name="Just Call" by A. R. Gregory

Just Call

The pink business card read Francine’s Fantasies ina frilly, fuchsia script. Under that was printed personalized consultations, then one of those pay-by-the-minute phone numbers. I found mine lying in the grass in front of my house just after the new neighbor moved in next door. Runcy, on the other side of her, found one in front of his house. When he checked the real estate transfers online, sure enough, the new neighbor’s name was Francine. Francine Maxwell, I think it was. Something like that.

In no time everybody in the neighborhood was talking about what Francine was up to in her house. We all thought we had a good idea, but Francine’s house being right between Runcy’s and mine wasn’t any help in confirming our suspicions. Neither of us could spot a thing through Francine’s windows, what with her drapes always drawn. Me, Runcy, Jackson, Mack, Sam, and the rest of the retirees on the block were all on fixed incomes. We all knew the value of a buck. So nobody wanted to be the sucker who had to pay to find out what Francine was up to. Of course it had to be what we thought. But “personalized consultations” on the phone? Who wanted to pay good money to hear somebody talk about sex, somebody you couldn’t touch, even see?

Francine had to be making some kind of living inside her place, because she never left it long enough to hold down an outside job. Every time she went out, she was back in thirty minutes or less, usually with a bag from the grocery store or drugstore. And she always made a beeline from her car to her house, or vice versa, before anybody had the chance to buttonhole her.

Now Francine was no retiree. She was forty-something, tops, maybe still in her thirties. Not bad looking either, not bad at all. Nice face — even, sincere, the kind that could sell you anything. But man, the rest of her! Built like a brick hourglass, you might say in polite society. Plus, she had great legs! I consider myself a leg connoisseur, and Francine had some respectable gams. The instant I saw her, I gave her sculpted ankles and well-turned calves and sleek but sturdy thighs all A-pluses. I could tell she was a regular user of the treadmill and other exercise equipment Runcy saw the movers haul into her house. I figured I could take Francine out dancing sometime, teach her a step or two. The ladies used to love it when I gave 'em a whirl.

Since there’s nothing unusual these days about a guy having a gal twenty or thirty years younger than him, even more with all the new male enhancement drugs, I was set on being the first one on the block to strike up an acquaintance with Francine. After all, I was the fittest of the retirees, the only one with a real chance of getting anywhere with a looker like Francine. So one Saturday morning I gassed up my lawnmower, had it ready to roll at a moment’s notice. I could still yank that starter cord like a guy in his thirties. It’s all in the technique, you know. Feet planted square, lean into it, spring your shoulder and elbow in unison. Wait till Francine hears my engine roar!

I glanced through the slitty blinds of my kitchen window as I swigged coffee and skimmed the newspaper. As soon as I saw Francine’s front door crack open, I beat it out into my attached garage next to the kitchen. I punched the door opener and casually waved at Francine as I strolled down the driveway behind my lawnmower.

“Hey there! You must be the new neighbor,” I shouted.

As if she hadn’t heard me, without even a glance, Francine bent to pluck her newspaper from her overgrown grass.

I kept smiling, unfazed. “Hey there, I’m Bob. Thought I’d give my lawn a trim today. How ‘bout I do yours too.” Francine was a new homeowner, right. She probably didn’t even own a lawnmower yet.

She squinched up her nose at me, snapped, “No thanks — Bob.”

I still wasn’t fazed. Some women are like that, you know, hard-to-get their default mode. Maybe Francine had heard something about my reputation with the ladies. Probably figured I wouldn’t respect her if she made things too easy. I shot back, “Just being neighborly. The weather’s great for mowing, and I’m always up for more exercise. So how ‘bout it?”

She rolled her eyes, then marched back to her front door. Just before she stepped into her house, she pointed at me and shouted, “Keep your mowing on your side of the line — Bob.” Then she slammed the door shut. Ouch! The snooty bitch!
Now, Francine’s grass really was an eyesore, a good fifteen inches tall in places. Old Mrs. Walker’s cheap-ass son, who inherited the place when she died, then sold it to Francine, hadn’t done squat about keeping things looking tidy. The more I mowed my lawn, the more it torqued my jaws every time I glanced at the unkempt jungle next door. What an ungrateful bitch! Of course I mowed her tiny front patch too. I mean, it was the same size as mine, but at least mine looked like a lawn. It took me all of five minutes more, if that. What was Francine gonna do, sue me...?