Neighbors. I keep forgetting, and then remembering, the joys of living in a dinky little town.
My landlord pulled through on the refrigerator's impending catastrophe and bought me a new one -- and by new, I mean brand new -- not a top-of-the-line by any stretch, but not a bad brand either, and it came complete with frost-free freezer and (wonder of wonders!) storage bins for produce and cheese and whatnot, which my old fridge conspicuously lacked.
My landlord had arranged with the company to have it delivered today; they called to let me know they had arrived with fridge in tow.
As I hurried out to my car to drive over there, one of the guys who works for the shop across the street came running over. (All the guys over there love me.)
"Are you expecting a delivery at your house?" he asked.
"Yup; I'm on my way over there right now to take care of it," I said. "Why?"
"Jeremy called," he said. "He said there was a big yellow truck parked in front of your house, and that I'd better call you to make sure you knew about it."
I thanked him, laughed and drove off. Later this afternoon I ran into Jeremy, who asked about the truck.
"Yeah, I saw your car wasn't there and this great big truck with two sketchy guys hanging around. Just wanted to make sure someone wasn't breaking in and taking all your stuff!" he said.
Yay, small towns. And yay for people who have your back. I had people who had my back in South Bend, too, but it was more in the sense of, "If my boyfriend's scary associates bother you, I'll kill them." (I really don't think she was hyperbolizing.) There wasn't any of that calling someone across town to tell them about what's going on in their backyard.
It's nice.
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