By Calla Gold
The first time I saw the shiny bald head of our neighbor, Mr. Lovelace, I tried to imagine what the rest of his face looked like. I already thought him fussy, with the top of his head bobbing to the sound of his industrious broom, sweeping his decks at three each afternoon.
Standing at the edge of my second story dormer window, my limited view included our hedge of bougainvillea, the top bit of Mr. Lovelace’s ugly modern home, and his rectangular, same-height pine forest. The trees seemed to be laid out like eucalyptus plantations near the railroads before they realized the logs split and wouldn’t hold spikes. Mr. Lovelace also had the only gate on our private lane. It all said “Keep away,” to me. I figured he’d keel over if he knew he was living next door to a commune.
I’m Lili and me and my single mom moved here when I was fifteen. Henry and Ron, the dudes who my mom met at the Unitarian church in a group exploring the idea of communal living, bought the eight-bedroom fixer-upper in Mission Canyon. The Oakes, we called it, was a sprawling eighty-year-old, two-story, wooden Craftsman, tucked into a hilly Mission Canyon neighborhood. Nestled inside a bordering canopy of old oaks, pocked by woodpeckers and acorn-stuffed by squirrels, the house basked in the sun, shielded from the view of neighbors.
With all that privacy, came the touchy-feelie part of commune living; middle-aged nude sunbathers catching rays on our wide wooden deck. If I had a friend over, I’d herd them like an Australian Shepherd avoiding hot lava, taking the long way around to my bedroom. I’d made a friend at school named Jules. I hoped a visit to the house wouldn’t torpedo our slender connection.
My room hid at the far end of our second-floor unfinished attic; a cramped, slope ceilinged, haphazardly dry-walled nook. The dormer window and my thriving jungle of houseplants turned dinky into cozy and cute. I loved that that no else one wanted it. It crouched directly above Henry’s room. “Lili, do not make a ruckus. And be polite to Henry,” my mom said to me the day we moved in.
Henry was a funky-looking old dude. In my judgy way, I saw him as this unattractive, old, boring academic who’d ramble on about his subject without seeing that people listening were being polite.
One afternoon, I was trying to concentrate on doing my homework (maybe overstating my enthusiasm here,) when I heard what sounded like a wounded dog. Then I heard a wail that cut off. It was odd, because it was coming from Henry’s bedroom and he never made noise. He didn’t seem to have any friends either. Like I’d notice.
I told Mom about the bizarre noises coming from his room. She told me that Henry was taking a weekly sexuality course, and was probably doing homework with his new woman friend. Mom did that turn the key in the lock, don’t-tell gesture. Picturing his paunchy, naked, self, was bad enough, why would I tell anyone? I would have preferred never knowing he had sex at all. But I lived in a commune. And it’s hard to not know who’s having sex with whom with a bunch of horny Unitarians.
It was fine with me if Henry wanted to explore his sexuality. Not so fine with me was Sue, the sad sack, unattractive lady, who became a new member of our commune, living in Henry’s room. She dressed like thrift-store clothes-shopper, without any shabby-chic sensibility. Sue had some poky job, a shitty car with oxidized paint, and barely spoke. But put Henry on top of her and she shouted her joy of sex, like Tarzan calling the apes.
Now I know there’s a lid for every pot, but I did not enjoy listening to their frequent enjoyment of each other’s un-sexy bodies. Seeing them together in the kitchen or bumping into her in the bathroom was just a continuing string of awkward encounters. She’d get a hunted look, like I’d say something about a mousy ma’am like her sounding like a Las Vegas hooker going for the big tip. I know, I’m a terrible person.
The day came when Jules visited. Up in my bedroom, our quiet convo was interrupted by the gradient increase of half-heard moans. Our talk stopped, I closed my eyes, clenched my fists, and felt my face pull in like a prune. When Sue shouted at the peak of her sexual experience, I happened to look up and Jules’s eyes were wide and brimming with unshed tears. Her hands were clamped over her mouth to stop her laughter. We stared at each other and snorted and heaved in quiet mirth until we could control ourselves.
That cemented our friendship. Within a week, she’d stumbled onto the nude sunbathing, heard another commune member’s Primal Scream therapy session on the way to the bathroom, and joined us for dinner where the college professors expounded on the sociological underpinnings of our disintegrating society. She joined right in with a smile for everyone.
A month later, while trying to win a Walkman by selling gobs of candy bars for Madrigals, I rang the bell on the gate to Mr. Lovelace’s. The gate glided opened, and there he stood, in khaki pants and a collared shirt. Beneath his bald dome, his pale blue eyes looked over my shoulder. His lips had red patches as if he picked them, like mine.
“I live next door.” I pointed to the one bit of roof visible.
His eyes met mine, then looked down. His lips quirked a smile. He reminded me of Henry. Looking over his shoulder I saw multiple wooden bird feeders, sparrows darting back and forth, and seed sprayed out on the deck below.
“I like your bird feeders.”
He bought a dozen bars. He had a nice smile. I decided he was okay.
* * *
Calla Gold owned a jewelry design business for thirty-eight years. Her Indie non-fiction book: Design Your Dream Wedding Rings, From Engagement to Eternity, was released on Valentine’s Day 2019. Her recent short stories and novelette have been published in The Santa Barbara Literary Journal, Killer Nashville Magazine, and Confetti Magazine.
Calla resides in southern California with her husband and an assortment of mountain bikes.