Another day. A day. A day where everything went wrong, and everyone was to blame.

Okay, so not everyone and everything, but you know what I mean. Woke up to the notification on my phone of another mass shooting at a club, many killed. Went down and got coffee, checked Instagram. A friend was supposed to be there last night, but didn't go. The kids were wrangled off to school and I didn't mention it. Didn't even read the news piece on it. I know. We all do. People were killed. The details will kill us all.

Drove out to the manufacturing plant to pick up the materials, only to see a bunch of the workers out front, strangely watching the highway, and who just nodded my way as I drove in. Walked into Will Call just as the paramedics arrived, moving past me. I stayed out of the way of the action, as they tended to an employee who needed medical attention. When I finally got up to the desk I mentioned quietly, without inquiring on the details, "I hope everyone is okay."

"It's been that kind of week," was the solemn response, and I nodded/shook my head accordingly.

Eventually the factory guys came out with the materials and greeted me with a hearty, "Moneybags got a brand new truck!" referring to me, using the unlikely moniker I am always greeted with, and gesturing to my recent purchase. I defensively reminded them that I'd been coming here in the same old beat-up truck for fifteen years, until now, but there was head shaking, all around. "Moneybags got a full kitty somewhere... Counts it on the beach, doesn't he?"

I forced a laugh and tried to change the subject. "A lot of action around here, today. Everything okay in there?" One of the guys blew out a broad, white cloud from his vape, and then mentioned completely without irony, "One of the ladies was having a hard time breathing. She's got real bad asthma."

Anyway, the components had the wrong cuts on them. Corbels here, scallops there -not my fault. But, in a travesty full-blown and rarely committed: wrong color. And that was my fault. But easily made, in my defense. THESE parts "Mojave Tan" and THOSE parts "Spanish Brown"! Oh well. That's my life. I placed a rush re-order, loaded up, and moved on -just as the paramedics were loading up the sad woman, and moving on. I breathed out a short prayer, remembering a question someone asked me once: "How would you feel if you were in an ambulance, being rushed to the hospital, with the sirens blaring, and knowing that at every intersection, the people in the other cars were praying for you?"

So, I arrived at the lonely job site only to find that the measurements were off. Couldn't get a hold of the homeowner, whom I'd never met, to hammer down the details, and then I realized that moment had passed -noon on Thursday- where my re-order was already processing, and now I was going to have to re-reorder. This was getting expensive, and depressingly so.

Here, Moneybags headed to the nearest microbrewery to put this down on a blog, where he could at least push "publish" and log the word count.

Across the street from the nearby humble, local airport is Legacy Brewing, where I ordered The Chesty Irish Red, but the bartender brought me a beer. (I'll beer here all week, folks!) And no sooner did I sit down and open up the screen did my customer from today's job call and ask what was going on. Now: it looks like Moneybags has a decision to make. Do I drink the beer? Do I go back to the job site? Do I do both? Can anything be solved? And on a day like this?

There's a long table at Legacy Brewing. Ten distinguished looking older men are sitting at it, on a Thursday, having a pint, but otherwise the place is quiet. The men are planning something. A proposition. A journey. A business endeavor. They are serious, but satisfied. And then six of them get up, shake hands, and leave. The other four finish their beers, watch them exit, and say, "The married ones have left." And they laugh a bit. And that's when my phone rang, and I swear my customer was one of those guys, calling from the parking lot, probably leaning up against my truck, not noticing the materials in the bed. Materials with his name on them.

I have declared the day is over. Hell, it's almost 4:00. Got the word via wife-text today that our youngest, according to the parent-teacher conference, is "a perfect student and a dream to have in class." The teacher must not have got the memo about the recurring meltdowns he has at home. Must be us, then.

The phone is ringing again. It's my customer. I think I gotta go. But I don't think another meltdown is going to solve anything today.


~

Election Day. I jogged past my polling place this morning, just to see the turnout (mild) and confirm the location. Then I went back later all sweaty, wearing red (my gang colors) and stinking up the neighbor's garage with my bad self, like a good republican. This is California, where you can't get a republican on the ballot, since there's only ten of us and since those spaces go to the top two vote-getters anyway. So here, instead of getting to choose between country and rock and roll, you get to choose between country and western. But it's also trash night. So you can actually count on something getting done.

Mrs. Ditchman is running for PTA president, not that she campaigned. She was vice president until the president showed up late to the last fundraiser, and then just to post selfies on Instagram, so that president was kindly asked to step down, before the cries of IMPEACH! reverberated from the walls of the teachers lounge. The principal was already referring to Mrs. Ditchman as Ms. President before election day, and one of the ladies in the office told her she wasn't going to congratulate her, but that she was just going to thank her. Politics is local.

I just laugh. But this morning I went to get some coffee and poured myself more than my fair share and we got into a bit of a row about it. But she always pours herself the last cup and then never finishes it! Just leaves it sitting there on the counter, getting cold! Previously rendered undrinkable by that nasty Coconut CoffeeMate! Defiled! So I announced I wasn't voting for her. I led the children in a loud, rhythmic chant: "DON'T VOTE FOR MOMMY - SHE DRINKS ALL THE COFFEE!" Gin up the base. Politics is local.

It's a two-year stint. She's the best they got. Everyone was relieved. She has my utter and complete admiration. I'll make the coffee.

I'm looking forward to this election season being over, although the 2020 presidential election season begins tomorrow. I'm looking forward to all the emails, brochures, robocalls, and political ads coming to a halt for a while, even though this is THE MOST IMPORTANT ELECTION IN HISTORY! You know, until next week.

But I admit to being a (lightweight) political junkie. I like reading about the issues, watching the strategy, the gamesmanship, following some of the polls, following the bellwether states. It's like a furious, massive multiplayer video game. Complete with all the goofball gamertags, errant bomb-throwing, fiendish emotes, and lucky breaks you'd see on Call of Duty or Battlefront. Very entertaining.

And the ultimate reality show. Tonight is the season finale, so I am going to barbecue some blood-red steaks, pour out a nice full-bodied, deep red wine, remind myself of the time zone map, and sit back and watch the returns.

The PTA vote is at 6. It's going to be a blowout.

~

Up early again, after a night of heady dreams. Went downstairs to find the youngest on the couch, under a blanket, watching highlights of an MLB all star game on YouTube. The cat wanted treats, but wasn't satisfied in the amount I gave him. I wanted coffee, but wasn't satisfied that the timer hadn't clicked on, and here I had to wait, while the world slowly turned it self to face the sun again.

There was a time change, so Sunday had us a bit disconnected from the normal way of things. We were all headed this way or that, off an hour or so, with the daylight confusing the perspective. And there's fifteen clocks in this house. You think you caught them all early, and then you turn a corner, see another one, and you're not sure. But the cat wanted his treats exactly one hour earlier than usual last night. Refuses the change.

I see the time change is on the ballot here in California. I worked my way through the arguments on the sample ballot, and it reads like we are living in some crazy future, arguing nonsense, wearing sequined jumpsuits and silly hats, with nothing left important enough to complain about. I'm tempted to weigh in on the whole thing, too, but aayachhh... I must be getting older. The world is full of crazy crowshit. I've got other things busting me. The office phone rang at 2:30 in the morning last night. Give an hour or take an hour, it's whatever time you say it is, but that was the wrong damn time to call.

And I was dreaming that old dream that I was back in college again, failing a class. It was a writing class, and I hadn't been all semester. I'd written one of the two required essays, quick and half-assed, and didn't do the other, so here I had shown up on exam day with a fifty/fifty chance of passing. I suddenly realized I didn't have any paper, so I decided that was it, and got up to walk out, taking the F with me. Then the prof (who, as it happens in dreamland, was Mr. Kumano, my 8th grade science teacher) saw me ditching out and said, "Hey there Mr. Hawkins you sit back down and take the test. I've got some paper right here..." and he handed me a few sheets of blank 11x17 copy paper, redirected me to my seat, and saying loudly, so the whole class could hear, "You can do it. Your one essay was surprisingly well-written..."

And I woke up to the phone ringing. Mrs. Ditchman got up and just closed the office door, which was at least a proper response. I rolled over and fell back asleep, where I was then in a strange neighborhood and the cat was missing. We couldn't find him, and I was angry and sad about it, as usual when this kind of thing happens, and then I was in my living room. I saw it was raining outside, and through the curtains I saw a long-eared coyote in the yard, chasing the cat. I ran out, the coyote came for me, and I went to kick him good and hard.

And I had kicked my heal into the side of the bed, with force enough to wake Mrs. Ditchman, a second time. I saw her sitting up, looking around. I told her it was me, sorry, and the damn coyotes...

After that, it took me a while to get my eyes to roll back, and when they finally did I had one of those semi-coherent dreams that played out like a movie, with a beginning, middle, and end. This one had all the sumptuous production design of a Terry Gilliam film, colorful and bizarre, and I was right in the middle of it, although I struggle to recall the details... World War 2... World travels... Something about an antique fork and knife, and I had to find a buyer, who, in the end, rewarded me with the finest meal in the world, which I spilled. It was a tale of struggle, persistence, and inspiration. An artist's journey. The critics raved.

It's what I did with the extra hour. They can have it back in the spring.


~

The cats are racing about the house at 5AM. It's just kerflumpuh-kerflumpuh-kerflumpuh up and down the hardwood stairs in the dark, and then scritchety-scritchety-scritchety on the base of all the doors. What do they want? I don't speak cat. Approach one, and he runs in the opposite direction. He's meroarwing in the other room now, clawing the forbidden ottoman. I got up and gave him a kitty treat. Seemed to make things worse.

It was 85 degrees yesterday, with a warm Santa Ana wind that swept out the sky and left it a deep, San Diego blue. The leaves come off the trees and whip about, settling in house corners and streetside pockets. I had just gotten used to wearing a sweater on the chilly nights, and shutting the window before bedtime, but here now, pre-dawn, the air is dry and warm again. The summer refuses to die.

The cat has clawed the office rug and is now rolling himself up in it.

There must be catnip in the air, or some other energized dust. A static electricity, which is not really static at all, but more of a pervading electrical charge. An invisible, pulsating field of energy moving the trees, blowing old paper upwards in a spiral dance, and causing the cats to freak out.

Moby, our Himalayan-Siamese mix, has a soft thick coat that stands on end when you bring your hand to it. He's anxious, restless. His eyes dart back and forth like he's following some invisible flying insect. And then Moby leaps onto the high back of an office chair, grips the leather with his claws, and holds on as it spins in circles from the force of his landing.

Weather like this stirs something up from the bottom of the pot. An old memory. A forgotten joy. Or pain. It makes you smile at a stranger, and tip your hat at a lady, which no one does anymore, which is why you do it, and then follow it up with an impulsive off-color joke. Because you'll never see them again, you see. It's a time to take a chance, be a little different, accept a new idea. Laugh it all off when no one gets you. And hurry. Because this rush of mood will soon be gone with the wind, and then it's back to our old, tiresome ways. Winter is coming.

The sun's coming up. I have a slight headache, since I had wine for dinner last night. And here, we're all out of half and half, which I prefer in my coffee, and so it tastes different today. The sky is clear, from horizon to horizon, like a full glass of room temperature water, no ice. I may go for a run, before the kid's baseball game this morning. Try to get something done this Saturday. Or start a new project again.


~

Up early again. Fell asleep on the couch late afternoon yesterday sitting straight up, Xbox controller firmly in my grip. Awoke to find the sun going down on the first day of November, and Mrs. Ditchman looking over from the sink, "Game not exciting enough for you?" And then I felt nautious and congested. I took a Sudafed, and ended up awake all night.

At one point I heard the unforgettable stirring Randy Newman anthem from the movie The Natural, and I went downstairs to check it out, and found my wife falling asleep to that old award-winning classic. I hadn't seen it in years and got hooked on it for about an hour, but I missed the beginning, so I wasn't committed, and instead went upstairs to bed and read the Wikipedia entry.

The film is about a baseball player whose bright future evaporates when he, essentially, makes some bad decisions and runs into some bad luck. Years later, he returns to baseball as an aged rookie on a last place team. The whole film seems to be shot through a gauzy lens with silhouettes, shadows, backlighting, colorful sets... and it all gives the story a nostalgic American air about it, as if we're not really watching what happened, but how we remember it, or merely wish it all was. The music is moving and emotional. (You still hear it today in sports montages, used as a go-to musical track when a star athelete's bio is relayed in hush, impressed words.) And the characters, with the bad guys in black and the good guys in white -there's even a quirky, one-eyed sage and a storied baseball bat in place of a sword- reach obvious mytholigical heights.

The film was criticised for its overwrought sentimentality and fantastical indulgences, but so what? It's baseball, after all, and wasn't that the point? All this to say that, we're human. Life is in the way all the livelong day, and stubborn facts bog us down. What we want is the Legend. Or, perhaps, just a Standard. Take the boring, bungled facts of our daily lives, and bend them into an arc that shows purpose, intent, passion, sincerity, and maybe, if we could, some integrity. Please.


I actually watched baseball this year. It was a bit of a struggle, I admit, since I wasn't born with the sports gene and still don't grasp the rules and strategies of the game, but I have a knowledgable spouse and a passionate 6-year-old who are more than willing to clue me in.

The Dodgers went to the World Series! I grew up outsdide of L.A. so, hey, they're my team. And the World Series is, you know, important, so I watched with the family. They lost. We'll get them next year.


~

Thursday. And the first Thursday of the month. Streetsweeper Day.

Seems appropriate, this being the day after a particularly raucous Halloween scene in our neighborhood. I went full-bore yesterday on the house decorating. Boarded up the windows and dumped trash on our lawn. Neighbors drove by with raised eyebrows, and I got a solid approving smirk from the recycling truck driver, who was tempted to whip the can down off the truck at a mechanized speed that would create a windy whiplash of papers all a-flying. He didn't.

And it's Streetsweeper Day. Where we blow through this life and try and put some pieces of things back together. This old blog hit a sandbar nearly a decade ago, and has foundered since. Looks a little rusty, as I make my way through the cabin and sift through forgotten remnants of times past. There's a few other blogs in here, once started and soon abandoned. Old posts never posted. These things have just hung out there in the Interland, taking up space, darkening the Cloud.

Unfinished projects are my bane, and I've accumulated so many of them over this last decade that I swear my joints are finally giving out under the weight of them all. Old projects, with their half-baked inspiration, started and abandoned, still hold sway over a part of me. I've got an old garden, weedy and unkept. (When the sprinklers broke down I just walked!) I've got new parts on my work bench, that go on that old boat. I've got work materials, piled en masse, the same on this office desk. I've got breakfast to make for myself, (which I always skip and always pay for) and I've got unfinished exercise goals, unfinished business, unfinished laundry. And old relationships, long diminished, for lack of a single phone call.

Honestly, I'm surprised this old Blogger machination still works (does it?) Seems the world gave up on The Blog over a decade ago, in favor of the stripped-down, dumbed-down, mindless input of The Facebook machine -an appliance so misused over time that the simple (otherwise necessary) truths of communication and friendships were tossed thoughtlessly onto a cultural ash heap, and the real value of words and images kindling for its holocaust. Because Obama! TRUMP! These are crazy times.

That Streetsweeper just went by my window, as it has every first and third Thursday of the month since I've lived here, these fifteen years. The parking attendant drives close behind, and behind him those half awake pajama clad neighbors, moving their cars out of the way in our bi-weekly cul-de-sac parade. I suspect the Streetsweeper himself sees a few more candy wrappers on this Thursday, more than usual. And broken pumpkins, Halloween paraphernalia, holiday excess, which built up, wound up, reared back, and POPPED last night, in a frenzy of childhood memories made, and kept. The Streetsweeper moves ever-forward, unstoppable. I hear the rumble and hum of his machine in the distance, and he slows only for some larger pile of trash, or a car in the path -the car whose driver was unstirred this morning (after a heady night) to get up and move it, to get in line behind him. To get in that parade that trails the Streetsweeper, Grand Marshall of the Suburbs. A parade the Streetsweeper never slows for, pays no mind to, and never sees from the sidelines.


~

There was a sign near the Lake Sonoma boat launch ramp, erected, no doubt, by concerned park rangers. It read: “Lake Sonoma Drownings This Year”. And the next line had one of those removable-amendable placards currently reading the single digit: “1”. And then it was followed with an earnest tag line: “Don’t Be Next!” 

I didn’t want to be next, but the only way to honestly guarantee that would be to just not do the IronMan altogether. And here I was taking my chances. And now I’d been warned.

Those bright red floating pylons extended clear out to a distance where you could barely make them out anymore. If you, in fact, survived the swim all the way out beyond the dock, curving out to the right and under the big bridge, and then stroked all the way to the marina on the opposite shore and around the two buoys, and then made it all the 1.2 miles back to the boat launch ramp… well, then you had to do it again. It seemed impossible, and yet here I saw a select few Ironmen out swimming it, for kicks, the day before the race, and I marveled at them. I really wasn’t sure I could do it, and by “do it” I mean, actually swim that far. I remembered how scared I was swimming that 500 meters, beyond the breakers, off the coast of Camp Pendleton a year ago, and the lifeguard on a paddleboard, eyeing me diligently, calling out with a serious voice: “ARE YOU OKAY?” I responded yes, because I wasn’t drowning. Yet. But I intended to paddle on. And here, looking out over Lake Sonoma now, standing next to BG -ex-lifeguard, ex-swim instructor, ex-surfer, my neighbor who talked me into this: BG- I tried to keep a cool grin going, and remember that I swam at the gym a couple weeks ago for two full straight hours, with no significant breaks… but that was a pool, four feet deep, and this was a lake. A lake where THE LOCAL OFFICIALS COUNT THE DROWNINGS EVERY YEAR. Still, I had that thin buoyant neoprene swim skin to rely on. My wet suit. That cool looking black, sea-lion hide, with reflective stripes, that my loving wife bought me for my birthday. I’m still not sure if she did it to encourage me to take on the challenge of the Ironman, or because she was worried about me, but either way I appreciated the gift of that 3/8 inch of air-filled plastic that interceded between me and drowning. Between me, and some anonymous public servant having to go out one summer morning and morosely change up the number on the sign, demarcating my mid-life, with this pant-shitting endeavor, and labeling it: “2”.

~

It was all BG’s fault. He talked me into it, although, in his defense, it had always been in the back of my mind. I’m up to 22 marathons, and was perhaps getting a little bored with the challenge. I’d known several people over the years who had completed the challenge of an Ironman, which is a triathlon event consisting of a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike ride, and a full 26.2 mile marathon, completed in under 17 hours. It sounded “fun”, but I was always a runner -I’ve never owned a bicycle with more than a single gear and I didn’t learn to swim until I was in my teens. (I have a thin build with little to no body fat. I can run, but I float like a handgun.)

BG, on the other hand, describes himself as something of an ex-soccer player/lifeguard/tango dancer/helicopter pilot, and his general enthusiasm knows no bounds. He ran his first marathon with me a few years back, and seemed to love every second of his back-of-the-pack 5+ hour race. So, when the idea of the IronMan came up, there was little hesitation: “Yes! Let’s do it!”

It sounded fun. Of course, you don’t just roll out of bed and swim a few miles, and then bike a hundred more, not to mention the running. There was training involved. A serious time commitment. We both have kids, spouses, businesses, extraneous obligations. I didn’t have any of the proper equipment. Something was going to have to give. But BG is smart. He knew he needed someone to share the commitment with, someone to share the blame when he disappeared for weekends at a time on those century rides. And here I was. I was The Mark, he was the Hunter, and we were both going to go down. BG’s my neighbor, so it was easy for him to show up at my house every few days , while the kids play. He’d bring a beer or two, rest on my porch deck, pour out a bottle into a pint glass and hand it to me, and then nonchalantly bring up the idea, “So… what do you think about the IronMan?” 

But, hell, I’d always wanted to do it, was approaching mid-life, and it was kinda on my mind, so he was more of a ‘predatory fisherman’ and I was an easy carp. I flopped over and signed up for a short one.

We began with that little local triathlon on Camp Pendleton. “Semper Tri”, as it is called. It consisted of a short 500 meter ocean swim, a 20 mile bike ride, and a 3 mile run. Three miles! That was something I do every other day! No problem. I pulled out my old, dusty surfer wet suit (I hadn’t surfed since before I had kids -maybe ten or eleven years ago) and rolled out my mountain bike, a Father’s Day gift from a few years back, when the kids were learning to ride bikes, and got up early on race day. BG was there out front, all smiles, and we threw the bikes in the back off the truck and headed down to the beach.

~

“A mountain bike. That’s hardcore.” a woman said to me as I set off into the pack. Well, backof the pack. The swim had slowed me down somewhat. Remember, I had the lifeguards worried. And as I jogged out of the surf, clutching my soul and thanking God I had survived, I noticed I wasn't precisely dead last. There was another man, perhaps ten years older than me, jogging alongside in the sand. He shook his head, laughing in my direction. “Well, that was a helluva thing! Like a washing machine!” And he was right. There were waves. Real waves. Every other arm stroke slapped the chop hard on top, with the others feeling like they missed the surface of the water entirely. Your body felt like it was moving up and down more than forward, and emerging from the surf I found it difficult to run in a straight line, on the sand…

~

I have to say, I’m surprised the thing has registered over 5000 plays on Vimeo, though I always knew it was going to be beautiful if I did, in fact, get the shot. And I had always intended for it to be a personless set piece that showcased the idyllic camp in Buttonshell Cove. I guess it never occurred to me that the moment you take the faces out of the video, it immediately becomes accessible to the faceless patrons of the Internet, and those worldwide. Anyway, it’s nice. I’m glad people like it.

“GET THE SHOT!” was the Team Video chant/slogan/mantra for the week, with all its funny, drug-addled double entendre. Of course, none of the shots turned out as I had planned. I took the quad out and flew it around Tuesday morning as a sort of camera test, to see how I could move it around the pier and how the GoPro would expose the sunrise. I had planned to review the footage, make some mental notes, and shoot the thing for real later in the week but, alas, there was never another sunrise. Just cloudy mornings from there on out. So at the end of the week I went up and got the shot of the cross, hands shaking, and then went down and threw together an assemblage. I slapped the Coldplay song on it and called it Done.

I had heard the song months ago and immediately saw it in my head, the moving image tracking around the cross on Bible Peak, up and over, and revealing the camp below. And so I became obsessed with UAV photography on the cheap, and I feel blessed to have been able to procure the equipment. The song, “O (Hidden Track)” could be about anything, I suppose, but to me the flock of birds were all those people -high school kids and the groups of leaders- who just come and go, so beautifully, to this place, Camp Fox. And then there’s the serene flying imagery, so here we are.

I had so many other ideas for shots and got none of them. I should’ve used a neutral density filter, since everything seems slightly overexposed, but I didn’t. The tracking shot over the pier is much too long, but I didn’t have any other material to fill out the edit. I’m bothered by the people in it, since I wanted everything to be quiet, and a little desolate, with nothing but God’s beauty. I wanted to shoot the empty campfire circle, and the sun on the grand dining hall, but no. And then there’s my dopey self down below, in half the shots, looking up and trying not to crash. Oh well.

I rendered everything on the last night of camp and watched it and thought, “damn that is beautiful.” I thought of how lucky I was to be in such a beautiful place, and for 25 summers or so, and how blessed I was to get to capture it on film. The camp had a dance that night and then went up to the campfire circle. It was nearing midnight, and we lit a huge fire. I got my guitar and we all sang “At Camp Fox.” And then I spoke about camp, how it is like a slice of Heaven, and how the only way we’ve been able to do that all these years is by doing it under a cross, and so we have. Literally.

And then I showed the video, wondering if it was the last video I would ever show at camp, and if it was the last time I would ever speak at this campfire circle. And I suppose I have wondered that for the last 25 years.

~

Jake had a sincere desire to avoid desperation. Avoid it at all costs. And he didn't want to look desperate, or feel desperate, or even seem desperate, in that desperation, in and of itself, involved thoughtless/careless actions that usually led to disappointment. And yet he knew so many people who were desperate, and almost all of them, inevitably, did something noteworthy. Noteworthy in its stupidity. In that, the acts of desperate men ended up defining them, with complete disregard with whoever they were before they got so desperate that they acted stupid. Emerson said, most men live lives of quiet desperation, and that was just it. Jake did not want to be "most men". But he felt desperate all the same. And he fought it.

He fought it by working hard, and being quiet. By not saying the first thing that came to mind, and by avoiding people altogether when he knew that the desperation was bubbling to the surface. When that happened, the threat was near, and he was bound to do or say something so extraordinarily stupid, that there was no back-pedaling out of it. And when the desperation showed, it came out as anger, and he knew that having anger define him was a dangerous, character-destroying thing.

So he ran. He worked hard. He tired himself out. He held his dignity to the grindstone until the machine went dull. He wanted to be too tired to be desperate. Too tired to be angry. And if he had any energy left, he drank beer, which made him momentarily happy. And only one thing came of it, and they called it depression. 

So he feigned enthusiasm about things others felt passion for, but it came off looking merely crazy. And it's what your grandparents called "moody", but your college friends called "bi-polar". And that's when people really started to worry, so he shut up, and worked harder. Because there was at least some dignity in it -providing for your family. But he also drank more beer, and things remained out of balance, His life, he pondered one night at a brewery, was like this four-legged table, and one leg was taller than the others, so the whole thing wobbled. And what he was doing, he surmised, was putting a napkin under the apparent short leg to stop the wobbling, only to find that it still wobbled. So he would prop up the other leg, to no beneficial effect. And he would continue, working on all the legs, until he found that he had propped up all the legs with napkins, and beer coasters, and whathaveyou. And the table still wobbled. He wanted to grab the whole damn table and start cutting the legs, but he knew, somewhere deep inside, that if he started doing that, he would end up with a very short table.

A very short, wobbling table. So he wasn't sure what he needed, and came to the conclusion that he should talk to someone.

So the families got together one night at Jim's, down the street. And a few bottles of wine were opened and the barbecue was eaten and the parents got to talking and the kids ran in the yard, in the darkness, and Jim lit the firepit, and they sat around it and talked.

And the men outlasted the women, who retired inside, eventually, due to the cold, or the needs of the little ones. And the men of Outlander Court were left in primal huddle around the fire, in the dark. It got quiet, as long as the cups were full, and Jake suddenly felt the urge to reveal some small part of his desperation. Here was the moment. These guys would understand. And he was going to say something, wasn't sure what, opened his mouth, when...

"This has been a really tough year for me," said Jim.

Oh? thought Jake. And he replied in the manly way. "Hhhrrmm..."

And then Jim let loose. How he just couldn't take it anymore. How he was just barely hanging on. How he loved his family but had to quit his job, before he went completely insane. How this was gonna hurt, and how he was afraid no one would understand.

And Jake just sat there, altogether stunned and pissed. And he wanted to commiserate, but knew that if he said "I know how you feel, man" it would come off so careless and condescending, that he would lose Jim, like he'd lost the others. So he shut up and looked away. Which he knew also came off as careless, but which, also, men often understand as thoughtfulness.

Jim went on for a while, and he was earnest and heartfelt about it. And when he was done talking, Jake gave him a hand on the shoulder, and told him he'd help in any way he could, That all Jim needed to do was to ask. And Jim got up and hugged him.

And in that hug, Jake felt the last life sap out of him. He'd given away the last little bit of what he had.

And he was scared that he was done for.

The old man in the walker worked in construction. He built this suburb and planted those pine trees on the median of Peacock Hills Estates. One day, it was hot, and he was young and lazy, so he instructed his men to take it easy. They didn't dig through the clay -the caliche- deep enough, only a mere foot or two. And when they planted the tree, it took to the ground okay, but the roots never went deep, they ran shallow. And after about twenty years or so, you could see the rise in the asphalt. Cars would hit it with a goodly WHABUMP, but locals knew instinctively when it was coming, and they would slow appropriately, when their brain sensed the correct amount of drive time elapsed since the last intersection. After the first few times, no one noticed anymore.

Chin had tripped over the rise in the sidewalk slab, and Mike1819 saw her do it and ran to help. She didn't recognize him, in the shirt that he'd grabbed from the debris out front of the FOR SALE house. This is how they became friends. After he cleaned himself up.

Jake was installing fake grass just up the street, and had hit one of those roots and had to dig around it and have it manually removed, one hot day, as he cursed the sun, and the man who planted that tree, who was just passing by in his walker and Jake didn't recognize him.

After Jake cut that root, the tree began to go brown, and he noticed it on his run. The fake grass, and the dying tree, in an ironic reflex, and it bothered him. And later that year, when the Santa Anas came  that October, the tree went down,and the drunk college students coming home late from a party didn't see it, and crashed. While recovering from the hospital, the Dude decided to ask his girlfriend to marry him, and kicked his frat buddies out of the house. 

Then the kid and his girl had a baby, at the same time as Jake and his wife, and the kids maybe became good friends.

Mike1819 is the old man's son. They had a falling out. Araceli Flores asked if she could pray for the old man, since she saw him in the walker. He said No, pray for his son, whom he hasn't spoken with in years, and who lives a mile away. And she did, and he met Chin, and his life was changed.

But she prayed all the same. She prayed for the car that drove too fast, asking The Lord to reveal to them their unsafe speeds, and to call to their attention that small children lived on this street. This fast car, or that one, inevitably parked in front of the small house with the college kids living in it. A parent bought the home as an investment property, and then the twenty-somethings moved in, setting up TVs and turning their garage into a workout/party room, complete with punching bag and kegerator. Some Fridays would have all night parties, and the other neighbors scowled, as young adults would laugh and yell at midnight, going to and from their cars.

Araceli would pick up beer cans in the morning, and pray everyone made it home safe.

She prayed for the young couple with no children. The couple who often stumbled in late at night, and left for days on end. She could tell: there was no car in the driveway, and newspapers piled up, along with little baggies with pebbles and business cards in them, tossed by landscapers looking for work. She prayed for this couple because she once found an empty pharmaceutical pill bottle labeled “CANNABIS”, and she hoped that the children had not gotten into it, as it was empty.

She prayed for the woman on the street whose husband had up and left since. And though the marriage had been hard, the punishment of unwitting abandonment was something late night television had a hard time easing. 

Araceli knew. She saw the light coming from the window, late at night.

She would pray for Jake, though he didn’t know it. She saw him with his kids out front, from time to time, and could tell he was just tired. Sunburnt, unshaven, and sometimes wincing as he picked the little ones up. He usually smiled, and she appreciated the small bit of energy he spent on her being cordial, friendly, but it was clear that his desperation was too much to hide. And she prayed for him. 

Araceli was a superhero, and her super-power was that she could see right through anyone. So she made her way around the cul-de-sac, walking, praying. And to an outsider, she appeared as a harmless, unassuming woman, whose well-behaved teenagers were getting ready to leave the nest, and she was happy about it. But she didn’t pray out loud, and she didn’t move her lips, so no one knew the truth. Which was that she was saving the world.

~

And as we pulled into the driveway with little Landon sitting there, face-forward, with an expectant look on his face, Jake checked him in the rear-view mirror. Landon raised his little finger, pointed, and said his third word.

“home.”

"Where do they go? I mean, in the daytime?" asked Christina. "You would think that you would see them all the time, but no." 

And just then, as if summoned by some heretofore unnoticed power in her simple human voice, was a coyote standing in the middle of the street, mouth open, tongue out, looking directly at them with what looked like a sly, animal smile. They took a slight step back, wondering if they should prepare for a canine attack-

But the coyote clearly determined and knew instinctively: Not a threat. And it trotted to the side of the road.

Ben and Christina just stood there, stunned. They watched the coyote non-chalantly make its way around the side of the house, and then the thing leaped -straight up- and over what must have been a six foot fence. It was impressive. And it had disappeared.

Christina whispered, "Was that it? Was that the one?"

"No. I doubt it," said Ben. "They travel in packs. It could be..." and then he realized he didn't really know what he was talking about. This coyote ran alone.

"Man. I've never seen a dog jump like that," Ben tried to change the subject line.

Christina looked at him with her BS meter red-lining, but she didn't say it. "I can't believe we were just talking about coyotes, and then BAM. A coyote."

"Well, that's the damnedest thing," said Ben,

Christina just sighed. "Yeah." 

And they moved along.

~

But Ben and Christina's cat had, in fact, not been killed by a coyote. Their cat, Cliche, had been intentionally driven over by Saul Indergand. He was almost drunk, or close enough, as he left the local brewery and took side roads home (to avoid the Friday night DUI checkpoints) to his 2500 square foot, high-ceilinged, fully IOS-automated home in the suburb closer to the beach. 

He'd had a few "double" IPAs, brewed by the local hop geniuses, and after that he'd decided to drive by the old house, the one he'd sold at top dollar to that nice couple with no children. The suckers went for it, he recalled fondly when asked, and it was his ticket out of there. Out and away. Away from the Naked Runner, the annoying evangelists, and away from his insufferable wife. Out of that neighborhood forever, if he could help it. "To a better suburb."

Except that's where the good beer was. So he went back, for the beer, from time to time. 

The brewery was in a non-descript, low-rise industrial park, as was the fashion in the area. Guys made beer, and they did it well. Well enough that they needed no 50 inch flatscreens over the shwanky mahogany bar, nor granite countertops in the Men's Rooms. No, they made good beer. The men would come, these brewers thought. And they did. Others came, too.

Saul was asking for another, and the bartender took personally his moving. "No! I try and get back here whenever I can! You guys know I love your IPAs more than anyone's!" and the kegworker just handed him another "large" taster. He remembered the story. Had heard the whole thing, and had had it recounted to him by other employees.

"It's just..." and Saul looked off into the distance, (though the walls were mere feet away.) 

"Ever since Roxy was killed. Taken. When that guy ran her over so intently. It was obvious that he hated her. So I had let her crap on his lawn once. Or twice. What of it?! I usually picked it up!"

The bartender drew the conclusion, at this point, that Roxy was a dog, though Saul Indergand had always spoken of her as if she was a cat. It made no sense, but neither did he care, otherwise. He had beers to pour. When he tuned in again, Saul was still talking.

"I guess everything fell to shit right after Roxy was taken. I've never really made the connection, exactly. But after I lifted her bloody, lifeless body from the street. And looked around to see who would come... Saul stopped at this point in the story. Always did. And finished the last finger in his pint.

"I just..." He trailed off.

BING BING BING BING! The bartender had rag a bell. "A NEW KEG IS BEING TAPPED! LIFT YOUR GLASS!" and everyone gathered around to see the brewmaster emerge with several odd tools. He made his way smiling, amidst applause, to a formal, ceremonial oak barrel, (though the beer had mostly come from the warehouse-sized steel fermenters standing nearby) and he popped a rubber bung out and jammed a tap into its hull. Everyone cheered, and beer was poured.

And Saul, quiet in the corner, holding back what may have been a single tear, thumbed his iPhone and pulled up a photo of "Roxy". A small Irish terrier with a simple canine grin. 

He leaned to the celebratory group next to him. "This is Roxy." He sobbed.

"TO ROXY!" the nearby boys yelled, and the entire beer hall responded.

"ROXY! HO-HO-HO!"

And Saul left, somewhat insulted. He took the old roads home, and drove by the old house on Outlander Court, offended by what they'd done to the place. He'd planted that tree! And now where was it? And why'd they repaint? And those new vinyl windows were an abomination. He was especially angry that they'd torn out the driveway and had it replaced with pavers. He'd poured that driveway himself, mostly, one spring weekend. And now it was gone. So were the handprints that he and his wife, Chin, had impressed in the corner. And the dog prints. They were gone, too.

So he hit the accelerator and drove over the first pet he saw,

~

Araceli had a list, too, like Jake. Her list was numbered, and it was numbered on the curb of her street. 

Araceli Flores walked the cul-de-sac, praying for every house as she stroll past. It was not a habit for her, nor was it a ritual. But it could, she reasoned sometimes, be deemed a "discipline", as it wasn't easy. And she often found it difficult to justify that anyone on the street actually deserved it. 

It had been over a week since the cat was last seen, and it was time for Ben and Christina to deduce the obvious: coyotes got her. They hadn't had her for more than a few months, and were barely even committed to the name they'd given her ("Cliche") but now they were confronted with the decision on whether or not to replace her.

Christina was cleaning the litter box when she decided, No, and Ben nodded in agreement. The house was clean now, cleaner than it had ever been (at least, since the kids moved out) and neither of them could handle the responsibility of the litter box. The litter, pawed into the air and collecting in an uncleanable corner, where, set in stone -if it was possible- was the smell, unmistakeable, and unmoveable. The litter box sat in a cabinet in the guest bathroom. The door had been removed, so that the cat could wade in and out, and it seemed to suit everyone fine. Until now, where they found themselves with a completely defiled cabinet, one that must be destroyed, if not burned altogether to remove the smell. It's too bad, they thought, since the sinks were so nice. Maybe they could save the fixtures.

Then there was the matter of the poop itself, having to handle it, and move it off. Few things in life were less fun, than cleaning the litter box. So, No. No more cats. Their house would be clean again.

They had several perfectly labeled trash cans, as well as a compost bin. This was in addition to the "Yard Waste" and "Recyclables" containers they'd already had, as they separated their recyclables on their own and took them down the transfer station -the city couldn't be trusted with the pick-up. "How do they even separate them? How does a machine even know what is paper and what is plastic? I mean, seriously."

Christina just shrugged. Thought of the cat.

Their regular waste bin was never full, they recycled so much. Additionally, they had a compost bin in their back yard, where they composted old food, grass clippings, raked leaves. They saved the runoff water from the downspout on their roof. Several large barrels lined up on the side of the house collected water for the garden. Ben took great pleasure in shredding junk mail and old, useless phone books and composting those, too, when he could. And every Wednesday morning the two of them took to the neighborhood with their grabbing tools and plastic bags.

"I knew we should have kept her as an indoor cat," complained Christina. Ben just shook his head, thinking of the guest bath, as he picked up a plastic water bottle and put it in a separate bag, to recycle later.

"I heard a pack of coyotes just last night. I was up at 3AM to get a glass of water, and you could hear them yipping and howling out across the field. It was erie. I wonder why they do that. But it sounded like there were fifty of them," said Ben.

Chin had a perfectly structured life. Each morning, at dawn, she would brew a cup of green tea, don her cream jumpsuit and headset. She would listen to the same AM radio news channel, and then begin walking, at the same pace, down the block, up the street, around the corner, and back again. About 1.8 miles. Sometimes Jake would run right past her, and she wouldn't even notice. Just moves straight ahead, eyes down, arms swinging, hand in fists, listening intently to the radio.

When she'd arrive home she'd work on the garden. Her backyard, walled in from the outside world by a high fence and tall, shaped pine trees every three meters, was perfectly square. A well-manicured path of stepping stones led from the sliding door to the yard's center, where one long rectangle of perfectly raked gravel was off to the right, and three large boulders of diminishing size lay to the left. The boulders were well-placed, and half buried, cleverly arranged to look perfectly natural and, somehow, placed there with purpose. One small pagoda was erected at the far end of the gravel strip, and a bonsai'd tree stood astride it. And in a far corner was a water feature: a large basin with a gently knocking shi-shi-odoshi -a handmade Japanese contraption with a freely swinging bamboo arm that would fill slowly with water on one end, fall under its weight, empty out and lift back up, while making a soothing knock onto a sounding rock with its other end when it fell back down. The basin would intentionally overflow with water, which would drip down the sides, watering the unique grasses at its base, fomenting a nice copper patina in the basin, and frosting it with a pretty green moss.

Creeping thyme grew delicately between the stepping stones, and pine needles fell from the trees. The pine needles needed to be swept, daily, or so she was instructed by her Zen therapist.

So she did, each day. And on Thursdays she would rake the gravel in perfect lines of a different direction, according to the whims of her internal compass This was supposed to be a "therapy". And it never worked. Because managing your anger in the face of all of life's wrongs takes more than a daily raking up of pine needles and pea gravel, or a quiet 11 minutes staring at three, well-placed rocks.

Her husband had left her abruptly two years ago. But she was left to manage the donut shop a few miles down the boulevard, and so was forced to find another home in the same neighborhood. And no one had ever seen the garden, which cost her a donut-load of money to have installed. The teenagers who worked the shop provided enough of a hassle for her to never miss having children. She kept so busy managing them, that she never noticed that she had no friends.

Until one afternoon when Mike1819 was staggering back from the AM/PM and was so drunk he he'd turned down the wrong street and just decided to keep going. Halfway down the block he felt the urge to empty his bladder, and looked both ways and ducked behind a bush next to a fence. Standing there, quietly relieving himself, he was startled by a knocking sound coming from the other side of the fence. Fearing he'd been spied, he zipped up and shut up for a minute, and then the "knock" happened again. He stood still, arresting himself, and tried to not sway with the always intrusive spinning of the world. And in that moment of stillness and small fear, he saw something extraordinary between the fence pickets, and it would change everything.

The most beautiful backyard he had ever lay eyes upon. A locale so serene that the distant resonating of the Music of the Spheres could be heard, and he was drawn in. He could not resist, but, no, there was nothing to resist at all. He was plainly drawn in, and out of the suburbs, for a moment, where time stopped.

The sight of an overweight drunk man in belt-less, oversized pants in the middle of the day was enough for anyone to call the police, but to see him coming over your back fence begged you to get a firearm out of the closet. Luckily, Chin missed the ignoble maneuver, as she was in the bathroom herself, and was getting ready to change into some work clothes.

But in her backyard, Mike1819 was dumbstruck in a moment of near religious proportions. He just stood there silently, gazing at the weave of lines in the pebble bed, and quietly taking it all in. He found himself taking one small step, and then stopping. And then another step. And soon a peacefulness settled over him, unlike anything he'd felt in ages. And standing there, emptying his heart into the water basin, he was reminded of something. A distant memory floated to the surface. Something he'd not thought of in twenty-six years. It was just beginning to take form in his head, and then his eyes welled up with tears, though he hardly noticed it...

Chin came at him with a large wooden Zen rake, screaming. It was a Karate-type yell that came from deep inside. The yell itself was birthed in her youth, by her father's instruction, but the passion behind it came from something more imminent, however detached. 

Mike1819 almost fell over and out of his pants, and would've pissed himself if he hadn't already taken care of that, but the rake was on its way. He grabbed his pants, she went for his head.

With a thwack he went down, like a sack of hams, and was totally stunned, as if he were in church and a SWAT team had suddenly stormed mass. She thwacked him repeatedly, and yelled something he couldn't understand. After a second or two of the beatings, he began to apologize and try and talk her down, but nothing seemed to work.

Mike1819 got to his feet, and stumbled back onto the Zen pebbles -which pained him to do so and only exacerbated the woman. He tried to walk off the rocks, like the padawan on rice paper, trying not to break it. He failed. The woman kept screaming, and it was unintelligible, but he had a moment of clarity and recognized the part of the fence where he had jumped over, and he went back for it. She got another thwack in, which didn't hurt him, but when he got to the other side of the fence, down on all fours beneath the pine trees and very near the puddle of urine he'd made only moments earlier, he was certain she'd be phoning the police, so he started running.

A few blocks into it, huffing and sweating like never before, he remembered where he was, and he took a turn and made his way home, not wanting any more trouble.

Chin did not call the police. She stopped. Found it in herself to be calm, having seen the fear in the man's face. Clearly he was not a threat. She told herself not to be angry. She told herself to look at the stones. She saw the pebbles. The broken lines. She told herself to rake them.

And then she went back to work at the donut shop, with the teenagers who drove her nuts.

Mike, meanwhile, sat on his torn couch, with the curtains drawn. For once, he didn't feel like having a beer. He wasn't sure what he felt, but he knew one thing for certain.

He just had to get back to that garden.

Desperately insecure, with a deep-seated anger that lay dormant, one could tell. He'd often say others were angry, when they weren't, and he wore a smile that was suspicious, if only for its constant presence. Mike1811 had a terrible sense of humor, and you found yourself using a different laugh around him. The one laugh that placates and accepts, but is dishonest in its own right, for its lack of pleasure. What was scary was you could tell Mike1811 knew this, and then was insulted, but he'd keep smiling. At block parties, someone would make an honest joke, and get an honest laugh, and Mike1811 would follow with a cliche'd turnabout, the group laugh would suddenly change pitch, shuffle its feet, and eyes would cast to the side and down, until someone saved the moment, with real humor. Mike1811 resented it, clearly, every single time.

Sample joke: you are mowing the front lawn on a hot day, trying to get the task done, tired anyway from the work week. You don't really want to be mowing the grass, but it's got to get done, when a car pulls up. It's Mike, in sunglasses, rolling down the window and smiling from the interior. He calls out, "Hey! When you're done there, can you do mine?!" and you can't hear him over the mower. You try to ignore it. He honks. You shut off the mower, stop, look up, and he says it again: HEY WHEN YOU'RE DONE THERE CAN YOU COME OVER AND DO MINE?!

How would you respond? You kind of feel sorry for the guy, and you don't want to set him off. And it would be handy to have a perfect retort, and as well you should, since he used this same line on you last year. But you just stand there like a dope, sweating in the sun, trying not to take it personally. You laugh along. And then you fire up the mower as he begins to say something else, and give it a little gas to drown out any excessive blather.

Jake got the line recently: "HEY, WHEN YOU'RE DONE THERE..." and he immediately pivoted the whole mower and pushed it across the street, blades spinning. He rocked it right up the curb, and one could hear metal on concrete as the mower blades nicked the edge of the sidewalk, and the sweat beaded and fell from his nose as he just started mowing Mike1811's lawn. Back and forth, front to back, and with fervor and zeal. Mike 1811 was startled and began to shake, not knowing how to handle it. He couldn't get out of his car, and had to drive down and whip it around in the cul-de-sac, since he'd been facing the wrong way. By the time he made it to his driveway, Jake was about halfway finished with the grass. Mike1811 got out and waved his arms, "Whoa! Hold on! I was just joking!" and Jake looked up and smiled, "oh! Sorry!" and he turned and forcefully pushed his mower back across the street. Went back to mowing his own lawn, with a delicate touch, keen on the edging. And he saw Mike1811 out of the corner of his eye, standing in the middle of his half-mown lawn, shocked, and wondering who to blame, or if someone should be.

It's hard to keep the desperation at bay, sometimes, in the suburbs. And if there is a consistent trait among neighbors, its the existence of it. The difference is in how it manifests, how it presents itself, and if it can withstand the daily battle. Jake thought about his own desperation, and how he kept it in a box. And then he supposed that the other Mikes kept theirs in boxes, too. And Mike1811 looked like he was paying a steep price for it. Jake was gonna have to do something before it was too late. Something more than, say, get a bigger box. 

~

There was an earthquake. Water was shaking out of the aquarium, and there was nothing Jake could do about it. He felt it was about to burst, as walls in his living room clearly cracked, drywall dust shimmering down from the ceiling. The kids were screaming upstairs. No, it wasn't upstairs. They were in the 4Runner, and his wife was peeling out of the driveway and racing off with them. The asphalt was cracking, and telephone poles were swinging, back and forth, sparks flying from their wired tops.

Then Jake heard a loud noise, it was Phil in his helicopter, landing there in the middle of the cul-de-sac. Phil, calm and hidden behind his sunglasses, put the craft down and waved for Jake to come get in. Jake did, and threw on the passenger headset, though the wires hung everywhere, and he could hear nothing. Phil leaned over him and slammed the door, then lifted off and flew over the valley.

The earth was still quaking, and Jake could make out some crashed cars, a fire, and a broken fire hydrant shooting water into the air. Phil seemed to be in a hurry, and flew like a rocket over the homes, out across the suburbs. Then he said something and Jake couldn't hear him. They couldn't communicate, and Phil pointed off to the horizon. Jake didn't understand at  first, but then he saw it. It was The Sleeping Giant, and he was awakening. 

The Giant lifted its huge head, and boulders came tumbling off it, in slow motion. He lifted one knee, and then the other, and then sat up, leaning back on his right elbow, and as he did this, homes went crashing down the hillside, off of him. The aluminum lattice cover that Sean had built, undulated over the Giant's crotch like a patterned loincloth, and the Giant reached up and grabbed the corner of the nearby Guajome golf course, sliding the entire swath of greenery up and over his thigh, and then he gently lay himself back down. Slightly askew. And then, as it had started, with wonder and awe and terror, the quakes subsided, and the Giant went back to sleep. 

But Jake had woken up, and the day was gonna start early. There was no more going back to sleep after that.

At the end of the day, Jake saw the Sleeping Giant out there, from the freeway. The Giant looked different somehow. Farmland around the leg area must have been re-worked. Tilled to a new color, with varied striations in the hillside. But Jake was certain it was something else, The Sleeping Giant was uneasy.

~

And then there's Mike1889. No one had ever met him, and he is only discussed. He lives, or so we think, in the house at the bottom of the street, the one near the entry. The one with the perfectly manicured lawn and meticulously squared-off hedges. The shades are drawn, the exterior lights are on timers. There is rarely a trash can out front on Tuesday mornings, and no paper is ever delivered. Jim, down the way, has been asked -via email- if he didn't mind parking his car in Mike1889's driveway three nights a week. Any three nights, he said. "Want to make it look like someone is home." 

But there was never anyone home. And Mike1889 was a cypher of a neighbor. Jim, who lived across the street said he couldn't complain. No dogs, no trash. No wild parties. One time a sprinkler broke -probably sheered off by a gardener- and water shot up into the air a good eight feet, at precisely 5AM every other morning, Jim sent Mike1889 an email regarding the episode and offered to fix it, since he was a handy guy. Mike said thanks, and Jim found a blank envelope stuck in his doorjamb the next day, with a crisp $100 bill in it.

Mike1889 is a thing of discussion at every block party. He's an easy target, like the weather, or the street sweeper. Who is the guy? Where is the guy? Jim says he doesn't care, as long as the street is safe. But Jake imagines the guy is an international traveler, with properties in the suburbs on every continent. He keeps the one on Highlander court as an extreme cover, since no one would ever look here for him. You can disappear in the suburbs, Jake says. Think about it: every house looks the same.

Or perhaps there is no Mike1889, as Pleather says. Perhaps the place is owned by the NSA or DARPA or some dark government agency, and Mike is a made-up man, to draw in the bait, whatever it may be. "I've seen the black helicopters flying over his house!" exclaims Pleather, and every laughs, because it seems like a joke. But when Pleather goes to get another beer, Phil leans in to all of us. "My helicopter is black. I fly it over the cul-de-sac all the time. Just for fun." We crack up.

Just for fun, we decide to change the name of our WiFi networks, and see if anyone will notice. Jim sets his to "COUNTYSURVEILLANCE" and Jake sets his to "FBI_CUSTOMER". They spend the rest of the night laughing over other ones.

~

Pleather is smarter than all that, which is why no one knows his real name and we just call him Pleather, because someone called him that once. Pleather is a smart man, tall. Lives alone at the top of the street in one of the bigger 1700 square foot models. He's got a lot of computer equipment in there, which he uses to design and manage websites. We worry about him. He's a nice guy, but he works at home and never gets out. He needs a tan. Needs to exercise. He spends a lot of time in his head, unfortunately, and -though he obviously doesn't believe in them- is an authority on end-of-the-world doctrines. Give him enough beer and he'll spout out about Niburu for ten miutes (Niburu is the exo-planet that is in another dimension but is on a collision course with earth.) He'll explain why the Y2K disaster was narrowly averted by a group of outlayers in Montana, friends of his. He knows when every eclipse is coming, when every  scheduled meteor shower is, and from time to time will tell you the news at night when you're taking out the trash, even though you didn't ask, but it will be tomorrow's news. And you'll see it on your Home Page when you click on in the morning.

Pleather makes his own beer, and everyone loves it. Every third Sunday or so he is out there in the garage with the pimped out Turkey fryer, brewing a new batch. You can smell it over the lawn clippings, while you're doing yardwork, and you can't help but go across the street and ask him what's up, because you just know he'll pour you a pint of his last batch. (It's not always good, but it's always beer.)

Inevitably, other neighbors will happen by and join in. He'll be stirring the 5 gallon pot, tossing in handfuls of flowered hops, and pouring himself home brew, all the while talking us up about the latest global fears, earth-shattering revelations about an intrusive government, and the one-off Mayan revelation that disturbs (and humors) us all. He's Pleather. There's no one else like him. You've got to have one on your street. Because when the Apocalypse hits, you-know-who-is going to have the survival gear handy. Including, and especially, the beer.