The Neighborly Thing

Edward Hopper, American Village, 1912

I wish I could say I was putting the finishing touches on a riveting short story when the doorbell rang, but the Google Doc page I’d opened this morning still had just five meandering paragraphs on it. Instead, I was on YouTube, watching SNL clips, the tenth or twentieth one that day. Laughing, but feeling bad about it.

I closed my computer and went to the door. It was C, the kid from diagonally across the street, dressed head-to-toe in kid-sized Army fatigues that were still a little too big. His mom had carefully rolled up the sleeves in one neat fold, and from beneath the slightly-too long pants, she’d matched his shoes: suede forest-green Vans.

“Is Artie home?”

It was 1:30PM. Artie had been in his school’s optional three-hour aftercare program for exactly half an hour.

“He’ll be back in about two hours,” I said.

C’s mouth fell open. “He doesn’t have short day today? It’s Wednesday.”

Apparently now, the public schools have minimum days every Wednesday, which I guess is nice for the kids, but probably a headache for parents, even non-working ones like me. We certainly didn’t have that when I was a kid, when minimum days glittered like semi-precious jewels on the school calendar.

“His school doesn’t do the short day on Wednesdays,” I said.

“Oh?” C considered this. “Well, when he’s home, tell him he can come ring my doorbell.”

“Ok,” I said. He didn’t move to leave, so I complimented his outfit.

“Thanks,” he said. “It’s like a dress-up day at our school.”

“That’s cool. Do you like school?”

He shook his head.

“Why not? It’s just first grade. I didn’t start not liking school until I was in fourth grade.”

He sighed and rattled off a short list of reasons:

“I’ve got to do reading, writing and math. I do know my times tables though.”

“Oh wow, I don’t think I learned those until third grade.”

“Well, I know most of them. Not all, but some.”

I didn’t feel the need to quiz him.

“Do you like your teacher?”

He shrugged. “Her name is Miss Snodgrass.”

I smirked, he grinned. “Yeah, snod. It’s a funny name.”

“How many kids are in your class?”

He thought for a moment. “Thirty-five?”

He probably wasn’t too far off. With his hands, he indicated the width of something. “It’s not a big classroom. Maybe like a mile wide? And three inches.”

Makes sense. We looked at each other. He still made no indication of leaving, and I have little experience telling kids to scram, minus my own of course. He looked at Chompy’s balance bike, which had been left in front courtyard. It was still a little too high for him to use correctly.

“What about Chompy? When does he come home?”

“Well, usually around four. I get Artie around three, three-thirty, and then get Chompy right after.”

He pursed his lips and squinted at me. “Why do you make your kids stay at school so long if you’re at home?”

Good question. I’ve been asked this before, mostly by my parents and other people in their generation, who think that young kids should be at home with their mothers for as long as possible. My mother often asked – she still does, actually – how I could bear to send them to school and daycare for most of the day. I could have lied to her and to C too, saying that I was freelancing or trying to find a job. But in our recessed doorway, chatting with C and no other adults around, I felt I could be straightforward.

“I don’t like taking care of kids.”

He was not offended.

“Yeah, my mom’s the same way. Though I guess it’s harder for you because you have two. And two definitely make a bigger mess.”

C gets it.

He continued to talk, a little guy in oversized camouflage, giving me an unsolicited lowdown on some of the neighborhood kids. Ollie (8) was at his grandpa’s today so he wasn’t around to play. He was homeschooled but not every day. Together they’ve been trying to spy on Jordan (10), who lived in the next block of condos over, and had his own iPhone. He was always on TikTok now, learning bad words.

“Who’s that famous basketball player? Is he still alive?”

“Uh…”

“Lebon?”

“Lebron.” I said. “Lebron is definitely still alive. He’s younger than I am.”

I could only imagine how old C thought I was, if his classroom was a mile and three inches wide.

“Anyway, Jordan said he sent Lebron a message on TikTok and he actually responded.”

I raised my eyebrows. Maybe I should get on TikTok.

“Yeah he showed him a video doing this.” He turn around and bent over, pointing at his butt with both fingers. Typical six-year old stuff. Or I guess ten-year old stuff too. “And he said Lebron sent him a video back, doing the same thing!” He cackled and demonstrated the move again.

“I would be very surprised if Lebron actually responded to Jordan. But I guess that’s how the internet works. It’s possible.” But not probable.

Behind him, I could see his open garage, the olive-green jeep his dad was rebuilding parked inside next to a variety of bikes, scooters and ride-on toys. His father’s white Tesla wasn’t parked along the street as it usually was, and I wondered if he’d gotten a job.

A few weeks before this visit, C had come inside with Artie, looking for a snack.

I handed them each a pack of chocolate Hello Pandas and asked how his parents were doing.

“My dad lost his job,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Oh man that sucks,” I said. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is he ok?”

C nodded, chomping down on another panda. “Yeah, and he got another job really quick after but he didn’t take it. Someone offered him a million dollars to drive him somewhere, but my dad said no because the guy – he was not a nice guy.”

I raised my eyebrows. Maybe this was some mobster, getting rid of bodies type shit.

“A million dollars? To drive him where, to the moon?”

Artie guffawed, getting Hello Panda dust all over his shirt and the floor.

C laughed too. “No! Just somewhere, I don’t know. My dad’s really good with cars.”

I thought back to the first conversation I ever had with C’s mother. We were standing outside their garage as our kids became fast friends. Artie investigated every single one of C’s vehicles before moving onto a random bin of remote control cars, Hot Wheels and Nerf Guns.

“You can have that. Take it home if you want,” C said to Artie, who had picked out the biggest gun in the box. It had MEGA written across it.

“Do you have bullets for it?” Artie asked.

“No,” C said. “I lost them all.”

“That’s useful,” I said, relieved.

His mother rolled her eyes. “He has a lot of crap. Typical only child,” she said. “We try to keep him busy.” She was a part-time real estate agent and for a while, his father had traveled a lot for work. He had a “transportation business.” They were Romanian, but had come to the States separately, as teenagers.

A few minutes later, C’s dad pulled up in a white Tesla. He was handsome, bald with a dark beard and with a hardened, surly look. He shook my hand with a tight smile and immediately went to vacuum the bajeesus out of his car, which already looked pristine. I joked to C’s mom that her husband would probably faint if he ever saw the inside of our Tesla, crusted over as it was with crumbs, snot, sand and stickers.

“He’s very particular about his cars,” she said.

By then he’d opened the spotless trunk and was pushing the vacuum attachment into the crevices, going over one area over and over again.

“No kidding,” I said.

Now, C and I had been standing in the doorway for well over ten minutes. I liked that his parents trusted the people in the neighborhood, and that my kids had other kids to play with. It reminded me of simpler times. There is something old-timey about C too, like a modern Dennis the Menace who talks too much and wants to seem tough as nails (it was he who encouraged Artie to climb up on our roof). He is constantly trying to do wheelies on his too-big Mongoose, but is ultimately (still) a sweet, button-nosed six year old.

“I’m getting a phone when I’m like ten or eleven,” C moved on to the real point of the Lebron story. “But my mom says phones aren’t good for you. I only have an iPad but I can’t use it too much.”

I thought about asking after his parents. Did his dad find another job? Would I? After that first chat with his mom we’ve mostly just waved to each other from our garages and I wonder about them for as long as it takes the garage door to come down, and then return to my own, pointless reveries.

Impossible questions to pose to a six-year old, however savvy he sees himself. Instead, I nodded at his mother’s wisdom. “I agree with your mom. I try not to spend too much time on my phone,” I said, which is only partly true. I left out that I spent the morning on my laptop watching sketch comedy.

C nodded and didn’t say anything else. He raised his palms up and shrugged. His expression said it all. What can you do. We’re all trying our best. It was a very mature way to signal the end of the conversation.

As he turned to leave I told him I’d send Artie to his door when he came home.

“Ok. See ya,” he said.

“See ya, C.” I watched as he crossed the street.

The door closed. The computer opened. Everyone was trying their best.