Um.
Yeah this one is bad.
But it’s also an opportunity because I know I know I know, I promised I’d be all about the food today but 1) I mean…what can I even say about that? That bell pepper is always somehow crunchier than I think it is and I always regret adding it to anything but salads? That the splash of verde salsa I threw on there failed to mingle AT ALL with the tuna and my mouth somehow processed all three ingredients, sadly, separately? 2) We’ve come this far in the Neighbor Steve saga, might as well see it through. Which is what the cops seemed to think, too.
Four sharp raps on my door from the hand of a Detective Cosden, who must’ve missed the doorbell-shaped clue that I have a doorbell. I invited him in and we sat at what had been the dining table for the first few meals after move-in before it conceded the title, inevitably, to my lap on the couch. His cheek bulged with what I thought was dip, but later found to be a wad of gum he’d chew vigorously whenever he lowered his head to inspect his notepad, and then tuck back along his molars when he looked up. It smelled fruity. Which…really? I have nothing against the idea of fruit gum, there’s just no acceptable rationale for picking it over any of the many mints. Gum is not a treat, gum is a solution – chewed either to satiate some sort of minor oral fixation or mask any unbecoming mouth smells. Flavor is purely functional. Whatever minor thrill it provides for the first ten chews quickly becomes the memory of a taste, somehow bound to scrap of rubber. And that memory lingers, ages, grows stale. Mint is unaffected because old mint smells like new mint, but if it’s some sort of Watermelon Twist bullshit, it goes through the full decomposition process on your tongue, joining forces with whatever mouth fart you already had stored in there to try and ruin your friendships and your life. Fruit gum blows.
Anyway, the detective seemed nice enough.
He talked in short bursts and seemed like he kept reminding himself to make eye contact. He asked what he’d asked Neighbor Steve – if I’d seen anything suspicious, if I’d ever had a package stolen off my porch, if I knew who had lived at Neighbor Steve’s house before Neighbor Steve. It seemed like he’d very much moved on from considering Neighbor Steve a suspect, so that was nice to hear. I said I wish I could be more helpful and he sort of laughed, or sighed, and said he wished so, too, but that these “wide net” questionings so long after the crime never really led to anything anyway. But then he asked what I’d been doing THAT night. Which, okay, rude. And, okay, what? Casually pre-accusing the neighbor of the man who was no longer a suspect. I said I had no idea, it was three months ago, but most likely nothing. Because while THAT night was certainly a big deal, it wasn’t a “you’ll always know where you were when” big deal. I asked if he wanted a Dale’s Pale Ale and he laughed, not sighed, and declined. Still on duty, and he should probably get back to it. As he stood he asked if I’d seen Neighbor Steve today – I had not – and he told me to have him give him a call if I did. Sure thing, officer.
I walked him to the door and he said he might be in touch, but probably not. And now this blog can finally refocus on food.
Burned and Bland 