“What if he kills me,” I say into the phone. Partially with drama, partially serious. Since I have lived in the heights there have been reported, made the local news, murders. Not next door, but you know, 10-15 blocks away. The first week I lived here, when my mother was moving me in, a rapper was killed. Jack and I decided NOT to tell Mom.
“Who?” Desi Brother asks, somewhat distracted, somewhat annoyed. “Rama Rao,” I reply. You cannot be too careful in New York. Why else would Law & Order be a show and have two spin offs? “Who is this?” he asks. “A guy coming to look at my living room furniture. I have six ads on Craigslist,” I say. I hear him sigh, deeply. He is no longer annoyed, bored or distracted. I have his FULL attention.
“What time?” he asks. “In about an hour,” I reply. “Okay, can you please call me once he leaves? I am sure he is nice and everything is fine – but this is YOU we are talking about…” he mutters. “What is that supposed to mean?” I demand. “You are the one who lost her keys in her own purse. You have selective hearing. Under your watch a monitor in the office started smoking, you almost destroyed Mom’s washing machine…Town and Country...do you want me to go on?” he asks.
“Hellooooo?” Desi Brothers says. I hear amusement in his tone. I am the older bossy sibling that he so rarely gets to put into line. “Am I wrong?” he asks. “No,” I finally say. “I didn’t think so,” he says and chuckles. “But in seriousness, call me when he leaves,” Desi Brother says.