The Complex
by Liz Wolfe
I refer to the man that lives in the apartment across from mine as Sandy’s Dad. I have no idea what his real name is, but I know his poodle’s name is Sandy because she’s in heat and horny as hell, and Sandy’s Dad is always yelling at her about it.
Each morning, Sandy’s Dad comes out onto his balcony to water his plants and rub all of the dead skin off of his bone-dry legs for poor little Sandy to catch like snowflakes on her tongue. She’ll spend a few hours out there lounging and lapping up leg dust until she hears the first sign of Guitar Man and books it for the door.
Guitar Man plays for what is now a captive audience in the afternoons and, on occasion, well into the evening. He’s not bad when it comes to strumming, but his oppressively sad originals, sung with his eyes shut so tight you could steal his wallet, are hard to bear.
Once he was crooning so loudly and off-key that the Leash Lady next door opened her window and yelled, “No one wants to hear you sing, asshole.”
More fodder for his depressing music, I guess.
Leash Lady gets taken for a walk twice a day by her two very muscular pitbulls. First they drag her to the pond to intimidate the turtles, then they pull her to the dog park where they’re ostracized for looking homicidal.
If the boys are feeling up for it, they’ll tug Leash Lady past Old Lady’s porch through a thicket of brambles and brush, to get a closer look at a cat that is actually a tire. All the while, Leash Lady hollers and yelps and looks to the heavens as if God or Amelia Earhart might swoop down and save her.
I’d wager that Old Lady is 112 years old and weighs 100 pounds even. I’d double down and bet a gust of wind could fling her straight out of the Carolinas, which is probably why Old Lady doesn’t go anywhere without her giant bedazzled walker or her Yorkshire terrier, Indiana.
Whenever Trike Bike Alan goes whizzing by their apartment, the terrier lets it rip and Old Lady yells, “Indiana, I do NOT need this today.”
Trike Bike Alan spends most mornings cruising the parking lot on his tricycle, which his wife has outfitted with a small flag so he doesn’t get hit by midlife-crisis cars like Spawny’s.
I speculate that Trike Bike Alan enjoys cycling more so because it drives the neighborhood dogs clinically insane, and less because of the immediate health benefits. Granted, he has had four strokes, so what do I know?
Spawny owns a two-door red sports car with a vanity plate that says, “SPAWNY.” I have no idea what that means, and I don’t know that I care to find out.
Spawny spends each day cleaning, waxing, and tinkering with SPAWNY. I’ve seen him sit motionless in SPAWNY for 20 minutes straight; holding onto the steering wheel with the grip of a man in love. I imagine if it were legal to marry a vehicle, Spawny would have married SPAWNY by now. In the meantime, he’ll have to keep making eyes at Top Knot.
Top Knot has a corgi that has attacked three dogs, one resident, and zero Clydesdales at my apartment complex. I’m convinced no one has pursued legal action with Top Knot because she just found out her husband is cheating on her with their corgi trainer.
As for The Clydesdales, I’ve never actually seen them, but I know them intimately. I hear when they exercise. I hear when they trot to the window to watch Cig Rippers fire one up. I hear when they sporadically gallop from room to room and when they roll around on the linoleum floor in full-body horse armor. You would think they’d have some trouble going up and down the stairs, but not these Clydesdales — they relish the chance.
The Cig Rippers are a hypnotizing bunch. They don’t give a rat’s about the no smoking policy and gather on their patio morning, noon, and night, sucking down hand-rolled cigarettes and staring into space with glazed-donut eyes. Most of them only wear black, none of them speak, and all of them smell like a parfumerie explosion.
Sandy growls at them when she passes. Maybe she doesn’t like the smell of smoke, or maybe she senses they’re having more sex than she is. Can’t blame the girl. We’re all just doing the best we can.
Liz Wolfe is a writer, cartoonist, and creator of the blog series Elizabeth is Dead. She lives in Charleston, South Carolina with her partner and their boxer Maebelle. Her work can be found in long-winded Yelp reviews, inappropriate birthday cards, bounced checks, and the Washingtonian.
