Read from the bottom up to enjoy these episodes as written.
Jennie and I have different feelings about political signs in the neighborhood. Morristown has an ordinance that dictates they all come down within 14 days of any given election.
There’s significance non-compliance.
“The Rocktons *have* to take down that Trump banner,” Jennie said on our morning walk today. “It was borderline offensive before the election. Now it’s just a provocation to fight.”
The Rocktons — well, let’s be honest, George Rockton; Sarah’s uncomfortable debating Qdoba versus Chipotle — put up a TRUMP 2020: NO MORE BULLSH!T banner in early October.
“But don’t you feel kind of sad for him?” I said. “He’s been mowing the lawn in that MAGA hat for four years. I think the banner’s his way of … I don’t know, saying goodbye.”
Jennie, pulling her golden retriever away from a hydrant, looked at me sideways.
“He can send a love letter to Mar-a-Lago,” she said. “I’m sick of seeing that every Tuesday and Thursday on the way to Logan’s tennis practice.”
Which was fair enough, I supposed.
Now we were coming up on #EdOverton’s yard. Ed, our day-drinking fellow parent, participates in a learning pod with his middle schooler, Bree, and a few of her friends. Ed was out of compliance, too, with a homemade sign depicting three check boxes: BIDEN, TRUMP, and TEQUILA.
If you’ve read my previous tales of Ed, you won’t have to ask which was checked.
Jennie flung out her non-leash hand at the sign. “Is *he* going to take this down? Like, ever?”
“Does he know it’s still up?” I asked.
“Good point.”
We stood there looking at Ed’s sign. Through much of the election cycle, it had been a welcome light note. People would smile jogging by, or honk and flash thumbs up from their car.
Predictably, Ed took things too far. One Saturday he sat outside in a Ronald Reagan mask with Dixie cups and a jug of actual tequila, passing out shots to whoever wanted one. There weren’t many takers. When I asked him later what the mask had been about, he explained it was inspired by Point Break, the old surfer flick with Patrick Swayze and Keanu Reeves.
We stood too long — because here came Ed now, bustling down his walk with a cocksure grin.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, ladies?” he asked.
I glanced at the dog, who was already tugging for Ed. “Just walking the canine.”
Ed fell to his knees and mauled the dog’s head in both arms. They growled and licked and wrestled each other.
Jennie, who discourages her kids from roughhousing the dog, said, “We were just noticing your sign. There’s an ordinance about when they need to come down, you know.”
Ed reared back. “Ordinance?”
“An order from the city,” she said. “Is what that means.”
“When’re you supposed to have ’em out by?”
“Two Fridays ago.”
He huffed, expelling an unknown number of droplets from his unmasked mouth. “Communists.”
Before Jennie could answer, I said brightly, “So, Ed! What’s the next sign? Got something cooking for midterm elections, 2022?”
Ed considered the question with a glassy expression. Possibly he’d voted for tequila or another write-in spirit earlier.
“Eh. Nobody cares about midterms.” He angled his feet wide apart, looking up and down the street. “We need to have a neighborhood bash. It’s been too long.”
I felt Jennie coiling next to me. Before she unloaded on Ed with positivity rates and her memorized spate of CDC guidelines, I touched her leash arm.
“That’s a thought, Ed,” I said. “We’re going to walk a bit more, but let me know if you need a hand with party planning, sign removal, what have you.”
As we resumed up the sidewalk, he watched with a crooked grin. I really hoped he wasn’t reading something untoward into my last remark.
Jennie was quaking. “We *are not* going to any—”
“I know, Jennie,” I said. “I know.”
With Morristown public schools going back to virtual, #EdOverton is looking to reinstate the daily neighborhood Zoom.
*Bring back your single-ply TP, your Clorox wipes, your day-drunk selves,* he texted. *The kiddos are back home so let’s soak it up together!*
The invite was for one o’clock.
My friend Jennie sent me a note at 12:30.
*not sure how I feel about soaking with Ed.*
I texted back, *ditto. but let’s get on just to check it out.*
She agreed, and we joined the Zoom call at one.
Ed — oh my, Ed’s been busy these last months. He had a serious tan verging on orange, and a new shirt with chest hair, and a hulking blender that looked ready for 12-hour shifts at Jamba Juice.
“Hola, senoritas!” Ed greeted us. “Yes, everything you’ve heard is true: we *are* doing margs today, baby. Margarita Monday—”
“It’s Thursday, Ed—”
“Can I have Bree deliver the refreshments out your guys’s way?” he asked, salting a pair of tumblers. “Contactless porch service, naturally.”
In the distance behind him, Bree was reading a thick book.
Karen leaped in front of my laptop. “Hi, Bree!”
The middle-schooler couldn’t hear, too far away.
Karen repeated, “Hi, Bree! Have you made any slime lately?”
In those early quarantine days, Bree would lead all the neighborhood littles in some video craft. Now she seems to be back to reading and chatting with friends.
Ed fielded the question on behalf of the Overtons.
“No slime,” he said, “but I do have a sweet quarantini recipe for a French martini. Except I believe we’ve run out of Chamboard.”
He looked around with a forlorn sneer.
Jennie texted, *I’m concerned for their supply of rubbing alcohol.*
On video, I put in, “Hey Ed, just curious if Patty” — his wife — “is around. Does she, uh, partake? You guys on the same page?”
He spluttered his lips. “The Pattster, she’s on work calls in the upstairs office. I hear them sometimes. Payroll this, quarterly figures that. I’m telling you, that company of hers sounds B-O-R-R-I-N-G, *boring.*”.
Karen screwed up her eyes, spelling along with him. Before she could speak up, I touched her shoulder.
“Honey, Mr. Overton makes a lot of jokes,” I said softly. “I think he put that extra ‘R’ in to be funny.”
She looked back to the screen. “But that isn’t funny.”
I looked to the screen too. Ed was wrestling the cap off the blender. It came loose suddenly, spraying lemon-yellow slush across his face.
“No,” I agreed. “Not very.”
The neighborhood Zoom is fading away now that New Jersey’s reopening. The parents haven’t been getting on, though Karen sometimes clicks on the recurring invite in my calendar and talks to whichever kids have logged in.
“Ooh, Bree’s on!” she said today, scooting close to my laptop.
I glanced over her shoulder at the screen. I saw the pink tumbler Bree always drinks from with the loop-de-loop straw. The straw was there, but no Bree. She must’ve walked away from their computer.
“Aw,” Karen said. “I wanted to ask her how to make those bracelets with tiny rubber bands.” Her face soured. “It’s only Mr. Overton’s tush.”
I did a double-take and looked closer. Sure enough, #EdOverton’s backside was the only sign of life. Thankfully it was clothed; he was in boxers and a T-shirt, standing in front of a wide-open fridge.
“Let’s see, lunch-a-roni,” he sing-songed. “I’m seeing half a burger, remnants of Olive Garden Chicken Alfredo …”
He yawned and stretched and scratched himself liberally. Karen was glued to the feed and I had the thought to snap shut the laptop, but I couldn’t.
I was oddly fascinated.
“Kids!” Ed called out of the room. “Wanna do wraps again for lunch? I got some …” He stuck his head fully into the fridge’s middle shelf to look past half a watermelon. “Thai red chili paste … and that garlicky bok choy was money the other night …”
Karen squished her face, drawing back from the screen. “Do you think Mr. Overton does meal planning like you, Mommy? The blue April thing?”
Onscreen, Ed was sniffing an open bag of baby carrots. He shrugged and moved them to the counter.
“I’m doubting that, Honey,” I said. “I think Bree helps out with dinner some nights.”
Frighteningly, Ed #Overton was wearing a Speedo today on the neighborhood Zoom call.
Jennie texted me, *ew ew ewww! i was about to eat a snack*
The kids on the videochat didn’t seem to share the moms’ distress. Ed’s daughter, Bree, was in a swimsuit herself.
Karen had started hopping in place. “Ooh, can we go to the beach, Mommy? Please!”
I put aside the McGill Investigators case file I’d been working on — trying to, anyway — and squared up to my webcam.
“Ed,” I said. “You, uh…”
He was standing at the fridge, loading up one of his kids’ lunch boxes with White Claws. His upper thighs were very pale.
I asked, “Is there like a cover-up garment available to men? That you know of?”
He squinted a couple seconds, then gave up catching my drift.
“The beaches are open.” He smacked his hands together. “Hashtag summer2020, it’s on.”
He cracked the pull tab on a White Claw, black cherry maybe, and chugged some.
“Are you sure drinking Claws in public is still a thing?” I said.
He gasped his refreshment. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Well, just everything with Covid,” I said. “All the tragedy and stress, people struggling to pay rent.”
He palmed the back of his neck soberly. “Yeah. It does suck.” Then he tried wedging another White Claw — mandarin twist? — into the lunch box.
Jennie texted, *is he gonna wash grapes, cut up an apple for snacks? bet their bag could supply a minor frat party.*
I texted back lol. Into the webcam, I said, “Be safe, Ed. Hope it’s a blast. Are you guys wearing masks?”
He stopped in the middle of heaving the lunch box’s zipper closed. “That’s a seriously good idea. D’you know if any places still have them?”
Looked to me like mixed berry, not black cherry.
It’s one thing to watch Ed #Overton slowly falling to pieces on the neighborhood Zoom calls — serving his kiddos Doritos around a can-shaped cylinder of refried beans (“Nacho Tuesday for the win!”), trading a Yeti tumbler for a clear juice glass of amber-tinged liquid, then just leaving the Hennessy bottle out on the counter in plain view of his webcam.
It’s quite another, though, when he says, “Hey, we should be quaran-*teaming*. Whaddaya say? Molly, Jennie, either of you up for joining Team Overton this afternoon?”
I note that he’s not inviting the Hicks kids, who’re also on the call. Their grandfather watches them during the day.
“Can we, Mommy?” Karen pleads. “Please? I wanna make slime with Bree!”
I glanced at Zoom and stalled. “Maybe…we, uh, need to consult the schedule…”
Meanwhile, Jennie was texting me furiously.
*OMG, is he nuts???*
*forget masks, I wouldn’t go without full-body overwrap.*
Ed said, “Come on, it’ll rock! I just got jumbo-size Jenga. First round’s on me.”
He grinned broadly and spread his arms. In the background, Bree was making tiny clay animals.
Jennie texted, *literally. mimosa stains on collar*
I whispered to Karen that Bree looked kinda busy — middle schoolers probably got more online assignments than kindergartners like her.
Zach scoffed, “Not much.”
I said to the camera, “The McGills are passing, Ed. Sounds fun but we’re going to play it safe.”
Ed hiccuped. “Suit yourself. Tell ya, this virus." He made a gassy face. “I’m done living in fear.”
The adults on the videochat nodded absently at this.
Jennie texted, *is it time for Cincy Zoo webcast yet?*
Ed #Overton is losing it a little, I think. I fear. When we got on videochat today, he'd just poured himself something green and chunky from a blender.
"Fresh lime juice!" he told us all. "That’s the key."
His daughter, Bree, moved the camera off him and onto Dixie cups of glue, dish soap, and glitter.
"Who out there’s ready to make some unicorn *slime?*" she said.
My Karen, standing in our kitchen, and a dozen other younger kids in their own homes cheered and pushed their own supplies into camera range. Bree had emailed around a list to the parents this morning — very mature for a twelve-year-old.
As the group craft project began, Jennie texted me, “did he seriously make frozen margs at 1:30 in the afternoon???”
I looked around Karen, who was shaking in more glitter than she could’ve possibly needed. Ed was dimly visible behind Bree. He wobbled between feet before a wide-open fridge, scanning the shelves. After several seconds, he found a round of salami in the deli drawer, added a healthy dollop of squeeze mayonnaise, and plopped it into his mouth.
I texted Jennie back, “it’s a stressful time. maybe they skipped lunch.”
The kids did great on the neighborhood video chat today. Jordyn taught the littles to draw a crab by tracing four fingers of their hand twice.
It was super cute. Karen taped hers up on the kitchen window.
I am still worried about Ed #Overton, though. When he logged in today, his feed showed a jumble of math worksheets — about half printed wrong in landscape mode. We told him we couldn't see him or his kids. He said, "Whoopsie!" and twirled his laptop around.
There was white stuff over his lip.
I hopped over to IM and texted Jennie, "That's not what I think it is under Ed's nose, right?"
Jennie texted back that she'd always figured Ed would crack. He acted all chill at barbecues, but who was the first to cave on Doritos-for-dinner or that third (fourth?) cupcake when things got ragged?
Jennie could be a little judgy.
I said, "Ed, do you have a mirror handy?"
He touched his hair. "Are my flyaways bad today, or—"
"Not your flyaways," I said.
He wobbled from the camera and left, presumably to find that mirror. A second later, his daughter Bree appeared holding a sheet of cookies and wearing an apron.
"Bree!" I called. "Hey, is your father hanging in there?"
When the twelve-year-old squinted at me, I noticed her apron had white down its left side. Also, that the cookies were frosted.
"Hanging in?" she said.
"Did you use powdered sugar in the frosting?" I asked. "Your dad had something white on his lip, I wasn't sure if ..."
Bree glanced off camera in the direction Ed had gone, giggling. "Yeah, a ton! Dad measures out too much, then samples. He thinks we don't see."
Nobody said anything for a beat. My video feed cycled to the Hicksons (heads down practicing cursive) then to Aidan Yzerman (yo-yoing) then to Jennie, standing over a skillet with one hand on her hip.
I said, "Sounds like he's in good hands, Bree."
She grinned, and a second later Ed returned to the screen.
"What'd I miss?" he said.
I'm all in for positive vibes now, but Ed #Overton — one of the parents who organized the neighborhood videochat — might be overdoing it. He signed on today holding a 64 oz Yeti and laughing uproariously at his third-grader's pencil sketch of their back deck railing.
I said, "Looks like you guys are making the best of it, eh Ed?"
He sipped his Yeti. The pantry was open behind him, one shelf a mess of loose granola bars.
"What?" he said. "It that *Molly* talking?"