to it."

"I know the feeling."

He looked down at the shelving unit.

"I've spent forty minutes putting that together so I can put off opening the boxes."

"At least you'll have somewhere to put whatever's in them."

"That's what I'm telling myself."

I could hear a lawn mower somewhere beyond the condos. A car passed at the end of the drive, and I stepped closer to the garage to let it by, even though I wasn't in its way.

Matt moved a loose shelf off a carton.

"Well," I said, "I'd better let you get on."

"I was about to take a break, actually. You want another coffee?"

I looked into my mug. There was a little left at the bottom, already going cold.

He nodded toward the house.

"Found the coffee maker before I found the towels. Priorities."

I thought about the laundry upstairs. I hadn't even checked the detergent.

"Yeah," I said. "I could have another."

I followed him inside.

There was a coffee maker on his kitchen counter, a bag of ground coffee beside it, and not much else unpacked.

"Milk? Sugar?"

"Just milk, if you've got it."

He opened the fridge.

"Bought some last night. Had to go out for toilet paper anyway."

"That's usually the first thing you discover you haven't got."

"About ten minutes after the stores close."

He took my mug, added some milk, and filled it.

The kitchen table had two chairs. A box occupied one of them.

"Hang on."

He lifted it onto the floor, then moved a stack of envelopes out of the way.

"There. Almost civilized."

"Looks better than ours did the day after we moved."

He sat opposite me.

"You been here long?"

"A few years."

"Like it?"

"Mostly. It's quiet. Nobody bothers you much."

"Except the neighbors wandering over when you're trying to unpack."

"I was hoping you hadn't noticed."

He smiled into his coffee.

For a while, we talked about the condos. I told him which visitor spaces people argued about and warned him that the garage door remotes sometimes worked from halfway down the street and sometimes didn't work from the driveway.

He asked practical questions. I answered them. Once I stopped monitoring everything I said, it was easy enough.

"What brought you here?" I asked.

"My lease was up. I wanted a bit more room."

"You get much more?"

"An extra bedroom. A garage I can actually use. Last place, I had stuff piled everywhere."

"Give it time."

He glanced toward the hallway.

"Working on it."

I took another drink.

"What do you do?"

The question came out automatically. It was what I would have asked anybody sitting across a kitchen table from me.

Then I remembered that I already knew at least part of the answer.

"I work for myself," he said. "Mostly from home."

"Oh, right."

He hadn't hesitated. There was no reason he should have. I was the one suddenly interested in the inside of my mug.

"You?" he asked.

I told him about my work, how I worked for an insurance company. I was grateful to have something straightforward to talk about. I told him how most days, I worked from home and made up my own hours.

When I finished, he leaned back in his chair.

"Nice having plenty of time to yourself, though."

"Yeah. I should probably do something with it."

"You are. Getting to know the neighbors."

"I'll put that on the list so I can cross it off."

He laughed.

His phone vibrated on the table. He glanced at the screen, silenced it, and turned it over.

"Sorry."

"You can get it."

"It can wait."

I looked toward the doorway. From where I sat, I could see the bottom of the stairs.

I wondered whether he'd finished setting up the spare room.

Then I realized I'd stopped listening again.

"Sorry--what was that?"

"I asked if you wanted a top-up."

"Oh. No, thanks. I really should get back."

This time, I stood before I could find another excuse to stay.

He walked me to the front door.

"Thanks for the coffee."

"Thanks for the local knowledge."

"Some of it might even be accurate."

"I'll check before I start arguing over parking spaces."

I stepped outside, still holding my mug.

"See you around."

"Yeah. Come over whenever."

Back in my kitchen, I put the mug beside the sink and looked at the clock. I'd been gone nearly an hour.

My wife had texted.

Made it. Already wish I'd stayed home.

I smiled and typed back.

You missed me avoiding the laundry.