Fading Desert Footprints (Complete)

'Love your neighbor as yourself, but dont take down the fence.' Carl Sandburg

I like my neighbourhood of small unique houses on large lots. There are cottage type homes with steeply pitched roofs.
We also have plain duplexes, bi-levels, brick homes with large straight hedges and sentinel cedars, and stucco homes with white picket fences. They are all well maintained; none are dilapidated with patchwork siding and green moss growing on the shingles.
We have one large modern square mansion that makes my abode look like an outhouse. The front is predominantly floor to ceiling windows, hiding a fantastic pool in the large backyard. It was built on a triple lot, and nestled farther back from the road.

Our wide street is lined with large mature oaks that provides a canopy in the summer; the city once tried to remove them in order to facilitate utility repairs. The outcry from our area surprised me; old people with nothing better to do than to grumble joined forces with young nearby environmentalists who relished dissent, and, felt that needlessly cutting down a mature tree was the cataclysm for the end of the world. The city's reasoning was to save time and money on utility repairs. When the outcry became big enough to make the front page, council discretely deferred it.

Our neighbourhood is split; the street demarcates the halves. I never need to cross the road, and don't want to because it might invite a conversation with people I barely know. Its like avoiding a Rottweiler on a leash.

I notice Jack and Ryan convening on the other side. Jack is in his seventies, with a Santa-like belly that hangs over his jeans and hides a belt and a presumed large silver buckle. Suspenders help keep them up, which are as outdated as pink flowered wallpaper. He is proud of his paunch, and thrusts it out. I doubt that I could shake his hand without bumping into it. He also has a loud booming voice to match his stature. He lives in the huge square mansion with the backyard pool.

Ryan is old age thin. He looks emaciated, probably from his diet of tea and toast. His pants also need help staying in place because he has shrunk in them over the years, and without his wife around to insist he buy new ones, they have become too big. His tight belt makes the hips balloon out to the sides. He also has long light brown hair that dangles in thin strands from an old ball cap with a dirty red symbol of a baseball team; I've never been close enough to tell what team it is.

Jack is a very outgoing, personable fellow that I had met shortly after we moved in, and, before Kelly was born. One morning, as I was embarking into my rusty Aries K-Car for the morning commute, he marched across the road and intercepted me as I opened the door.

"Hello, Jack." He roared, stating his name as he thrust out his huge hand that enveloped mine like thick ocean fog engulfing a boat. He was a large fellow even then, but at that time I could shake his hand without bumping into anything. I don't mind outgoing people; however they are opposite to what I am. I like to keep my personal space, and I don't like touching other people. We were on the empty street beside my sedan, but I felt like a sardine. I had the impression he could easily crush my hand; it was like shaking a rock.

"Harry," I replied, and then kindly lied, "good to meet you." I tried to leave no room for any more conversation; I usually like to prepare for these encounters, like studying for a quiz.

"I'm having a few neighbours come over on Saturday night; you and your wife are very welcome to join the group." He rumbled.

"Thank you very much," I said genuinely, and then tried to find a quick excuse not to go, "I'll check with my wife." I forced a smile.

"Great, see you then." He tramped away.

I checked with Kelly, and it was agreed that we would be too busy playing Scrabble and Yahtzee. We didn't go. Afterwards, I generally avoided him afraid of another invitation, so that our interaction degraded from 'good morning' to a passing wave, and then a polite nod, when even raising a hand was not worth the effort. It had the desired effect; we did not receive any more feared Saturday night invitations, and our road generally kept us apart like a wall.