The Impossibility of Not Marinating

 

            Clarence, old by anyone's definition, sat on his front porch that particular Monday morning, like he did on every morning, reading the newspaper and watching the neighbor children walk to and stand at the bus stop. As the bus departed with its semi-willing occupants, a line of heavy construction vehicles passed by his home to begin, as far as he understood, the creation of a new road just beyond the end of his own. Less than thrilled at this new development, he hated the idea of more homes, more traffic and more neighbors disturbing the relative peace that he and his neighbors enjoyed.

              The weeks continued on and unable to stop himself, he left his porch, traversed the sidewalk, and entered the now paved and curbed street, but still missing sidewalks. He begrudgingly acknowledged the beginning of new homes, three as far as he could tell, overly large houses on overly large lots, which would most like be completed by the arrival of summer. Somewhat tired and overheated by his walk, the eighty-five year old man, returned to his porch to enjoy a lemonade and a cool breeze.

              Over the next several months, he watched the sidewalks appear, the houses grow like a cancer on a once beautiful neighborhood, and lawns planted. Eventually the construction stopped, the trucks and heavy equipment stopped arriving and over the course of one week, three moving companies appeared followed by a variety of families, each with a distinctive look and attitude. He slipped back into his own home and called for his wife, "Hey Martha, better get some cookies going. Looks like the new neighbors are moving in, " he said, "we really should be the friendly neighbor, I suppose."

              Giving the new neighbors a little time to settle, eventually Clarence and Martha approached the first home with a plate of homemade cookies and introduced themselves. A thirty-ish aged woman answered the door with three children of varying ages drifting in and out of view, and she invited them in. Clarence made the best small talk he could with Martha supplementing and keeping the conversation going. After a few minutes of friendly banter, he and she excused themselves and shared their thoughts on the walk home. "Okay, help me remember, they said their name was Golovsky, right?"

              "Yes, dear, that is what she said, "she and her husband, three children and a fourth on the way. Did you notice the garden, the chickens, and the goats in the backyard. It looks like they are pretty normal, productive people. She seemed nice enough," she said. "I can see myself spending time with someone like that."

              The following day, just before dinner, Clarence and Martha visited the second home to experience a radically different interaction. After ringing the doorbell, a heavily tattooed teenage girl with multiple piercings answered the door, repeatedly checking her phone as they tried to engage in conversation. "Thanks for the cookies," she said to them promptly close the door, leaving them standing on the front porch.

              They returned home with little to talk about other than a reasonable contrast between the first neighbors and the second. "Well, that was unpleasant," Martha said. "I guess we won't be seeing much of them. What a rude little girl and I can't even imagine what her parents must be like."

              "So, I'm guessing you don't see yourself interacting with that family much?" Clarence said. "Granted, only the horrid little girl was there, now we only have one more house to go, so we'll see." Clarence lay in bed that evening, listening to Martha gently snore and he deeply dreaded making the final visit to the third new neighbor, uncertain as to what to expect. He preferred to limit himself to his front porch and simply wave at neighbors as they drove or walked past. Being friendly was one thing but imposing his awkward anti-social behavior and lack of conversation on others simply out of social norms seemed counterintuitive. He woke late the following morning, dragged from his sleep by the combined smell of coffee and cookies, feeling not quite rested but not tired either.

              The day dragged by in a combination of reading the newspaper, listening to Martha talk about just about every topic imaginable, and drinking coffee while watching game shows. Martha slid a small roast into the oven and pulled Clarence from his chair to accompany her on the walk to the third neighbor with her plate of her world-famous chocolate chip cookies.

              The third house was the largest of the three, graced by an all-black Rolls Royce in the front drive and a bright red foreign sports car just inside the open garage door. As Clarence rang the doorbell, it was quickly opened by an older gentleman in a tuxedo, clearly a butler. The man invited them inside, to excuse himself into another room to be replaced by a middle-aged woman holding a martini and a small, white, fluffy dog.

              Clarence introduced himself and Martha as "neighbors just up the street" and the woman offered up a stiff and seemingly painful smile, placing the dog on the floor and thankfully receiving the cookies. She apologized for her husband's absence, inviting them into the sitting room for more of the same, inane, awkward, and typical conversation. "At least this one is talkative," Clarence thought. As all three of them engaged in conversation, pretending to be interested and avoiding eye contact, a young man stumbled down the open staircase and began rummaging through a side table in the entryway.

              "Jeffrey, come here," the woman said in a sharp and cold manner. The boy released as exasperated breath and entered the room, extending his hand toward Clarence and presented the same thin smile as his mother. "Clarence and Martha live just a few houses down from us," she said, "they brought some homemade cookies. You should have one, they look really good."

              The boy brushed his jet-black hair from his eyes to reveal heavy black eyeliner and an eyebrow piercing, both of which shocked Clarence's conservative approach to life. "It was nice meeting you both," he said, "but I need to leave to meet some friends for dinner. Thank you for the cookies." As the conversation continued, they listened to the front door slam, the engine of the sports car roar to life and squeal from the driveway.

              Clarence jumped at the first chance to close out the conversation and used the roast in the oven as an excuse to hurry home. "Please say hello to your husband for us," he said as they departed. "I hope you have a good evening."  They crossed the threshold and slowly walked back to the peace and quiet of their own home, thankful for the familiarity. "I suppose that was better than the second home," he said. "But certainly not as nice as the first. That young man seemed very much out of place compared to the elegance of his mother. She looked like something from 'The Great Gatsby,' and certainly acted the part."

              In what became a sad but comical but also ridiculous pattern, the second and third neighbors made regular appearances throughout the neighborhood as screaming arguments, drunken wanderings, or vulgar displays of semi-nudity. After several months of this chaos and gratuity, the appearance of the police became a regular part of most evenings, usually ending in domestic disturbance charges, teen recklessness, or disturbing the peace.

              Clarence eventually lost count of how many times he watched the older neighbor boy pass by his home in the back of a police car, eventually resigning himself to the new normal of noise and chaos. He watched in disgust as the tattooed neighbor girl in the company of several other girls just like her wandered around the neighborhood, giving his once peaceful cul-de-sac the feel of the inner city. Martha began to recluse herself to her kitchen or the friendly neighbor's backyard, enjoying the hobby farm feel and the well mannered children that busied themselves therein.

              Clarence and Martha transferred themselves to their own backyard with its clear view of the small farm next door and enjoyed coffee and cookies as the sun began to set behind the distant mountains. "You know Martha," Clarence said, "I am not surprised in the least with how those other neighbors are behaving. Just looking at the two of them told me the story I knew would be coming. You can't soak a steak in cayenne pepper without making the meat spicy. You can't leave uncooked meat out in the heat of day without it going rancid and you can't neglect your children or feed them garbage from the corruption of the world without expecting some influence. At least we've got the Golovsky's. I'll take their company any day."

              The next morning Clarence sat on his front porch and watched the father from the second home drive away in a U-Haul truck, not surprised in the least with the noise and anger that frequently streamed from that household. To be followed a few minutes later by the daughter on the back of a large, rumbling motorcycle, leaving, he presumed, the mother alone in the large home.