Interesting Neighbors

If you were to run into one of my neighbors today, chances are good that you would have a friendly encounter with a stylish, articulate, well-to-do lady.
Refined would certainly be a word you would use in the retelling of the incident.

This has certainly not always been the case.
The ladies I have lived in close proximity to through the years have nevertheless been memorable, and some I still wonder about every now and then.

As anyone who has lived in the hub of Cape Town, high on the slopes of the looming Mountain and just below the Tampax Towers, will attest to, these rundown buildings attract an assortment of characters.
I was living alone in my first tiny flat when one summery sunset, a tentative knock on the door revealed a stunningly made-up transvestite, sans his wig. He was wearing a tight skull cap which distorted his features, and lifted his perfectly arched brows even higher. He was at least six feet tall.
He borrowed a corkscrew. He was gracious, friendly and a little shy.
I waved to him the next afternoon when he dumped a bag of groceries at his front door and searched for his keys. He made polite conversation in a lilting voice. I admired his legs.
Later that evening, he returned the corkscrew and invited me over for a glass of wine. I met his partner -- a little more petite -- but both with a wicked sense of humor, and an obvious caring affection for each other. The flat was spotless, old like the rest of the units, with a lot of make-up, lotions and potions. Fascinating stuff all round.
I worked nights on the weekends, and would leave home and drive downtown at around 10pm. I would frequently see the lads teetering into a taxi, on their way to work. Many summer dawns we would bump into each other exhaustedly climbing the ancient staircase to the third floor. We had a common aura of sweat, old perfume, smoke, party drinks and dark indoor places. We always smiled, joked in a neighborly fashion and wished each other sweet dreams, Dahling.
I was returning from a trendy club or bar where I worked pouring drinks, and the leggy flashy pseudo-girls from their spot on Long Street, the well-known transvestite prostitution pick-up spot in the center of town. I always looked out for their familiar faces when driving home along that dangerous street, both hoping and not hoping to see them.

Doris lived opposite me in the same building. She was a tiny, toothless woman who wore her hair in a tight gray bun and always wore a floral house coat, regardless of the weather or occasion. She owned a startling number of cats.
She lived with a husband I only ever saw once when he shuffled down the passage to an unknown destination. She was forever tracking down an errant cat, calling in a whispery voice in the peeling hallways.
One day, I found a cat and delivered it to her, along with a spray of Baby's Breath I just bought at the supermarket. The tiny white fuzzy flowers had reminded me of her, and I bought them on a whim, thinking it would be nice to befriend a cat loving neighbor to watch out for my energetic kitten, Piaf.
She had beamed with appreciation, and offered to take care of my cat when I was not home or traveling. A few months later, we were meeting regularly for a morning coffee where her eyes twinkled with interest and pleasure at the daily stories of my life and survival in the city as a young, single woman. She had filled her childless life with cats, and no longer even spoke of her silent husband.
She took care of my cat, surreptitiously nurtured me by doing little things like changing my linen and heating my bedroom before I came home cold in the early mornings. She carefully ironed an enormous pile of laundry that I had earnest plans for one day. I was grateful and pleased. She felt needed. She saved me a plate of Christmas dinner one year and when I got home, I was alone but certainly not lonely that Christmas eve.
I moved to another city, and sent her an extravagant gift when I missed her. She understood, thanked me quietly and told me not to do it again. She slipped back into a silent life of cats, and a short time thereafter, moved.

Tracy lived next door to me in Green Point.
I could lie propped up in bed, and watch the tankers sail by to the harbor. I frequently did. This apartment building was stuffier and more austere than any of the previous places I had lived.
My flat mate was a bubbly short man, with much enthusiasm and very little hair. We got along just fine -- he had glimpsed my girlfriends and had happily given me the room with the fabulous sea view. He had visions of hot dates and I, of hot tea in bed watching the ocean.

Tracy was attractive in a school-girl-plain-Jane kind of way. She always wore baggy jeans, a slouchy cardigan and her hair in an untidy long bob. She always lugged some sort of enormous canvas bag around. We seemed to be around the same age, and I assumed she was a university student. Oddly enough, she always traveled by taxi, which in Cape Town is expensive and questionable. This is probably why I introduced myself to her one day in the elevator and asked her what she does for a living. She told me she writes short stories. And that was it.
But of course exuberant flat mate was intrigued, and attempted to chat her up at any opportunity. One afternoon, I graciously saved her from his potential clutches in the hall and invited her to join me for a short walk on the beach as I had promised to walk the small dog of a friend nearby. She was easy company and I found out that we had grown up in the same town. A week later, I was having drinks with friends in a trendy new night spot in town when I saw her in a stunning red dress and fire-engine stilletos. She saw me and pretended that she hadn't. I was intrigued. Upon closer inspection and being a bit of an old hand at the night games in town, I realized she was accompanying a much older gentleman who looked flushed and hopeful. My sweet neighbor was a call girl. Aha.
I saw her a few days later, and she could tell by my expression that I knew. She looked resigned and said that she was moving. She had saved enough money to head off to richer pastures. She had signed up to a "Ranch" on the east coast of the USA.
She was sure she was going to make a lot of money in very little time. She knew it. She was excited and told me she would return and retire. She was twenty three. She moved.

I wonder about these people. Wouldn't you?