Page 3 of My Rock Star Neighbor
“I’m sure it will die down,” I say to reassure Amira.Don’t give in to the doubts.
We’re near my block on the Lower East Side.
There’s Maddie, my neighbor, her huge Mary Poppins bag on her shoulder, an enormous parka that looks like it’s completely swallowing her tall frame, black yoga pants, and black sneakers.I’d recognize her anywhere—even now, with her back to me and her hood completely up.
“You can let me off here,” I say.“Get home safely, guys.And great job.”
“But we’re still a few blocks away from your apartment.Are you sure?”Sayo asks.“You’re carrying two guitars.”
Mr.Muscle stops the van.
“I need to walk off the concert.And that woman.And Maddie’s there.”I push open the door and grab my two cases.
“Oh, Maddie,” Sayo says.And the way she says it…
No.Definitely don’t think I want to probe into that.
I run to catch up with Maddie, a guitar case in each hand.
“Maddie,” I yell.
She swings around as if she’s going to hit me with her bag.I duck.Note to self: Do not surprise Maddie from behind.
“Oh, it’s you.”She pushes down her hood.Her hair is up, but brown wisps escape everywhere.She must have been thinking a lot.
“Let me guess, you were out late covering another story, unless it was a really hot date?”I ask, sure that’s going to rile her up.
“Maybe I did have a hot date,” Maddie huffs.
“So hot you came home alone?”I step a bit closer.“Someday, we have to discuss your definition of hot.But you do look electrified.”At least her hair does.
“Ha-ha.I have a lead on a story that could really make my career.I’m interviewing another source tomorrow.”She hefts her bag up onto her shoulder.It’s huge, and Maddie swears it carries all the essentials.
We stroll down the street, her jumbo bag and my guitar case putting a healthy distance between us, yet we’re in step.We skirt around a couple hustling home hand-in-hand.A warm yellow light spills out from an apartment above us, its curtains still open, and it looks cozy inside.I can feel myself relaxing.I glance at Maddie, but she’s pulled her hood back up.I bet she’s worrying her lip.She does that when she’s thinking about a story angle.
We turn the corner onto Orchard Street, where we live.The glowing, round, colorful paper balloons that hang from the bare branches of the tree in front of the Sticky Rice restaurant always cheer me up.Two delivery bikes, outfitted for a cold winter with gloves encasing the handlebars, are locked together by the tree.As we pass, I see they’re actually separately locked to a pole.Not together.It depends on the angle viewed.I have to believe that on closer inspection, the truth will reveal itself with that doctored video of me with the YouTube star wannabe.Similarly, an outsider might think that Maddie and I are close friends by the way we interact, but we’ve been neighbors for several years and casual friends—friends who hang out when we run into each other in the neighborhood.At least, I like to think that.Maddie might have a different opinion because of how annoying she finds my late-night playing.I should soundproof my living room wall, but how is she in her thirties and going to bed at ten p.m.?
We walk single file between a tree enclosure and a restaurant’s plastic winter vestibule, which butts into the sidewalk, hindering the cold air from sweeping into the dining room.The sidewalk widens, and we return to strolling side by side.
“How was your concert?”Maddie asks.
“Brilliant.”I smile.If only I could capture in words that wave of energy that seems to vibrate between us on stage and our fans, pulsing back and forth.I tilt my head.How to describe it, to explain that euphoric feeling, tickles at the corner of my mind.
“Sorry I missed it.”Maddie switches her bag to her other shoulder.Maddie has only attended my concerts at Craic and Laughs, her friend’s family bar.She’s never yet come to a different venue to see me.
“You don’t look sorry,” I say, gently knocking her shoulder with mine.Maddie is so fun to tease.
“I look like a sorry raccoon because you were up practicing so late last night,” Maddie says.
“No such thing as a sorry raccoon,” I say.“Raccoons are cute—but they are nocturnal, so I don’t think that’s your animal spirit.Maybe a hibernating bear?”
She flashes a quick glance at me, and there’s some hurt there.I’ve mis-stepped, but how?
“At least I’m not a bat pretending to be a human,” Maddie says.
Did I imagine that hurt look?She now looks like her usual spitfire self.
“I’m going to take that as a compliment that I’m crucial to the ecosystem,” I say.
