I haven't written much about Cindy, the "good" neighbor to the south, primarily because there's nothing to write about. Like all things Bako, the relationship went nowhere and went nowhere fast.
It wasn't always so. When we first moved in she was warm and sunny and very welcoming. She was also clearly a lush and she smoked, two big plusses in my book. I could see us becoming friends
She's either separated or divorced; the story constantly changed. She relies on the kindness and handouts from her (ex?)husband because she doesn't work. She was briefly employed by the Fastrip down the street, the local chain of gas stations/convenience stores that serve as neighborhood degenerate magnets. Part 7-Eleven, part head shop, they attract an unsavory crowd with their massive wall of cheap booze. The wisdom of selling both gas and airline mini-bottles of liquor is, I think, at best debatable. They offer an wide array of services including wire transfers and possibly posting bail. They smell like urine. Cindy only lasted three weeks there, fired in a dispute over cleaning up vomit. Or so she says. If you've ever been in a Fastrip that certainly doesn't seem far fetched.
She makes ends meet by running a flop house, renting out one of her rooms to a rotating cast of grifters. They never last long, driven away by either the ear piercing howls of her two beagles or her incessant phlegm saturated hacking cough. She evidently is also unclear on the concept of "personal space", at least according to one of her fleeing ex-tenants. Did I mention, she also collects stray dogs?
Our relationship turned frosty one early winter morning. Her beagles went off like an air raid siren around 3am. For an hour they howled, driving the boyfriend over the edge. Around 4am he snapped and marched into the backyard in the fog and at the top of his lungs yelled "SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!" That evidently rousted Cindy from her box wine stupor and the dogs were brought in and silenced.
We haven't spoken since. I think it's for the best.
