Who Knows...

We live near this guy named Tommy. When we moved in, he was the first person to introduce himself and to become, well, rather neighborly. He's a unique guy, probably in his late-thirties with shoulder-length jet black hair, an affinity for not wearing shirts, and a large wardrobe of jean cutoffs. Tommy, in his spare time (which tends to be most of it), makes weapons and dream-catchers. Unsurprisingly his apartment, that he shares with his mom, is decorated with tiny cut-outs of wild animals, Native American figurines, and the aforementioned weapons and dream-catchers. Back sometime last fall, he adopted a stray mutt who is aptly named Cherokee. (Sidenote: I love Cherokee. And I love her name, too - we had already planned on naming our second dog Cherokee before he got her.)

The stories involving Tommy since our arrival at this apartment complex are numerous. Our most lasting memory is of coming home one evening after dinner and a movie and realizing Cliff had somehow misplaced our house key (and mine was locked inside the apartment). We hadn't the least idea of how exactly we'd get into our apartment and had started to make plans to call up Zach and Jody and crash at their place for the night. No sooner do we start to walk back to the car when Tommy stumbles (evidently drunk) out of his apartment, asks us what's up, and without even hesitating starts to climb our downstairs neighbors porch railing up to our second story balcony. And then falls off onto his bottom on the ground. He then proceeds to help Cliff who, with some (still to this day) unknown method opens our porch door, walks through our apartment, and lets me in the front door. Tommy stood watch the whole time, evidently caring enough, despite the alcohol, to make sure we were okay.

I haven't looked at Tommy the same, ever since. He's strange in that endearing sort of way, and I often wonder about pieces of his story that we haven't heard yet. And then, sometimes I am quite less curious and just simply amused. Like just now, the whole reason I am posting about Tommy, is because I pulled up from being out all day and he was sitting in his new deluxe large-capacity van with Cherokee in the passenger seat. Tommy smiled and waved, continuing to sit in the car, blaring some electronic woodwinds music with a strange clash of Irish and Native American tones. I walked up to the steps and he honked. I looked back to see if he was trying to get my attention, but no, no he wasn't. I get inside the apartment and he honks again. And in the span of twenty minutes that I have been sitting here writing he has not moved from the car and has honked at least six more times. Music blaring still. Why?

Who knows...