I’m not stalking. It’s not creepy if I swing by the intersection Eila mentioned last Monday … I’d just be making sure the city sent a trash truck in response to the form I filed on her behalf. Not that there’s really anything I can do if they didn’t send a trash truck … I don’t have that kind of clout. Plus, it’s been a week now.
She’s just so … overflowing each time I see her. It’s like energy and confidence and spunk is all simmering inside her, a minute from bursting out. On Tuesday she had her nails painted and it changed the look of her hands. Still hard-working hands but tipped with sparkles. For the first time, I could imagine her hands both crushing a beer can and stroking Maurice.
I take a breath, realizing that I’m imagining Eila meeting my dog. I can see it all so clearly: her kneeling on the floor and skritching his ears. Him licking her face. Her laughing about it. Is this what people are doing when they read fiction—imagining scenarios just like this?
I don’t have the head space to think about how other people’s brains work. I spent this entire week trying to figure out how my own brain works, reading things my therapist sent me about sensory overload and masking. We both agreed I’ve never done much work to mask the ways my autism impacts my interactions with others. Instead, I just spent a long time feeling like a weirdo.
Even though I know men often buy flowers for people they want to woo, I decide it would be crossing a line to stop and buy Eila flowers and based on our conversation from the bar that first night, I’d be worried I’d get the wrong type and upset her. Or insult her by patronizing the business that fired her.
No, I’m just going to drive over to her house, look around, and hope like hell she’s home. Which is a terrible idea, because this is absolutely not the right time for me to get involved with someone romantically. Not that she’s at all interested in that way with me, or so I think. And yet, I time things so I’m in the Garfield neighborhood on an inspection for my last stop of the day, figuring an unemployed person might just be home when I swing by.
The street is void of cars when I arrive, but Eila Storm is a car-free person.
I can tell I’m in the right place because the only occupied house on the block simply has to belong to her. The wood siding has seen its better days, but it’s painted a bright teal. Every inch of the porch is covered in plants, leaves curling toward the afternoon sun, bright orange blooms beckoning me from the street. The humid heat seems to lessen its hold on the air near Eila’s house, like I can feel all her flowers exhaling and it creates a fragrant breeze. The air smells sweet and pungent, like honeysuckle.
I see bee boxes in the side yard, and I frown, feeling my work-brain kick into gear.
Does Eila have the right paperwork filed for those? I try not to focus on other violations. There’s no handrail on the steps…she’s probably renting but sending her landlord a citation could activate a waterfall of problems. “I’m just here to check on the garbage in the lot next door,” I mutter to myself. I close my eyes and approach the property, peering up at the vacant area, wondering if Eila is nearby…wearing overalls.
I can tell Eila did a lot of work up here. She seems to have indeed sawed each of the tires in half to form a boundary fence. It also looks like she raked the flat areas. No trash bags in sight. No Eila in sight either…
I shield my eyes from the sun and look around, deciding I’ll count to sixty before I leave. Surely, I can get away with one solid minute of gazing without seeming like a threat to whomever might see me out here.
As I stare at the lot, trying not to look like a serial killer, I grow uncomfortable. Eila didn’t just clean up the space. She’s got something going on over here…something unpermitted. Something off book. I swallow. It’s one thing to turn a blind eye to the sins of her landlord, but quite another for me to know she’s cultivating city-owned property.
I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply. I feel myself spiraling. We don’t know it’s city owned. We don’t know if the actual owner is decades behind on any taxes. We don’t know. We don’t know…
“Ben Barber? Is that you?”
I open my eyes to find Eila stomping toward me in muck boots and, of course, overalls. She’s clearly been at work in the soil for hours today. Her arms are streaked with dirt and her tanned skin glistens a bit with sweat. She’s dewy. That’s a fun word to say and I like how it feels in my mouth. I never thought about what that word meant before now, but Eila Storm glistens with dew. She is remarkable. I clear my throat. “Hi. I…uh…well I wanted to see if the trash guys ever came. I mean the waste management team.” I flap a hand behind me hoping she fills in the gaps.
She grins. “They came right away! Thank you for that. I’ve gotten so much done. Doesn’t it all look great?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to be forced to look at her illegal activity, knowing I’ll have no choice but to act. Closing my eyes helps me filter out all the noise—internal and external—and focus on what I need to do next. Deep breath, I also know that squeezing my eyes shut in front of people makes them uncomfortable. I’ve learned that. So, I open them again as Eila begins speaking.
“There’s no water on this side, obviously, but Eden and I have enough barrels set up that we have plenty of agua to spare. Gotta love that Pittsburgh rain, am I right?”
“The rain really gets in the way of my work, actually. But I know yours benefits from wet weather.”
She nods. “My sisters were skeptical, but things have already started growing. Benny boy, I know this is going to be amazing.”
I take a deep breath. “You know…so, actually…god.” My skin is crawling and I’m sweating. I have to act. Fuck it. “Eila, you can’t just grow things on city property.”
She presses her lips together and frowns at me. Her eyes harden. “What do you mean?”
I wave at the vacant lot. “You told me you were cleaning up the garbage. That’s generous and we appreciate that.”
“We?”
I nod. “We. Like the city employees. My colleagues.”
Eila crosses her arms over her chest. “You told me you were a construction inspector. What are you going to do? Rip up my plants?”
I shake my head. “Eila. You’re trespassing.” I wring my hands together, squeezing my fingers until the tips turn white. She looks confused and angry. So angry. I should tell her I’m autistic.
She charges on, yelling. “I don’t understand what’s happening here. First you stare at me while I’m out drinking with my sisters, then you buy me a drink and act all chummy and smitten. Then you pretend to help me so you can, what? Trap me into expensive citations I can’t afford? I honestly thought we were becoming friends. I’m just here trying to improve the fucking soil and prevent erosion on neglected property.”
“You’re not wrong, Eila. It’s just that there are protocols. Procedures.” Did she say friends? God, I’ve ruined everything, including my attempts to woo her.
She snorts. “How long does that all take? Real quick, I’m sure.”
With great reluctance and a sinking heart, I pull my notepad from my back pocket. I’m still wearing my uniform. I’m still City Employee Ben, not Regular Guy Ben. I almost laugh at the thought of myself as regular. Nobody has ever described me that way. Autistic Ben doesn’t understand people and has to follow the rules, or he has panic attacks. Autistic Ben is perfect for inspection work but shit at human interactions. “I have to shut this down, Eila. Whatever it is, it breaks the rules.”
Her nostrils flare as I fill out the citation on my note pad. My stomach churns and I start sweating, knowing I’m ruining any potential for anything with this fascinating woman but I’m incapable of not proceeding.
I feel a lump growing in my throat. I struggle to swallow. I hand her the paper, she refuses to accept it in her hand.
“I’d ask you to leave, but this is city property and I’m not in charge.” She sniffs and backs up toward what I hope is her own yard, where I also hope she has permission to keep those damn bees.
The pink citation flutters in the breeze before it lands in the dirt near my feet. Do I cite her for littering as well? Or is this one my fault because I released the piece of paper? Why the hell am I like this?
I stoop to pick up the pink ticket and, seeing no sign of Eila, I set it gingerly in her mailbox as I make my way back to my car. Along the way, I panic at the thought that it might be illegal to put something inside someone’s mailbox. I sprint back up the steps, grab the pink ticket, and feel my heart begin to race.