Nothing gets past Clint

Aug 5

4 min read

Clint knows I’m writing something about him. He just doesn’t know what.

For the past little while, I have been secretly making notes every time he casually gives me another update about the neighbours, the construction workers, the Airbnb guests or some other complete stranger whose daily routine he has somehow memorized.

He probably thinks I’m just looking at my phone.

But I’m actually documenting him.

Since we’ve been living here for the summer, I have discovered that nothing—and I mean nothing—gets past Clint.

He knows what is happening everywhere around this property at all times. Not because anyone tells him, and not because he has gone over and introduced himself.

That's not Clint.

He is a little introverted and has no particular desire to meet these people. Knowing everything about them from a distance, however, is apparently different.

Then he tells me as nonchalantly as if I know these people too.

“The Airbnb over there is all cleaned and ready for the next guests.”

Oh, good.

I didn’t realize we had taken over Airbnb surveillance, but apparently we have.

He knows when the guests leave, when the cleaners arrive, how long they stay, the make and model of their vehicle, whether another vehicle visits and when the house is officially ready for the next people.

He probably knows the neighbours’ routines better than they do.

We will be sitting outside and he will casually say, “He’s late today.”

“Who’s late?”

“The neighbour.”

Late for what? I have no idea.

Apparently, the neighbour normally gets home at 5:45 p.m.

Not around 5:30.

Not sometime before six.

5:45 p.m.

I honestly didn’t even know someone lived there full-time.

Then there is the construction happening nearby.

To me, it looks like a group of men building something out of cement blocks.

To Clint, it is a fully staffed operation with assigned positions, a construction schedule and an upcoming cement-block shortage.

He knows their entire system.

One man has the wheelbarrow. Another works the cement mixer. The cement gets passed to a guy on the other side, and then another guy climbs up the ladder and empties it into the tubes they are using to make the pillars.

I’m sure I got at least half of that wrong.

“And that ties it all together,” Clint explained.

Of course it does.

He has also calculated that they are going to need another load of cement blocks by Monday—and noticed the day an extra worker showed up.

I probably wouldn’t have noticed if there were five workers or fifteen.

But Clint noticed.

Then he figured out that someone had started staying there overnight to watch the equipment.

At this point, I’m pretty sure he could take over as site supervisor if someone called in sick.

The funny part is how he tells me all of this.

There is no introduction or explanation.

He doesn’t say, “I noticed something interesting at the construction site.”

He just starts in the middle, as though I attended the previous meeting and should already be up to speed.

Which guy?

What guest?

How did we get here?

The same thing happens when we walk the dogs on the beach.

One evening, we were getting ready to take them out when Clint said, “We should wait a little bit. The neighbour one row back is home from work, and they’ll be taking their dog out soon.”

“Okay,” I said. “How long should we wait?”

Clint: “They go to the beach at 6:17, so wait until closer to seven.”

“What? 6:17?” I asked, laughing.

“Yup. They both get home from work, and then they take the dog for a walk at 6:17.”

Not 6:15.

Not around 6:20.

6:17!

One evening, they were late, and eventually only the husband came out with the dog.

Clint watched for a minute and said, “Maybe we should call the police.”

He was joking, of course.

But this is what happens when people start deviating from their usual schedule...lol

This was around the time I started taking notes, mostly so I wouldn’t forget these increasingly specific little updates that were starting to blow my mind.

Meanwhile, I can walk past the same place five times and still miss something directly in front of me.

What makes it even funnier is that this incredible power of observation does not always extend to his own life.

Apparently, his attention to detail has a very specific range.

Strangers he has never met? Full report.

Construction workers on another property? Detailed analysis.

His own surroundings? Results may vary.

And yet, he will continue quietly monitoring everyone’s routines and giving me updates as though I joined this show three seasons ago and should already know the characters.

So yes, nothing gets past Clint.

Unless it is happening in his own life.

Then there are no guarantees.

When he eventually reads this, I fully expect him to say, “Oh, Barb. You missed half of it. The construction is way more complicated than that.”

Barb is Clint’s nickname for me. There is no interesting story behind it—it just appeared one day, stuck, and has now evolved into Grandma Barb. Apparently, this is my life now.