Sara from 2123 confessed!

Simple proclamations can be amazing, especially those shouted in silence to an unintentional audience. You see, apparently Sara, my housemates’ neighbor, has been stealing figs off the tree out front. Firm, but not free of bruises, these odd fruits have long been associated with the Keebler Elf and his freshly baked newtons. The green rounds would result from copulating golf-and-tennis balls. This fig tree is bountiful, and often underused.

Sara’s over at 2123 North Oakland--to the right or the left of the driveway who knows? When I arrived at 2125 tonight—to surf another in a quiver of couches—Sara’s note was on the dinner table. Nobody was home; there still isn’t. As the grocery bag hit, the note awoke. I was obviously not the recipient, but we’re all snoopy some times—occasionally it doesn’t require more than standing in one place. I read it.

Real time internal monologue: Drama?

“I confess,” she declared.

Really? Is this the “I backed into your parked car” preface? It goes on.

“I have picked some figs from the tree in your yard.”

(Gasp!) Figs? Ok. You mean she took the time to politely inform them that she’s been violating the boundaries of the property…for figs? That…is…very cool. Sara wasn’t finished.

“I’ve knocked on the front door when cars were here twice to see if you’d mind,” went the explanation. “But no one answers.”

Well, can’t fault her there. She did knock; the missing figs received roughly equivalent attention. Why wouldn’t she just take them? (<- Observe cynical, conditioned thinking.)

Sara concluded with an inquiry: “Do you intend to use those figs, or would it be ok if I pick more?” (Nice comma usage.) And an offer of pacification: “P.S. – Can swap some tomatoes from the garden if you like.” (Ah, so you're on that side of the house.) “Your neighbor.”

There’s a lot going on that illuminates the darker tendencies of our kind—it draws curious crowds. But sometimes, once that media reaches a saturation point, acts of unadorned politeness and general respect for people—things that have somehow been detached from normal expectations—become profound. Maybe none have happened lately—maneuvers that sharply contrast those confronted on Dateline. Sara didn’t need to write that note. No one living in this house over the past five years has ever shown a legitimate interest in those figs. This woman gave a shit about something that has gone all but neglected and still took the time to request permission the publicize the affair. But she did.

An incident of plain, unexpected pleasure at an expression of common courtesy. Sara must enjoy a light conscience.