TOPHER PAYNE | 3.19.2008
my
mother says on the phone. “You know that big old
scary house out off Highway 80 in Edwards?
Someone bought it.”
“Who? The Munsters? The Addams Family?”
“Even better,” she says, delighted. “We got
gays!”
Edwards, Mississippi is the nearest “town” —
and I use that term loosely — to my parents’ little
lakeside retreat where they now reside. It’s got
around a thousand people, so statistically, they’ve
probably had a few gays silently peppering their
Podunk for a while. But these gays are different.
They’re out and proud; they’re from New Orleans;
and they’re apparently interested in restoring
stately old homes in the middle of nowhere.
“Two of the girls from church saw them at the
Stop-and-Shop the other day. One of them’s older,
looks American, the other one’s younger. He’s
Spanish or possibly a Latin person, and he wears
those tight t-shirts like your friend George. Why
do they do that? It can’t be comfortable.”
“Did the church ladies actually speak to them?”
“Well, no. The girls didn’t want to bother them.
I assume they’re just going to keep to
themselves.”
“Now, Mama. If it were any other new couple in
town, you’d be over there with a housewarming
gift before they signed the closing papers.”
“I suppose that’s true,” she says. “But I’ve
never visited any gay people outside the family.
You know, you and Preppy, or one of your cousins.”
“Come on, don’t you wanna be able to say you
were the first one to meet them? And at the very
least you can find out their names and stop
calling them ‘The Gays,' which is really tacky.”
“Well, I could do a little basket. I have some
pear honey put away, and there’s homemade
bread in the freezer...”
November, and nobody’s stopped by with a freakin’
breadbasket. When my next door neighbor had a
tree cut down last month, Preppy and I did stand
on the back deck and watch. Preppy also gave her
a nod of greeting, which is something.
The small-town boy in me cries out for
neighborly interactions: borrowing cups of sugar
or various forms of yard-related equipment, or
checking in on pets while someone’s visiting their
sick aunt. My parents helped their next-door
neighbors capture fifty or so feral housecats that
took up residence in the neighbors’ renovation-inprogress.
My sister’s neighbors brought over
heavy machinery to get her yard ready for a
garden. I want stories like that.
But after a decade of urban living, I’m just at a
complete loss on how to get that ball rolling in
the suburbs. I briefly consider the possibility of
putting together my own gift basket and knocking
on doors.
But come on, y’all. That’s REALLY gay. I mean,
like Clay Aiken-level gayness. I just don’t know if I
can muster that kind of energy.
Once when I was living in Midtown, all the
neighbors came out when a house caught on fire,
and we all introduced ourselves. Someone showed
up with beer, and it was a pleasant evening. But I
think my boyfriend would frown upon me resorting
to arson just to get a block party started.
So basically, barring some unifying disaster,
I’ve gotta wait for a motivated lady to come
knocking. I wish there were some way to get the
word out to straights that it’s better for them to
make the first move.
“Well, get THIS,” she says. “Rodrigo, the one
in the tight t-shirts, is an actor and model, though
I don’t know what in the world he plans on doing
with that in Edwards. Our entertainment industry
isn’t exactly thriving, but I did tell him about the
community theater in Clinton.
And they couldn’t have been sweeter, said
they’d wanted to meet the neighbors but couldn’t
decide how to approach it. And the other one,
Frank, is a famous landscape architect. He
designed Ann Rice’s private garden, and he’s
coming over to look at our yard! I’m so EXCITED!”
“Well,” I say. “That sounds downright
neighborly.”
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