Fading Desert Footprints (Complete)

'The secret of your future is hidden in your daily routine.' Mike Murdock

That encounter with Jack fourteen years ago had started with Kelly wanting to run across the road to Ginger; I had been worried it might happen again. Back then, I also wanted to avoid another unprepared conversation with Jack, afraid of him sharing more personal information that I didn't want to hear. I put things in place to ensure that couldn't happen again.

I ensured that Kelly rarely went out front, and when she did, I repeatedly reminded her to stay away from the road. If she went near it, I hovered close by with hands ready to grab  her. Eventually, my tension rubbed off on her, and Kelly became scared of the sidewalk, and fearful of the road. It became excessive when she refused to go in the Volkswagen because it was parked on a monster. I had to change tactics. I created a backyard park. I made sure the fence was solid, erected a swing and slide, and dug a sandbox. She opened a Barbie dollhouse at Christmas, and found large colorful  inflatable beach balls at Easter. She also got a Barbie camper, and Barbie accessories on her birthday. She hated boy toys such as tools, but would have been upset if I didn't get her a Barbie hammer or screwdriver, if one existed, or, if it was at least pink.

I bought whatever she wanted, to make her happy in the backyard without wanting to venture to the deathtrap in front of the house. I earned all the stripes on my plaid Father's Day tie that year.

I did such a good job, that when we were at the zoo's Gibbon exhibit, also decked out with a tree, swing, and balls, Kelly enthusiastically exclaimed,

"We could invite him over to play in our backyard! He'd love it there," as if it was a compliment. I had noticed a general trend; our streets gradually became devoid of children, all penned up in their protective backyard enclosures, like endangered animals.

Thus, over the next fourteen years after meeting Ginger, I allowed our neighbourly interaction to revert back to the way it should be, like strangers on a bus.

To support my endeavour to keep our neighbourhood divided, with only an occasional polite wave, I justified it in other ways. For instance, whenever I discovered a new lawn cigar, I blamed the closest dog and owner, and that was Ginger and Jack, despite knowing from its generous dimensions, that it was deposited by the large German Shephard who lives a block away.

Although I treat them that way, Jack and Ryan are not my enemies; I've accepted my convenient impressions of them, exaggerating the few minor faults at the expense of the many good ones.

Because of my mood right now, Jack, Ryan, and Mel, in the immediate vicinity are too many.

Ryan looks at me from across the street, and Jack does large arm arc waves in an exaggerated greeting. Then, they disperse like birds hearing a gunshot. Jack resumes mowing his lawn, and Ryan sneaks into his open garage.

I wonder if they had heard about Kelly. Then I remember that they had seen the police at my house two days ago, and in this neighbourhood full of retirees, they have nothing better to do than monitor and report the smallest event. They likely called each other, and pieced it together in the twenty seconds the officer took to walk from his car to my door.

Through attrition, our street is full of retired men that frequently congregate in small groups in front of their houses, under the pretence of a feigned errand. I could imagine an opener,
"Mornin Jack, on my way to the store to pick up some nails. Hows the old Chevy running?"

Mel has therefore become the last hen on a street full of roosters. She is outside tending her 'Moondance' white roses on the edge of he driveway. The roosters on the other side reconvene to possibly talk about me, but more likely Mel.

As retired men that clung to chivalrous notions, they probably thought one was obligated to pick someone from the neighbourhood female stock for companionship, trading scruples such as compatibility for other values, the overriding one being convenience.