Love Thy Neighbor
By Ayesha Haqqiqa
It was early Saturday morning when Jack McCoy heard the knock at his door. He had been lounging around, drinking coffee and reading the paper. Luckily, he’d already dressed in his khakis and purple tee shirt, so he didn’t have to go back to his bedroom to grab his robe.
He opened the door. It was Noel, his new neighbor. He’d remembered when she moved in two weeks ago. She’d knocked on his door and introduced herself .
“Hi, I’m Noel Hutchinson, fresh from upstate. It’s a custom where I come from to bring new neighbors a gift, and I’ve brought you some fresh-baked scones.”
Jack had been impressed, and invited her in. She had been breezy and pleasant, and had brightened his day considerably. She’d talked of her career move—she was a journalist specializing in issues involving women and the home—and how she was looking forward to meeting the women of New York, finding out about their lives, and tasting their cooking. When she left, Jack hoped he’d have a chance to taste more of her cooking, and other things besides, but time and work had kept them from doing more than just nod to each other as they entered or left the old converted brownstone where they lived.
And now here she was, a look of concern on her face.
“Jack,” she said, “I have a terrible problem and I don’t know who to turn to.”
“Maybe I can help,” Jack said. “Come in and have some coffee and we’ll talk about it.”
“No, I can’t—I mean, I need you to come to my place,” she said.
Jack shrugged. “Sure,” he said. He picked up his keys and followed her out the door. They went upstairs to her apartment and on in. It was smaller than his, and laid out different. The kitchen, instead of being a tiny cubbyhole, was as large as the living room and had professional style appliances. It was towards one of these, a large industrial size mixer, that Noel walked.
“I was working on a new recipe I got on the Lower East Side for rye bread,” she said. “The dough was supposed to be stiff, but not this stiff! The beater is stuck now, and I can’t make it move, and the dough was so heavy I—“
“Say no more,” Jack said, relieved that she hadn’t had problems with something more difficult, such as the plumbing or electric. “Unplug the mixer and I’ll see what I can do.” He started pulling large handfuls of dough from off the huge beater; it was like handling concrete. Noel brought him a bowl, and he dumped the dough into it. Finally, he was able to free the beater of most of the dough.
“Oh great!” Noel said as Jack scraped the dough from his hands. “Now I need to see that I didn’t hurt the mixer. I’m plugging it in, so stand back.”
Jack took a step backward as Noel turned the contraption on. Nothing happened.
“Oh no!” she cried. “This cost $300! I can’t believe it broke on some bread dough!”
“Nothing is built well anymore,” Jack said, going to the sink and washing his hands. He came back after he had dried them and looked at the mixer again. “I think I see the problem. The plastic housing around the beater is cracked. How do you remove the beater, pull it? That’s what I thought. Let me see what it looks like with the beater gone.” He gave it a good pull, but the beater wouldn’t budge. He gave it a stronger pull, and the beater came out—along with a thin stream of lubricating oil, which sprayed all over Jack’s shirt and khakis.
“Oh my goodness!” Noel exclaimed. She rushed to him, towel in hand. “I’m so sorry! Get them off! Get them off right now!” She started pulling at Jack’s tee shirt, much to his surprise. “I know what to do so the oil won’t set in, but I have to do it right away! Get those clothes off!”
Feeling self-conscious, Jack pulled off his tee shirt and handed it to her. She looked at him, exasperated.
“I know those khakis cost a lot of money. If you’re a prude, Jack, go in the living room, take them off, and toss them in here!”
“A prude?” Jack nearly laughed. He pulled off the khakis and handed them to her. Without a glance at him, she rushed off to the bathroom.
Jack stood there in his boxers, wrapping his arms around himself. It was a bit chilly. He contemplated going back to his apartment, but realized Noel had his keys—they were in the pocket of his khakis. He was wondering if she had a blanket or anything when she came back, a terrycloth robe in her hand.
“I’m so very sorry!” she said, handing him the robe. “But your clothes will be as good as new in about an hour. I put some pre-treat solution on them and in about five minutes I’ll pop them in the washer. Meanwhile, can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Scones? Those I can make without breaking appliances!”
Jack laughed and sat down at the butcher’s block table as Noel bustled around. Soon they were sipping coffee and eating scones, and talking.
“Really, Jack, I was hoping when I moved in that I’d get to see more of you, but our paths never seem to cross,” Noel said.
Jack grinned and looked down at himself. “Well, now that you have seen more of me, would you like to go out? I know of some great ethnic restaurants in the city, and you can do some research for your column while we get to know each other better.”
Noel eyed him appreciatively, though there was a hint of a blush on her cheeks. “I’d like that a lot,” she said. “I really appreciate what you did to help me, Jack, and I hope that I can repay you in some way.” She got up from her side of the table and went over and kissed him on the cheek. “After all, the Good Book says to love thy neighbor.”
Jack took her hand in his. “I’ll accept that as a down payment,” he said.