The Old Neighbourhood

The Old Neighbourhood

And the truth is it was out of curiosity that I arrived and out of respect that I remained as all turned to ash.
  I’d arrived late and intended to leave early, an attempt at feigned indifference that at the time seemed to surround all I was involved in, and so readied myself for an evening at Ricky Donald’s, an old high school acquaintance whose mother had died and left him the family home.
  Mrs Donald had been a notoriously foul tempered woman, rumour was the fury she held for the neighbourhood was nothing compared with the fury she held for Ricky, since her unexpected demise however her son had turned the homestead into party central, a public declaration of independence to which all were welcome … and yet this was still a house with a mother’s touch, it felt odd entering without first removing your shoes, and placing a bottle on a counter without a coaster brought with it more than guilts' gentle twinge.
  I’d been away three years and so nothing had changed and yet everything had changed, had returned a ‘college man’ and felt each and every stare that came with the tag. Everyone seemed older and wiser and generally more abject and yet there was still comfort, however slight, to be found in the fact I could turn any which way and spy a familiar face.
  There was Donnie whose legend was assured the day he broke his arm and refused to shed a single tear, there was Alice who was yet to meet a window pane reflection that failed to inspire, Jack whose father was a cop and who rode the fact large and Samantha, my first girlfriend, who let me call her Sam and who had trouble with her ‘r’s’. 
  And there in the corner were Paul and Jimmy, former blood brothers. We’d gone through school together, gone through first communion together and gone through girls together. Paul and Jimmy who for some slight never addressed now required only a cursive nod and fleeting raise of the eyebrows. Paul and Jimmy who respond in kind and return to their drinks.
Amid old friends stood many strangers, Ricky’s parties had fast taken on a strange and peculiar legacy and so guests arrived from far and wide creating an atmosphere of high abandon. Alone in the living room I overhear a girl ask, “Have you ever been in love?” only to receive the reply, “God, I hope not,” and I feel an overwhelming desire to flee before I too am accosted, to find a drink and return well armed for the fray.
  I head for the kitchen, giving a wide berth to a young man in a caftan as he massacres ‘Father and Son’ while a wide eyed crowd sit cross legged, ready and willing to replace the guitar in his arms at the end of his uninvited set. Weaving my way to the icebox I am confronted by a wall hanging, ‘Home Sweet Home’, and I have to look away, grabbing bottles of beer by the armful I retreat to the living room, past a couple necking in an alcove.
  Seated on the free armrest of a pre-loved sofa I observe as a platform shoed individual uses his height to sneak a peek down the blouse of every unnamed blonde and brunette who crosses his path, a wry smile barely giving the game away as each glimpse of passing cleavage is committed to memory. 
  As I finish one bottle and reach for another, snippets of conversation from those same figures of fantasy piques my curiosity, “… two of these a day and I dropped ten pounds in a week …”, “… it’s easy, you just relax your esophagus …”, “… oh no, she’s far from Catholic …”, while in the far corner a full bearded guru extols the virtues of transcendental meditation while cradling the neck of a bottle of whisky with one hand and the breast of a favoured disciple with the other.
  The welcome embrace of a first buzz takes hold and I find myself more than content to pass the evening in amused observation when a light brush of my arm is replaced by a firm and purposeful squeeze.
“There’s room for you to sit if you like,” arrives in dulcet tone and I turn to see the sofa has been vacated, the rabble have departed, replaced by the owner of the voice who looks up at me through heavily eye-lined eyes beneath jet black fringe and I stutter and I sit and the evening takes a turn.
  And so I take my place beneath three ducks in diagonal, across from Jesus in photo frame, beside a girl who tells me her name is Ruby and that I am not the first to think this is far from appropriate.
“I’m very suspicious of those who claim to sparkle,” she begins and as she speaks her whole body comes into play, her hands dance with every anecdote, her blouse slips to reveal a shoulder and for the life of me I cannot recall a shoulder so fine, the joy I suppose of flesh fleetingly exposed but joy all the same.
  Ruby has spent the past year working in a convenience store and has all the standard stories of short tempered customers, still lives with her sister and tells of space shared but never surrendered and ends each tale with a note of resignation at the inanity of it all, yet she cannot suppress the shine in her eyes and the corners of her mouth give intimation of a passion yet to be revealed.
  As we talk we lean in and lean back and we lick our lips and hold our gaze just that little too long and before I know it my arm is around her and she leans in once more as word spreads that a fight has broken out, and as we make way to the backyard it seems only appropriate Ruby and I hold each other’s hand. 
  The combatants are stripped to the waist and circling each other as we join the masses cheering and offering slurred advice. Comments from left and right bring us up to date, one of the brawlers has offended the honour of the other, and amid the roars and screams it occurs to me that perhaps this is all beyond pointless but custom dictates that a party is not a party until someone has their nose broken and tradition is not to be denied.
  Both fighters are in fair shape and the audience prepares for a long drawn out battle, as they advance the accused adopts the side-on stance of the martial artist while the accuser apparently fancies himself the white Ali, front on, hands low, determined jut of the jaw.
  A kick, a punch, a few wild swings later however and Ali finds himself on his back taking a knee to the face. Nose broken the party can now resume and Ruby and I depart hand in hand to the roar of the crowd.
  As we return to the living room we pass one girl comforting another, her arms around shoulders that rise and fall with each silent sob, turning away I spy a couple writhing atop a faded green bedspread, embroidered pillows thrown to the floor, the only sound a mutual moan as weight is shifted. A few hurried steps and a turn here and there however and we are back to where it all began as Ruby squeezes my hand once more, a signal to stop and sit.
  And throughout the evening word spreads that someone has fallen from the great oak and word spreads that some have stripped to dance amongst the flowers and word spreads that many have taken to the roof to worship the night sky and on each occasion Ruby and I stay seated while all around leave their station to observe.

And nobody knows how the fire started, theories have blossomed as only theories of parties gone awry can blossom, for those who were there however, for those who remember, the stories all share the common thread of panic, of haste and wild abandon. Stoners who only moments before flopped on furniture suddenly sprung into action, speed freaks screamed and hightailed out into open spaces, lovers abandoned lovers and drunk steadied drunk as two by two they weaved into the night.
  Ruby and I simply strolled out onto the street as amid shrieks and tears and the odd parting cheer partygoers fled the scene.
  And I remember the chaos and the cries of the neighborhood as the old house burned, but I recall mostly the calm with which Ricky took it all in, standing to the side, alone, his smile almost serene.