Receptions

“Hi there! Name something that stays in pieces no matter how often you put it together.”

I hadn't even heard the Cutlass Cierra pull up behind me as I was attempting to fish the lone circular out of my mailbox while avoiding the colony of red ants inside waving their antennae with interest in the direction of my fingers. 

The tiny telltale windows of cataract surgery scintillated through the lenses of her gold framed eyeglasses as my elderly neighbor regarded me turn the riddle over in my mind. 

While the riddle had me momentarily stymied, I was more amazed with how the woman could speak with just the slightest of mumbles and maintain a firm purchase on the cigarette tucked into the corner of her mouth. 

“Umm, I’ll have to think on that one.” I finally replied.

I’d never been great at guessing games, I was a linear thinker, and having someone unexpectedly lob one at me while trying to avoid being swarmed by red ants wasn't helping me improve. 

My elderly neighbor chortled, which sounded a bit more like a wheeze than a laugh. 

“Let me know when you’ve figured it out! I live there in that house on the right.” 

As she drove off leaving me in a cloud of unfiltered tobacco smoke, I wasn't sure if her words had been a command or a request.

As unique as the encounter was, that had been my first neighborly visit. The only other activity I’d experienced was the neighbor to the left alternately scowling or looking stonily in our direction with her arms crossed like sturdy nunchucks. 

I had told my husband when he had expressed enthusiasm about buying the house, “You know, our reception probably won't be a very warm one. I don't think the people who live on this street are accustomed to having neighbors that look different than themselves.” 

My husband blinked with his long alpaca-like eyelashes then regarded me with an expression as if what I said was making hydrochloric acid and digestive enzymes surge up into his esophagus. 

The house was a good price in a location that was tucked into an area that afforded privacy. We were buttressed between undeveloped forested acreage tucked off of a tertiary road, yet only a five minute drive from the highway, a pharmacy, a grocery store, and a gas station. Convenience and business acumen prevailed.

I was accustomed to a less than warm reception from people who looked different than myself. My first encounter with this had been when I was five and had become friendly with a girl I rode the school bus with. We had bonded over our love of snack foods and late 1970s sitcoms. Mine was the only family of color living in the apartment complex

“I'm going to tell my Mom you're my new best friend!” she’d said excitedly one day as we lurched to a stop in front of the apartment building. We lived on the second landing and she lived down on the basement level. I was a little envious she had to jump over a puddle of water when it rained to get from her front door to the stairs that led out into the parking lot. There was little more I loved at age five than a rain puddle.

“Oh,” I responded to the unexpected news. It felt a bit sudden, but if sharing a half-melted candy bar split right down the middle didn't signify a deep and meaningful relationship, I didn't know what did. 

“I’ll tell my parents too.”

My parents responded to the news with muted expressions. I learned later that was their way of signifying that the reception probably wouldn't be a very positive one.

They were right, the next day, my new best friend broke up with me. 

“Mom said you can't be my best friend because we're not the same color,” she’d said limply.

Her mother had accompanied her to the bus stop in hair rollers and bathrobe to make sure the breakup news was properly and thoroughly delivered. 

“Oh,” I’d said again at the unexpectedness of her statement. 

“Does this mean we can't share candy any more?” 

She looked at her Mom for an answer. Her mother emphatically shook her head No, losing a hard green plastic roller in the process. 

Not knowing where else to look, we both watched the hair roller pickup momentum, at first lazily then determinedly, skittering across the blacktop, briefly snagging, then plummeting out of sight through the sewer drain opening. My former friend and I both clambered onto the bus that morning feeling confused and deflated. 

I had encountered several other situations as a grew to adulthood that shared a similar component but had learned to stop feeling confused and deflated and to manage both my emotions and the situation. 

I began to wave at my neighbor to the left who initially radiated ill-will. I made small talk that became more expansive each month. Slowly, her weapon-like stance began to relax. I focused on our similarities rather than our differences, we both loved dogs, one pot meals, and were lawn fanatics. We developed a friendly competition as to who would be the first to cut grass in the Spring and savored the win for the rest of the year. She also welcomed my dogs to poop on her lawn. 

“I don't mind sharing your dog crap if you don't mind sharing mine!” She became fond of saying. 

I turned my other neighbor's riddle over in my mind for a few weeks. The answer struck me as I was in the pharmacy walking past a game display towards the prescription pickup counter. 

Name something that stays in pieces no matter how often you put it together.

As I stretched my arm out to ring the doorbell, the flat rectangular box beneath my armpit rattled like uncooked rice being tossed into a saucepan.

“Hey, you figured it out!” My elderly neighbor opened her door, the omnipresent cigarette moving with the coordination of a conductor’s baton in the corner of her mouth. A mote of burning ash floated in my direction. 

“I can tell we're going to be good friends,” she enthused. 

I peered through the storm door, eyeing the dark cirrus clouds of smoke that hung in the foyer.

"I love working puzzles. I hope you'll come over often."

This reception was positive with one exception that could later, with repeated visits, cause me to develop reactive airway disease. I paused to think of a compromise.

“I bet the light will be better here on the porch to work,” I suggested gesturing towards the wrought iron table and chairs.

"There's a pleasant breeze blowing too."

That was a much more tactful way of stating the carbon monoxide to oxygen ratio would be considerably less outside rather than indoors.

I shook the box gently and the random pieces crunched together inside. 

“One thousand tiny pieces.”