Just Whistle

Right this very instant my next door neighbor is standing across the street from his house whistling for something. I noticed him doing it while I was sweeping my driveway. (It’s my little way of physically recovering from mowing the lawn. Sweeping a broom in a repetitious manner really just helps me decompress from the physical exertion required to mow.)

Anyways…He’s still out there doing it. It’s like he’s calling for someone in the neighborhood and I just know it’s not his dogs because they’re chained up out back. So the only conclusion I can draw is that he’s calling for that young girl I see him with every so often. The blonde skinny one with the dead stare and the cigarettes. And this makes we wonder what kind of girl would come running beckoned by a man’s whistle? Where’s her dignity? Doesn’t women’s liberation mean anything to her generation? It’s one thing to be whistled at, but quite another to be whistled for. It lets the man be in the one-up position and it’s like the girl must supplicate herself to his whistle. Shameful.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be so cynical. Maybe…just maybe they’re secret lovers. Yes, that feels better, doesn’t it? He’s older, she’s younger. Maybe her parents don’t approve so they secretly came up with this caveman-like way to communicate. Or maybe they just want to get together to smoke pot and make out. Who can tell?

Oh! He just stopped whistling. By my watch, that was just about 8 minutes of whistling. I wonder. Did she every show up? I have no idea, but it’s social observances like these that make me think I’ve got to get back to watching General Hospital rather than watching my neighbors.

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