BOMAW 1-3

“That’s it! I’m calling the police. It’s 2:00 in the dag-blasted morning! Hmph, and they have the nerve to say
‘
there goes the neighborhood
'
when we move in. Em-em…no, no, no! I did not move out of Chicago to this lil’ bitty town, for some joe-jock to move in and start this mess,” Sylvia Payne announced to no one in particular. Rolling over, she reached for the switch to her bedside lamp and clicked it on. “I’mo take care of this right now!” she added, grabbing the cordless phone which sat on her beside table. She pressed the talk button and proceeded to dial the Camp Daniel police.

“Oh, no way!” she exclaimed, sitting up in bed as the automated answering service announced, "
The
officers on duty are currently on patrol. Please leave your name, number, and a message stating the nature of your call, and your call will be returned within the hour. If this is an emergency, please dial 911. Thank you, and have a nice day”.
She sighed long and deep, shaking her head as she stared at the cordless, as if it were somehow responsible for the set up of the Camp Daniels police department. Tired of hearing the busy signal, she clicked the talk button to turn it off, then clicked it again to redial the number and follow their instructions. That done, she waited.

“I cannot believe this! That’s what I get for moving into this lil’ one-horse town; population three cows, two roosters and pigs—including the one that just moved across the road,” she muttered angrily, climbing out of bed and going into her bathroom to use it, now that she’d been forced from a good sleep. Sitting on the toilet, Sylvia could hear music playing and cars going in and out of the driveway. Obviously there were quite the number of people, to hear as much as she was with her bathroom window cracked open. A concert of voices, music, laughter, loud mouths, and revving vehicles tearing back and forth in front of her residence, broke the peaceful setting she’d become accustomed to.

She sat disgusted, with elbow on knee, chin on hand, wrapped toilet paper around the other ready to wipe, and of course, with perfect timing, the phone started ringing. “Oh, no! Here I come! Wait…I’m coming! I’m coming!” she called, while trying to do a quick wipe, grabbing her underwear to pull back up as she ran to the sink. “Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay!” she cried out rapidly as if the caller could hear, stopping to rinse her hands at the sink. “Don’t hang up—don’t hang up!” She dashed around the corner and answered after the sixth ring.

“Hello!”

“Camp Daniels police…you call?”

“Yes, I did. Do you know what’s going on across the road from me right now?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t.”

“A party loud enough to wake the dead! They’ll be missing tomorrow. Wandering around lost because their rest-in-peace has been interrupted by the new ding-a-ling across the road. Can you hear that? Hold on a minute,” she ordered, running back into her bathroom to hold the phone to the window so the loud music could filter through. “Hear that? I don’t think that’s necessary at 2:00 in the morning—do you? Would you please cruise this way and explain that even though this is a small town of no more than 453 citizens, one of them cannot sleep thanks to their inconsideration? Yes, I know that there is only the two of us within immediate reach of one another on this road, but that doesn’t mean to party at volume level ten until the sun comes up!”

“No problem, Ms.
Payne
. I’ll see to it immediately.”

Sylvie hesitated to thank the officer because she distinctly heard the emphasis placed on Payne in her name. “Thank you very much,” she finally responded, clicking the phone off. “He probably at the dag-blasted party!” she grumbled, sitting on the side of her bed. Looking around her room, she didn’t think she would be able to get back to sleep. Her choices were to click on the television so that it could bore her back to sleep, or she could take revenge on one of her children and call, waking them up at this hour. After all, they’d done it enough to her before one of them married and had babies. That still ticked her off, since she was only thirty-eight years old—too young to be a grandmother. But then, no one told her to fool around and get pregnant at eighteen by her now deceased husband.

Here she was mother of a daughter and son…both adults, the youngest eighteen. The elder, twenty, was married with two sons, the baby eleven months old, the older three. Her daughter hadn’t done any better, but at least she loved and married the young man who knocked her up. And yes, he loved her as well; after all, they were still hanging in there. Just as she had hung in there with her husband, even though she knew after ten years of struggle with him, she had married the wrong man. That was her bed. She made it, and sleep in it she did. Then after nineteen long years, he went and got himself killed.

Just when she’d come to terms with her life, accepting that he would always be. Being married so young was a struggle she endured because she didn’t believe in divorce. Coming from a broken home, she swore she would never subject her children to it, no matter what. So she’d paid the price for such a bold, strong declaration. She’d endured his drinking and the many, many fights. His cheating. His verbal abuse. Some illegal activities as well and their constant moving, following him in the military at first and then when he was discharged, they'd moved back to Chicago. To have several more years of pure hell with him, and then for some strange reason in the last three years, he’d come around.

More and more he began showing signs of appreciation, especially when he realized that he’d killed the initial love she once had for him. After she won the battle with her weight. When she started focusing her interest in things she’d always wanted to do. When she stopped asking where he was going and when he'd be back. When she made it a point to once again style her hair, whether she was going out or not. When she applied makeup, going out or not. When she threw out all the old, overly-large nightshirts and began buying sleek, shimmering soft, feminine lingerie…not for him, but herself. When she began buying perfumes and colognes that represented what she felt about herself. When her carriage changed from, who cares…to I care and this is my value. When he came home to see her leaving, wearing a short, black leather jacket, tight black jeans, a clinging red sweater and red lipstick and shades, he began to change…appreciate. When he began to grow older and heavier from drinking, she grew slim, regal, alluring and desirable.

Then he realized that for all that he’d done to bring her down, she had risen. Despite it all, he knew she’d never cheated…though there had been opportunity. She didn’t drink or frequent bars. Didn’t smoke. No drugs. His home had always been clean, his children raised strict and disciplined, both high school graduates and college bound. She carried herself with dignity and self-respect. She’d fought for it, and after all the hell…had earned it and then some. He came to that realization and then did everything in his power to show it…his appreciation. After all of that, she’d finally begun to respond to him again when he touched her, only for him to leave home one day and never come back.

Sylvie sighed.
She rose, reaching for the remote she slept with, a habit carried over from the days of having a husband who needed the TV on and the remote in reach, so they had slept with it. Now she did…alone. She pressed the power button and the TV came to life. She padded barefoot from her bedroom to the kitchen, scanning her home as she did. She was proud of it. She’d found it over the internet; had driven from Chicago to the real estate office for her appointment. Cassie, her agent, drove her to the house and one look inside, she knew she was home. Coming from a large city would be quite the culture shock, but she would adjust. Her kids lived in La Crosse and now she was just forty-five minutes from them, as opposed to the four and a half hours she used to be. She’d paid cash for the house. Her husband had seen to her every need should he ever leave her in death, and so the insurance had rescued her.

She was a writer, had always loved writing since school, where it all first began with poetry. She kept much of that, because at the time she hadn’t known what she knew now, that she wanted to be an artist of literature. Deciding to purchase the property had been what she needed to regroup, cleanse and start anew now that she was single again. Too many of her husbands friends were eager to see about her, in ways she’d just as soon not encourage. She wanted and needed isolation to find herself. Adjust and grow up. Even now she was still growing up, seeing to all of those things about herself she'd neglected while falling in love too young, getting pregnant and then married. She needed time alone to raise herself. A man in her face was not part of that plan. They were in plenty supply and she wasn’t in a hurry to get another one. She had one for almost twenty years; now that that was over, she needed time to explore all the possibilities that lay before her that she was free to explore.

No Men Allowed!

She stood at the sink feeling good, because she knew she looked good in her short, satin, hot pink, skimpy thing with spaghetti straps and matching panties. It wasn't necessary for a man to see her because her primary goal was feeling good about herself; she didn't need a man present for that. With the water running over her fingers, she tested the temperature, until it was as cool as she liked drinking it from the tap. Glass in hand, she walked back through the dining room, past the fireplace and her big front double doors to the wide picture window in her living room. She could already see the flashing, circulating lights from the police cruiser. She stood drinking her water and smiled. The volume of the strong bass music died down. The people quieted. She was satisfied. Walking back through her open, laid-out home, she went to the sink, rinsed her glass, turning it upside down in the sink and went back to bed. Content with the return of peace.

It was a beautiful fall day, so she decided to walk to the post office. She only lived a ten minute stroll outside of the small town that sported one small market, a telephone company, a tiny bank, a farmer's co-op, two churches, two gas stations/convenient stores, three restaurants, a Subway fast food shop, and four bars. Among the 453 citizens, a Mexican family of five, a Black family of four and then herself, the fifth Black citizen could be counted. There was farm land aplenty. Long roads with nothing to see but herds of cows. Some farms had cows, sheep and goats. Others had Emu, a big ostrich-like bird which was delicious to eat.

Stepping out of her kitchen door and onto her small porch landing, she walked down the stairs slowly, all the time inspecting her surroundings for something out of place. Coming out from between the house and garage, she looked across the road at her new neighbor's place. “I should have bought that house,” she said to herself aloud, placing her manuscript to be mailed under her left arm. The bright shining sun prompted her to put on her shades, as she stepped onto the asphalt driveway. Across the road where her sights were trained, she inspected the scene and found it undesirable. There were three trucks, one of them had a trailer with two motorcycles sitting on top, four cars, two vans, and two SUV’s littering the drive and yard. Beer and soda cans littered the area and from what she could see, the front door was wide open for the world to just come on in. “Hmph!” she huffed walking by and made the L-sign to her forehead as she commented about the resident within, “Loser.” Then proceeded with her walk.

“Mornin’, Sylvie. Submittin’ another one I see,” the one and only lobby postal worker greeted. A man of middle age, attractive and married.

“Mornin’, Frank. Yep, gonna keep on till I get a bite.”

“That’s good. Somebody's gonna nibble sooner or later.”

“That’s what I figure. I’m determined.”

“That’s what it takes,” he agreed. “I hear there was some party out by your place last night. Had to call for a noise violation. That’s them city folks for you.”

“Ouch…I’m from the city!” Sylvie pointed out.

“So you are…sorry ‘bout that.”

“You know who they are? Man, I was just gone for the weekend and came back to neighbors. Oh, well, there goes the neighborhood!” Sylvie flashed her bright whites, laughing out at finally having a chance to use that one. Frank made a face, not sure how to react to that. “Yeah…well, I hear it’s some single fella,” he recovered to inform her.

“Single fella!”

“Yep.”

“Real young, or middle age?”

"I hear ‘bout your age.” Frank smiled and flexed his brows.“Sorry, I don’t think so,” she responded to that show, turning from the counter, hearing the door open. As she was leaving, a man stepped within holding the door open for her. She looked up—into the most handsome face she had ever seen. He looked like an Italian. Very dark, with short-cropped, extremely thick, black hair. Thick square, black eyebrows, over absolutely beautiful blue-gray eyes framed in long thick lashes. His face was a perfect long square shape, holding a strong square jaw that hadn’t been shaved that morning. He stood at least six feet, if not more. It was also very apparent that he worked out. He wore clothes that emphasized it.