There was a sitcom in the 1960's, specifically from 1961 to 1963, called "Car 54, Where Are You?", starring Joe. Ross and Fred Gwynne. At the time, I was more interested in a quartet of mop-haired singers from Liverpool, England that took America by storm, so I didn't watch the show all that often. I did watch often enough, though, to still remember the theme song from the series and it is still 'stuck' in my memory.
What does this have to do with "Listing No. 111, Where Are You?"
My SO and I have several, routine walking paths that we chose from each day. We traverse these streets so often that we recognize home owners, their vehicles, and, often, their dogs. One of the home-owners was a woman with three dogs that we met shortly after we moved into our new neighborhood, which, after four-plus years, is a not-so-recent move. Sometimes our paths would converge and we might walk a block or two together, casually chatting as we'd go. We became 'walking acquaintances' and we would look out for her each day. When you walk through neighborhoods on a regular basis, you get to know peoples' patterns and after a year or so, we noticed that her pattern had changed. We were no longer seeing her at the same time each day out exercising her dogs. Instead, we'd see her leaving her driveway About a year later she held one of two, large garage sales. I stopped in at the first sale and had an opportunity to briefly chat with her. Shortly after the second sale our paths did not cross and all of the landscaping materials that had occupied her driveway for a number of months were no longer there so we thought, "Good for her!"
For the last nine or so months the house has had a deserted look about it. No lights ever on during dusk hours, no sign of vehicles coming and going, her personal touches that were placed throughout the front yard were absent and no sound of barking dogs as we'd walk past the house. We missed seeing our 'walking acquaintance". It seemed as if the home was vacant but we had no way of knowing that for sure.
Fast forward to this morning. Over the weekend, a for-sale sign was placed in the front yard. It would appear that our suspicions about the home being vacant are accurate. As I trudged up and down her cul-de-sac, I couldn't stop thinking about the woman who used to live there and her three dogs.
Where have you gone? Are you OK? Are you and your animals safe and warm in another city?
The nature of our suburban society is that people come and people go. It is as if we are all faceless upon this earth, which is a rather disturbing thought. Her for-sale sign has a listing number on it, which is as personal as this anonymous situation can get. Listing No. 111, someone has noticed you are no longer there. Where are you?
Ancora imparo
