Red Eye in the Sky

The orange iron door is as heavy as ever today. I push it open, glad that I don't have to fling it open in order to escape with a bike in hand too. It's still overcast today. It's been overcast for weeks already. Pulling on my floppy leather gloves, I look over at Greg. He's checking the mailbox in silence. He's not mad at me; he just hates going over to Tristaen's place. With a passion.
"Dude, it's not that bad. At least it gets us out of the cold for awhile."
Continuing in his struggle with unlocking the mailbox, he doesn't look over as he says, "I know."
I hate to see him this miserable. "Plus, we get free food. It's not that bad."
"That awful rabbit food? Are you kidding me? I hate eating that crap. Plus, he is freaking creepy!"
The absence of any mail doesn't help my case, so I begin walking down the street. Used to spending half an hour on my bike in order to get anywhere, I've never taken the time to take a good look at our neighbors' houses. They're all fabricated of a drab gray brick. The roofs are covered in shingles of a slightly darker shade of gray. This whole development sucks. Some of our neighbors have attempted to break the monotony of the many surrounding blocks by hanging variously colored drapes in their front windows or by adding increasingly gaudy signs by their front doors announcing surnames.
Take a left at the playground. Follow the small alley. Walk out of the dead end, cross the street, and go around the backside of a perfectly identical apartment building. Most of the doorbells on these dilapidated buildings don't seem to work, but Tristaen lives on the bottom floor. Lucky for us. Standing just outside his backyard, I pull the padlock off the gate. He always leaves it there to ward off burglars, but it's never actually locked. That yappy dog begins yapping incessantly. As usual. Tristaen comes out the back door and offers me his hand. I shake it and let go. Greg stands back making me do all the talking, but this is nothing out of the ordinary. I follow Tristaen through his doorway of beads and weave my way into his tiny living room. Some British documentary is playing on the TV, and something that sounds like a blend between the Beetles and Jack Johnson is on the record player.
Our first course sits atop metal platters already awaiting us. Greg looks ready to vomit. He slides between the bench and the table first, as always, to the side of the puny table facing the television. I sit down next, back to a disproportionate bookshelf, on the side soon to be facing Tristaen. Lettuce with tomato and boiled egg whites. Lunch meat straight out of the package on the side. Mustard and olive oil for dressing. Water in aluminum cups and flavored corn syrup ready to mix into it. Somehow, I have convinced myself to enjoy this meal. My younger self would have mocked the present me without mercy. Tristaen comes back into the room flustered. This unnecessarily unemployed man always acts as if he has just returned from somewhere important, which could never be less true. His greatest urgency each week is remembering to do his laundry before running out of clean underwear. The man told us just last week how he lives off the government due to a "missing tailbone."
We chat, Tristaen and I. Always pleasant banter. Our day was fine, how was yours? Good good. New drapes? Oh, from where? What an excellent deal. Shoot me now. Woops, did I think that last one out loud?
At last we're all done. Even Greg has choked everything down politely. Tristaen takes our plates and leaves the room.
"Dude," Greg whispers to me with unmistakable excitement.
"What?"
"Don't look behind yourself." His voice is nearly shaking with concealed laughter now.
"What?"
"Seriously. Don't."
I'm confused, but I remain calm and don't look back. "Why not?"
"There's a camera hidden in the bookshelf behind you. And it's on."
"Are you serious?"
"Shhhh!!! Keep it down! I don't want him to know that we've noticed."
"Why not? Who cares? I'm not afraid of this clown."
Incredulously, I turn my head back and start scanning the shelves. Finally, a few shelves up, I see it. There it is, hidden between two dead porcelain dolls, red light blinking ominously, pointed right down at the two of us. I stare into the lens, and then instinctively raise my right hand until I find myself waving politely as if acknowledging a long-time neighbor out watering his lawn. I turn back around just as Tristaen returns carrying quark and mandarin oranges for dessert.
"Mmmm, I love quark, Tristaen."
He glances up, smiling, "Yes, I know you do."