The neighborhood is a strange place, with a strange atmosphere and even stranger people.
It is enjoyable to sit in the plaza on some afternoons and early evenings and watch the comings-and-goings of the hoi-polloi and hoity-toity whist drinking a hot coffee. This neighborhood is one of the most curiously interesting in the area.
There is the group of chubby women, giggling and bouncing to the pool for water aerobics, darkly tanned, save for their pitted and pasty white legs.
A group of neighbors sit at one table in the screened in patio, laughing and yukking it up, slinging profanities, and ordering another round of drinks.
The men’s softball club comes rolling in their golf carts, whereby nine men file into the diner one by one, hollering and shooting shots, eager to make their grand entrance.
Near dinnertime, the decorated and sports-themed golf carts arrive, one by one. Alighting from them are the bleached blonde women with alligator skin and too much Mark Kay make up. With them are the men, beer belly dripping over their stretch belts, checkered shorts, and heavily perfumed with Canoe or Stetson.
There will be the occasional single woman, poured into stretch pants and her cleavage popping out.
And when one walks into the diner itself, all eyes turn to judge the newcomer, followed by whispers and glares.
These are the people who are the keyboard commandos when they are home, sniping at each other, calling names, deriding one and all. They are the ones who always have some gripe, whether it be the security gate, who uses what profiled picture on social media, complaining about this and that, going in circles and never resolving anything. They will criticize neighbors’ names, not knowing that the names are real, in a sense.
They are a sad lot. Strange, indeed.