What might come between neighbors?

Fences, walls, driveways, hallways, old disputes… Something else?

I have more daily contact with my neighbors than I do with family members. I can count on different ones for different things. I imagine the same is true of how they think about  me.

My building neighbors have helped me open jars and put linens on my bed when I was recovering from my shoulder injury. They’ve buzzed me in when I’ve forgotten my keys.

I’ve let UPS and Amazon drivers into the front hallway to deliver their packages and salted the front steps on cold January days. I’ve helped the woman downstairs jump her car several times.

We don’t go out of our way to see each other, yet, we are always pleasant and helpful whenever we have the opportunity.

There are neighbors from around Ravenswood Manor Park I know because I walk my dog three times a day. We all smile at familiar faces but usually just call each person’s canine companion by name, having forgotten theirs.

We’ll ask each other for recommendations on dogwalkers and groomers, even how to call the city to check neighborhood dumpsters for rodents.

The level of conversation gets a little deeper for the incidental exchanges I’ll have with people on my block. I actually know most of them by name.

We’ll delve into good-natured gossip. We might talk about people that just moved to our block, or maybe we’ll talk about other neighbors that had an unexpected health situations like when Bob slipped on the ice.

I often like to shoot the shit with Roy for a few minutes, first thing in the morning or during my last walk of the day, around ten at night.

He’s lived in the same corner house for over twenty years. We’ll opinionate about podcasts we’re into. I’ll often share stories from my part-time gig as a city highlights tour guide. He’ll tell me about what favorite pair of shoes his dog, Zelda, has turned into chew toys.

In his early fifties, I guess, with graying curly hair and a moderately left-wing bent, he’s a lawyer that has been working at home since the pandemic. I think he misses water cooler or communal kitchen conversations and seems very welcoming of sidewalk socializing.

The other week, as I was heading back home after a morning walk with my dog, I stopped to chat in front of his house where he was tossing very worn slippers to his twelve year-old hound.

After catching up on comings and goings in the ‘hood, he made an odd statement, or, at least, what I thought was an odd statement.

“I smoked a rock last night.”

I blinked. Was this some sort of code?  Was he feeling me out as a potential cannabis indulging buddy?  He didn’t seem to think anything was odd. In fact, he seemed unusually enthusiastic.

“You ‘smoked a rock last night?'” I repeated what I thought I heard.

“No. I said I spoke to IRAQ last night.”

He repeated the phrase at a higher volume, with clearer pronunciation. I shook my head. I still wasn’t understanding. Roy then grabbed by hand and pulled me towards the street to create more of a distance from what he wanted to show me.

He pointed to the top of his roof where there was an unusual looking antenna.

“I’m a ham radio operator.  It’s been a hobby since my early teens. I actually spoke to someone in Iraq, the country, last night.”

We both broke into deep laughter. Our shoulders shook.

Every time I’ve run into him since, we greet each other with the question “Smoke any rocks lately?”

Having a neighbor with whom you share an inside joke is no small thing.