I posted a week ago about my neighbor with the amputated leg, and my fear of saying something inappropriate when I brought him dinner.  A few people asked me how it went.  Well, I didn’t say anything inappropriate.  But as it turned out, speech wasn’t my real problem.

I have this bad habit, you see.  When I’m in a neighbor’s apartment, I can’t help but turn my head around and look at everything.  This is because my own place needs a little work; it requires new light fixtures, carpet, and a few other items.  So I’m fascinated by what other people in my building have done with their places.  That’s in addition to my obsessive need to see what other people own in the way of books, CDs, and DVDs, because it tells you tons about the person.

A creative writing professor once told me that you could reveal the nature of your protagonist by describing the books in his or her bookshelf.  I believe this to be true.

So I’m in the apartment of my neighbor and he’s looking hearty and healthy, albeit in a wheelchair. I’m shaking his hand and I’m in the middle of some sentence like “It’s nice to meet you; I hardly ever see anyone from the first floor--” And meanwhile, my eyes are taking a guided tour:

Holy cats.  Is that a sofa or the corpse of a butchered buffalo?
What a fine overhead light in the living room.  I deem it to be elegant yet manly.
Why, I believe that to be a VHS copy of Career Opportunities starring Jennifer Connelly.

I suddenly realize that I’ve trailed off practically in mid-sentence, and my neighbor is staring at me.  It occurs to me that he has no idea that I’m being rude but in a benign, Martha Stewart-y way; he probably thinks I’m being rude in a I could so take everything in this place while this guy is asleep.  What’s he going to do, bite my kneecaps off? sort of way.

An awkward moment hangs between us.  I half expect him to snarl, “I may look helpless, but this wheelchair comes direct from Q-Branch; all I have to do is tap this button and a pair of heat-guided missiles will turn you into raspberry preserves.”

But then I pull out my chicken divan, and the moment passes, forgotten and unmourned, into the mists of time.  Because my chicken divan melts all hearts and cures all ills.  He beams, “This will last me for three days!” And I congratulate him on his perspicacity, because that’s exactly how long that particular 9x13 pan of delight will yield its bounty.

And my neighbor?  One of things he does is run a troop of Eagle Scouts.  This is particularly impressive to me, because I quit cub scouts after year two (citing my distaste for “communist uniforms").  He’s continuing to run the troop even in his current state.  In fact, he’s not slowing down his lifestyle at all.  I think this week, I’ll make a point to work a little harder at--well, everything.