Chapter 10: The Card

Well, we did it. We accepted an offer on our house and bought another one far, far away from Ambrosia. I've yet to form an impression of my new neighbors, mostly because we haven't moved into the new house yet, but also because none of them were out lounging in plastic wading pools in their yards and yelling, "Don't fuckin' worry about it!" at their kids when we looked at the place. Which is what Ambrosia was doing the day we first took occupancy here.

I haven't seen Ambrosia in over week, but last night she appeared in our yard in a tube top and cutoff denim shorts, took a seat in the grass, lit up one of her smokes, and shoved a little piece of paper into my palm. Folks, I wouldn't say it if it weren't true: Ambrosia has a business card. And it has legs. By that I mean it has a stylized photo of legs on it, sexy legs rendered in pastel blues and pinks. It's sort of blurry and taken at a weird angle, but if I had to guess, I'd say those legs are spread. Egads. I guess the card technically isn't a business card, since no occupation is listed. It's really a calling card. Does that mean I need to keep in touch?

Maybe I would keep in touch. I kept thinking about it as she dragged on cigarette after cigarette in our yard, declining our offer of a glass of wine because she "don't drink when there's kids at the house." I considered it seriously as we talked about movies we like, finding we had several in common. At one point, she even offered to babysit my daughter if I need a break during our moving hubbub. That's when I snapped back to reality: Ambrosia's nice to me. She gives what she has to offer. And if I run her through a certain filter in my brain, the one that looks beyong the Daisy Dukes and foul talk, she's actually been a friendlier neighbor than some of the cleaner-mouthed, cleaner-cut folks I've lived near. I have to admire her for the good she exudes in many ways, and yet I don't see any good places that calling card will take me. Late-night calls to pick up her ex-husband from a bar? Forwarded email chain letters promising my wishes will come true if I just reveal my favorite booze, colors, and TV shows after I forward it on to ten others? Really, should I keep up ties with someone whose offer to babysit makes me reel with fear? Sadly, I'd just as soon leave my toddler at a rest stop.