On Saturdays, the punishing sun lashes the asphalt of our tormented neighborhood. The fresh tar bubbles underfoot. We’ve assembled where the sidewalks meet the street, each tethered to a different house by an orange extension cord. We appear to have gathered by chance, but every weekend we reconnoiter, first two to conspire about unfinished business, then three or more to form a mob we hope will terrify the vermin at house 299. The sympathizers have escaped to other towns: the childless couples, the singles, the sodomites. Just one remains. We poke tar bubbles with our shoetips and raise our voices, and yank the power cords when they tangle. When the thick skins of the tar bubbles split, we can taste their cruel tar breath. We’re keeping an eye on 299 because the undeniable threat of it looms whenever we turn our backs. If it were to fall vacant, for instance, if the lifelong bachelor who keeps to himself were to suffer a coronary episode there and die, or if he were to abandon it on short notice, no decent family would move into that nest of cells. As long as we’re here to tell the story, it may as well burn itself down through the basement and tunnel a scorched bowel straight to hell. At the end of the block, we can just make out the blue shorts, the blond ponytail, the leather bag, and the suntanned girlish legs of the unfamiliar substitute letter carrier. Unless one of us warns her, she’ll reach 299 and climb the steps. She might slide a package through the door! Will a hand slip out and pull her through? It’s time we burned a sign into the lawn to warn the unwary. We finger the switches of our power tools and watch.

Copyright © December 21, 2006