House of the Rising Sum

Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.~~rainer maria rilke

When my neighbor to the west strolled up the driveway I felt my shoulders edge up just a bit closer to my ears in the way they do when I worry. I wondered if she'd come over to tell me the "hood" had gotten together and decided the crazy lady across from the motorcycle guy (kitty corner from the five coeds and next to the rental owned by the famous beer company heir) had crossed the line this time. As if the eye-lashed and daisy-tailed VW beetle, the summer of the giant penis plant, and the rumored marijuana bust of 2005 weren't scary enough, now she'd gone and had her house painted in colors that belonged to San Francisco or Mexico or some other godforsaken place where dark-skinned foreigners, queers, and free-spirited hippie types live. People like the crazy lady at 270.

I was wrong. What she said was, "I really like your colors. It looks like such a happy house."

My shoulders relaxed and I curled my purple-flowered toes into the runoff from the waist-high pile of dirt in the driveway and smiled. "Really? You don't hate it? I bet Mr. B. hates it."

"No. He likes it. In fact it's pretty close to the color he'd had in mind for painting our house next year. Not quite as pink, not quite as intense, but kind of that same salmon vibe you've got going."

"It's called Hair Ribbon," I said. "The trim and awnings are Pacific Blue."

"It's inviting. Like you'd expect to walk up and find a tiny bistro in the front yard."

She glanced at the dirt pile.

"Oh, don't worry, this will disappear as soon as I finish wheelbarrowing it to the back yard. I'm pouring a patio, bit by bit." I winked at her. "Kind of how Mr. B built your deck a little at a time so the, ahem, city wouldn't get too curious."

"You've put a lot of hard work into keeping this place up."

"And a most of my earnings. Sometimes I think I should just sell and buy a condo."

Mrs. B threw her head back and laughed at the thought of me living under rules and regs of committees who wouldn't allow bright colors, wildflowers for a lawn, 4 animals, and a massage studio in the driveway. "We don't want you to move, Ellie. You're a good neighbor."

"Thanks," I said, as she wandered back toward her clean-cut beige house with beveled glass door and neatly-trimmed lawn. "So are you."

When she reached the curb she turned and nodded toward the Harley-riding neighbor across the street who hasn't painted his house in twenty years. The only saving grace is that it's several shades of chipped and cracked green, so it kind of fades into the mountain behind it.

"Don't ask D, by the way. He absolutely hates it," she said.

'Well, we're even then. These colors still aren't nearly as loud as his damn bike"

Just then, a black Jeep pulled up and dropped J off from his theatre gig at Cuesta.  He waved at our neighbor.

"Hey, Mrs. B."

He looked a me, the shovel, the wheelbarrow, and made a beeline for the house before I had a chance to ask for help with the dirt. When he reached the door he called behind him. "By the way, N says our house looks like an Andy Warhol painting."

I stood there thinking about how color is a reflection of one's emotions, how after a couple years of heartbreaking disappointments, I'd begun to bloom again. My house mirrors the happiness I've created within myself, by myself, in the months since choosing to remain un-partnered. My foundation feels stronger, my eyes like the new vinyl windows, clearer and brighter. Even my words tend to bear more load without caving in on themselves these days.

I heaved a shovel full of sand into the wheelbarrow, the blinding sun suddenly rising to mid-sky like a prom dress at the the owner's momentous reveal. Wiping my brow with the hem of my cotton skirt, I stabbed the blade into the middle of the dirt pile and headed inside for a cup of iced coffee. I fully intended to return to the task at hand, but the shovel's still there as I write this, a flagless pole celebrating nothing, waving at no one. Instead of moving dirt, I moved my fingers across mouse pad until I'd found and ordered the final touch to complete the shrieking, reckless smile on the face of my happy house.