Abigail Strenburger, with her glossy fake nails and arching eyebrows, was the toast of the over seventy set. Every week at her coffee “clutch” Abigail held forth on her favorite subject, Barney. “Works at the DVD club, in management” she would say ominously. As Barney’s closest neighbor Abigail was the undisputed expert. “Harvey bought a subscription once and you’ll never guess what they were selling, stuffed in with the classics...” her eyes twinkling deliciously she scanned the ceiling as if for bugs and whispered, "They sell porn you know!” The ladies giggled into their coffee mugs and exchanged knowing glances. Yes, they seemed to say, Abigail’s wit was only outdone by her keen eye for other people’s dark side. One could say that buried deep in the giggling coffee was the intense relief that her gaze was firmly pointed in another direction!
“Did Harvey buy any?” I asked wryly, leaning on the door frame. A tolerated youngster with, as Abigail’s eyes quickly pointed out, a brain full of jell-O. There were a few twitters but Abigail barely needed to raise her eyebrow to hush her followers.
“His lights are on until twelve o’clock at night...in his kitchen!” Her delighted listeners leaned closer, “I mean, what does a man do in his kitchen that late at night?” They all nodded their heads in scandalized excitement.
“Oh, I know,” giggled Betsy, who had, in her high school year, received A’s for posture and punctuality, “Maybe he’s cooking?”
“Betsy, he’s alone. He most certainly isn’t perfecting his soufflé.” The ladies giggled with delight as they speared their quivering no-carb mousse. How delightful, a double header!
Poor Barney. I couldn’t help but listen in, after all he was the topic every Wednesday, and as I was reminded, several times, my housecleaning and food preparation activities mysteriously extended to serving the every whim of the Wednesday Waggery. Not that I wasn’t grateful for Barney’s sudden appearance at 911 Westford St., oh no, I certainly wasn’t complaining. Between the hours of 7-8:30 am and 5:30-12:00pm, all thanks to Barney, the magnificent Abigail Beatrice Strenburger worked those manicured nails to the bone opening the curtains and fluttering her weary eyes through the lens of her binoculars, all for a glimpse of the mysterious Barney Bean, a rather unfortunate name that she discovered on his mail last spring. Those sweet hours were heaven. Not one single “Elisabeth!” to be heard. Not one mention of my “questionable” family who had the nerve to live far, far away, or my existence as an ineligible spinster who threw away all bachelors, and therefore my life, before thirty five. Not even a whisper of the running dialogue on the depravity of my household skills. Barney’s sacrifice was small.
The question of Barney had now been thrown open to the floor. Nancy Balriff, a former lawyer and successful business woman, was by general acclamation believed to be the most highly educated and knowledgeable of the group, and as such was, of course, the first to weigh in. “An individual working in such an ill-reputed profession would surely demonstrate the according compensation.”
This met with the appropriate reverent silence.
“Oh, that’s too bad he’s constipated. How can you tell? Did he miss work?” Betsy whispered. Abigail roundly elbowed her.
“Ah hem” squeaked Prunella Pawson, “My son in law says management pays very well these days.” Prunella’s son in law always had something to say on the topic at hand.
“Exactly!” cheered Abigail, “He’s doing something with all that money and it certainly isn’t his house...”
“Or his shoes” Betsy shivered. She had of course received and A in hygiene as well.
“His shoes!” Abigail hissed in full wind up,” who wears running shoes with a suit? Even if it is a two piece! And dirty! I’ve seen him walk to that bus stop wearing the same shoes...even in the rain. Ooh, they must reek to high heaven!” The air filled with cackles.
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