Life's Surprises

“I Should Have Known Better” had been one of Bill’s favorite Beatles songs, and he still liked it, but not as much as when he was 8 years old. Now, he could hear it and notice flaws he couldn’t and wouldn’t have allowed himself to see back then. 

In 1963, everyone wanted to be a Beatle, and any guy who wanted a girl thought the best route was to be Paul or John. Poor George and Ringo. There they were, talented members of the biggest band to hit the U.S. that year, but John and Paul were it for most of the fandom. They might have wanted to be John or Paul as much as Bill had. But how do you become someone you can never be?

The Beatles broke up while he was in high school, and it crushed him. They had represented freedom and rebellion to him, and now they were done with each other, and by extension with Bill. 

But time moves on, taking us with it, and Bill rolled slowly through 60 years of music, politics and living that brought him to this somewhat sad moment: He was an old retired gentleman, sitting on his porch in a quiet neighborhood where the everyday scenes provided the illusion that maybe the world wasn’t as fucked up as he knew it had become. He thought of his younger days as a high schooler, sitting on his parents’ porch smoking a joint, listening to Grand Funk Railroad and feeling like the world was pretty cool. Man! That was nice. Eighteen and not giving two shits about anything but the quality of his joint-rolling. (The quality was mostly poor, but he kept trying. Often.) 

These days he sipped on NA beers and soda water, but he still liked sitting on the porch listening to music.

At eighteen there also had been hints of the darker future. The first energy crisis saw him arguing with his best friend about oil supplies. His friend’s parents were staunch Republicans, and Bill’s were rabid Democrats. The friend’s best point: Just wait until we’re out of oil. “Well, the world’s mighty hot in 2026 and we’re still waiting to run out of oil,” he thought.

A couple of tweener kids passed by and interrupted his daydream, followed by a family out for a stroll with their dog. The tweeners didn’t even see him, being too wrapped up in a discussion about music they liked, but the dog woofed and everyone with it waved and smiled. He waved back and smiled, too. He liked that family, though he had never really spoken to them. They just fit so nicely into his illusion of normalcy.

Bill watched them make their way down the street, but looked away as they neared the house where evil lived. The yard there was festooned with political signs and flags proclaiming the stupidity and hostility of the new neighbors. They weren’t loud in themselves, but their yard signs and flags created a quiet cacophony, shouting, “We’re right and you’re wrong! Agree with us or shut the fuck up!” There was enough of that crap in public spaces, so he was developing peripheral blindness, his vision clouding at their property line.

The dog woofed again, but he refused to see it. It was in the zone of evil.

He’d worked at coming to terms with the fact that there are all kinds of people in the world, but this new neighbor was difficult for him. The first two months of the evil occupancy had challenged his belief that he should give everyone a chance to show their best side. It seemed like every time he drove past there was a new “decoration.” It was like a circus without the fun, and in this moment, as the dog woofed again, a pulse of anger swept over him. “God damn it,” he muttered.

The next day he woke with a funny feeling that something was different. He slipped quietly out of bed, leaving his wife sleeping. This was their routine. When she woke coffee would be ready and Bill would be done with his foray into social media and the late-night comedy recaps. A typical morning was starting, but something still felt different.

He had a thought: “Take a walk.” So he did, heading out the door and turning away from the house of evil, planning a route that would avoid it entirely. Why waste a good walk by getting angry in the end?

There’s a lot of comfort in early morning walks. He coasted along, not thinking about anything but the morning light around him, the sounds of birds greeting the day, and the rhythm of his steps. The world, right here, right now, was exactly as it ought to be. He could let down all of his blinders and enjoy his neighborhood. This was what his porch was supposed to be. 

As he rounded the final turn and headed for the home stretch, a figure presented itself. Motionless, blocking Bill’s path home, he stood there: The evil one. He of the signs and flags and implied vitriol they sent out to the world. Bill looked at his back and noticed shaking, slouched shoulders, and then this mortal enemy let out a sob and burst into tears. 

Bill could have turned and scuttled away. He was certain the man hadn’t seen or heard him. He was certain he didn’t want to know this guy at all. He could just walk away and let the man suffer, but he was a long way from 1963 and hoping to be somebody else. He was who he was. 

Reaching out, he touched a shaking shoulder. There was no recoiling from the contact, but the tears weren’t slowing. Had the guy felt anything? Bill kept a hand on the shoulder until the shaking became more a roll than a stutter. 

After a minute, Bill said, “C'mon. Let’s go take a load off.”

There was no response, but with a gentle pull the man came along with him. They walked together to Bill’s porch where Bill gave him the choice spot. The spot where one could best enjoy the neighborhood scenes. He sat down, too, thinking about John and Paul and all of the people who’d helped him reach this odd moment: Sitting on his porch with this neighbor. Waiting.