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ROE 1: Story #3 - The War Next Door

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The War Next Door

There are some rivalries that just won’t die, no matter how many people try to diffuse the situation. The Hatfields and the McCoys. The coyote versus the roadrunner. Coke and Pepsi. Pirates versus ninjas. Some of these rivalries are so intense, so weighted by fanatics on either side, that there is little hope of reconciliation.

This is a story about one such rivalry.

It is the story of The War Next Door.

At first glance, the suburban community of Presidential Estates might seem like an all-American middle class suburb. Decent-sized, pre-planned houses line the cookie-cutter streets, all named for former U.S. presidents, with the most prestigious and prominent streets named after the most prestigious and prominent presidents. Everyone wanted to live on Washington Way, Lincoln Lane, Adams Avenue, Jefferson Street, or even Roosevelt Drive. But in this particular case and in this particular suburb, the real action – and one of those die hard rivalries – could be found between two neighbors with adjacent properties on two of the smaller streets, tucked away in a seldom-traveled corner of the community. James Jensen of Fillmore Avenue was locked into a bitter and enduring battle with Arnold Anderson of Taft Street. The white picket fence dividing their backyards was the suburban Iron Curtain, the domestic Berlin Wall. Nothing passed between that barrier except dirty looks and a whole lot of animosity.

And this rivalry was, of all things, about Christmas.

Presidential Estates had long been known for its Christmas displays. Most of the houses in the community decorated their properties for the famous holiday, with a substantial cash prize, and an entire year’s worth of bragging rights going to the victor. And while neither Arnold Anderson nor James Jensen had ever won the competition’s grand prize, that didn’t stop them from trying to outdo one another, year after year. James Jensen was, in fact, the five-time recipient of the PG&E Award for the largest utility bill to come from a Christmas display, while Arnold Anderson, not really Jewish so much as just generally obstinate and combative, was the four-time recipient of the Diversity Award for his kosher Chanukah displays.

Both were determined to win this year’s big prize, and each glared at one another, across the White Picket Wall, from the safety of the bay windows in their respective kitchens.

“Look at that old fool,” Jensen chuckled. “He doesn’t know what he’s in for this year.”

Mrs. Jensen rolled her eyes and went about her evening, tuning out her husband as she had done every Christmas since the Andersons had moved in four years ago.

From the Anderson house, a similar conversation took place every year:

“That Jensen is going to get it this year!” Anderson would exclaim with glee that was both delighted and the tiniest bit sinister. His wife, like Jensen’s had long since given up on pretending to care, or object, to whatever shenanigans these two old geezers had in mind for their holiday displays this year.


It was almost time.

With five minutes to go until the designated starting point of midnight on December 1st, Jensen and Anderson made sure everything was in order. Jensen had hundreds – if not thousands – of strings of holiday lights untangled and spread out in every room and hallway of the house, ready to be grabbed at a moment’s notice without having to fuss with the knots they always managed to get themselves into. Anderson had made several trips to his rented storage space, where he had retrieved – and stuffed his garage full with – all of the figurines, adornments, statues, and inflatables that he employed every year, plus a few surprises he had special ordered online from somewhere in Eastern Europe.

When the clock struck midnight, both men scurried outside to begin their work, while both wives sighed and went to bed.

Jensen strung up lights into the wee hours of the morning, covering every square inch of his property with tiny little colored bulbs. He wasn’t entirely sure his fuse box would be able to handle the voltage this year, and made a mental note to have the electrician out to add a few breakers early next week.

He climbed onto the roof to string up more lights; and that’s when he saw it, large and ominous, rising from the horizon of his neighbor’s roofline like a hot air balloon. An air compressor rattled noisily from the Anderson’s garage as spindly, leg-like extremities inflated.

“Oh. My. God.” Jensen gasped, as the thirty-foot tall inflatable menorah took shape.

Trepidation, with the slightest hint of envy, crept into Jensen’s spinning mind. Anderson really had gone all out this year. Suddenly, he wondered if his holiday light spectacular would be enough. Anderson had actually gone out and improved his cache of holiday goodies with which to decorate his yard; Jensen was still working with the same materials he had been using for years. Which, it suddenly occurred to him, must be the reason he hadn’t won for the past half decade.

Clearly, it was a matter of resources.

Well, if resources was what it called for, he had a nearly paid-off Discover card, and a small personal savings account that could be co-opted for the cause.

Rather than spending the rest of the night laying out lights, Jensen instead spent his time in the study, surfing the Internet for potential acquisitions, and sketching out plans for a new and improved holiday display; one that would put Anderson and his thirty-foot menorah to shame.


The next day, Anderson was busy stringing blue holiday lights high into the trees of his front yard, when he saw several delivery trucks pulling up outside the Jensen house. He stared in shock as pallet after pallet of holiday wares were unloaded onto the driveway, including a full-sized sleigh, complete with Santa and all the requisite reindeer, and boxes of massive, basketball-sized Christmas ornaments. A few moments later, a flatbed truck pulled up, hauling a Christmas tree that looked like it could rival the famous one in Rockefeller Center every year.

Anderson simmered as he perched up in his tree. “That bastard’s gone too far this time!”

He hurried down the tree and ran into the house.

“What are you in such a rush about?” Mrs. Anderson asked him as she prepared two cups of tea.

“Did you see what Jensen had delivered this morning? The man has lost his mind! I have to find something that will put his eyesore of a Christmas tree to shame!”

Anderson fumbled with his boots and darted to his car, while his wife sighed and moved out onto the back patio with the cups of tea.

On the other side of the White Picket Wall, Mrs. Jensen was waiting. Mrs. Anderson passed her a cup of tea, and accepted a plate of scones from Mrs. Jensen. A moment later, the sound of squealing tires filled the neighborhood as Anderson sped off in his car.

“I take it he saw the delivery this morning,” Mrs. Jensen observed.

“Well, I think our new menorah gave him quite a scare,” Mrs. Anderson replied.

The two women rolled their eyes and shared a laugh.

“At least they only have this silly decorating competition once a year,” Mrs. Anderson said.

“I heard Gladys mention something about decorating for Easter,” her neighbor replied.

“I won’t tell my husband if you promise not to tell yours.”

“Deal.”

The two women chatted and enjoyed their tea; Mrs. Anderson under the imposing shadow of a thirty-foot tall inflatable menorah, and Mrs. Jensen with a gigantic, oversized Christmas tree being erected in her front yard.

It was just another winter season at Presidential Estates; an all-American, middle class suburb that’s come to embrace the true (competitive) spirit of the holidays.



1294 Words