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| Frozen blue snowball (oil pastel) |
I'm still technically on hiaitus, but every time it snows so much in DC, I'm reminded of this story I wrote after snowmageddon happened, around 2009... A really lopsided
snowball fight brings two taciturn DC neighbors together. Totally a
shameless re-post!
Dear Mr. Tannenbaum,
Please consider the following before you file criminal charges, or whatever:
A
few years ago, I also threw a snowball at Dr. Somiley. Maybe you don't
remember his family? They were at the open house. Dr. Somiley was a
dentist. Also, no one liked him either. Not that I don't... dammit, I
can't cross that out. I hate handwriting things, which means I have no
intention of re-writing this either. But considering how late it is
after being up all night, and that I want to get it through your mail
slot before you leave the house, I hope you will understand. Well, in
any case, like a lot of the more terrifying dentists, Somiley had one of
those names that matched his profession. It should have been my first
warning, I guess.
I
don't know why I aimed the snowball at the old man's head. I have a
wife and kids. I'm always telling them not to do it, because we can't
afford it if someone gets it in their eye and we have to go the
hospital. It's also the reason why we have a rule not to put rocks
inside of snowballs, because that possibly doubles the bill compared to a
regular snowball to the face. But it was right after that blizzard of
09. I hadn't done any Christmas shopping and we were stuck under two
feet of snow. The last weekend before the holiday and I had to spend it
shoveling out, that is, if anything was even open. The boys were
inside, going crazy, but I was the one who had to get waist deep in it
and make sure the walk was shoveled, salted, safe and all that. My wife
would have helped but she was sick with the flu. Then, that old
Somiley parks, gets out of his Cadillac, hobbling up the stairs to his
rowhouse somehow looking decently good. To this day, I have no idea
where he had been the previous night. Top hat, cane and all. I swear
to goodness, he looked like a black Mr. Scrooge to me, cursing at the
snow, scattering it with his cane, hating Christmas out loud
when--however it was going--I'd worked my ass off this year and it was
my one break before the big break. All two extra days of it. Did I
also mention that I was once stuck on crutches for about half the year
as a kid after I tore my ACL playing football? Defensive tackle for the
Carroll Lions. It was the Tiny Tim inside of me, the kid who got cut
and couldn't come back, then got fat in college. It was the man with
two kids, a wife who is so happy sometimes, I'm afraid to ever be
negative... it was the English major in me who hard-packed that
snowball, leaned back and aimed for Somiley, in the head.
Only,
in this case I slowed a little before I let it fly. In fact, I
honestly threw under-handed so the poor guy could see it coming. Okay,
so my voice broke and I might have gone, "Oh, look out there, Old
Somiley."
It
must have been hard to see it coming out of the winter sky, snowball
against the drifting cloud remnants of yesterday's snow storm. I braced
myself when he caught it. Caught it in leather gloves. Just like with
you yesterday, right then, I thought Old Somiley was gonna kill me.
That cane was still hanging off of his arm. He could chuck it real good
if he wanted to. He'd already caught a snowball I wasn't even ready
for.
I
said something like, "Meant to throw it at you, actually. But then I
thought it would be sort of mean. So, you know, I went underhand."
But
then, Mr. Tannenbaum, old Somiley did the one thing you failed to do
for some reason yesterday. That old man set down his hat and his cane,
and he threw the snowball back. Before I knew it, I was making a new
one, and then he was stuck down on the sidewalk, pitching them up at
me. He couldn't get into his yard or up on his porch. I was stuck just
beyond mine, up in the yard. Somiley had the advantage, because I
never fixed my fence. Somiley ducked like he was in a war, not even
laughing too hard when I got him. He was all under-handed, sent them
soaring high up in the air. Those snow-bombs could have been
heat-seeking, I swear. I was constantly looking up while I ran to make
more. I'd see these things hovering, really stopped and thinking at the
arc of their trajectories, before they plummeted right down on my
head. Every time. Every single time, these snowballs came right out of
my line of sight. I finally plunged into the snow, almost swam through
it knit hat and all, to get close to the end of my yard, you know how
it's stacked up off the street, like a fort wall? Note, that is the
reason why I had to leap over the fence, sort of. Not because I was
attacking you in a rage, like you started yelling. I also thank you for
not calling the police like you promised you would. Remember that too,
okay?
The
other rowhouses across the street are sloped like the wrong side of a
trench. Behind enemy lines, that upper crust sunny side of the street,
Northwest DC. By the way, I thought you weren't like the rest of them.
At
the edge of my yard (because our fence is brand new, now. It didn't
lean into your side, like you accused), I finally got Somiley good. He
was wheezing with laughter, crouched on the sidewalk directly beneath my
perch, when I looked. Then, I called him 'Smiley', he actually
responded to it, and I let him have a mud-flavored ice ball, right where
he could taste it.
We
laughed so hard together, we forgot how cold we were. He was pitiful,
he really was. I felt bad for him, I said, but he didn't feel bad for
me at all. He said that to my face.
"Can I help you get up to your porch?"
"Yes,
Tim, you can, in fact shovel my walk for me. I earned more points than
you did, that is how people tend to win games, isn't it?"
I
got as far as his front steps in snow shoes when he gave me his house
keys and explained where a second shovel was, by his front door. Then,
Dr. Somiley did the last three stairs in his Sunday coat and I did his
porch and the first two. Five stairs up to the porch just like my
house. Just like your house. In case you forgot, though some might
have the advantage of melting snow faster than others or growing greener
lawns on the other side of the street, they're all the same, Mr.
Tannenbaum.
He
and I would say hello from time to time, after that. I eventually
caught my wife's flu--with everything else going on, I forgot to get my
shot--and Somiley came by with tea, which I don't like to drink, and
homemade pork chop soup, that I didn't have any freaking clue existed!
What I'm trying to say is, after the Phelps-Somiley Snow War of 2009,
that creepy old dentist guy and I became better neighbors. Whenever it
snowed, every year, we'd come onto our porches, shovel at least as far
as the yard and then re-start the battle. Well, we’d try as early as
the first snow, but there isn't always enough of it in DC. So then we’d
wait until there's at least an inch. That's a normal, healthy snowfall
here.
Somiley
beat me every year, except for, I think it was two years ago, when the
kids got involved. Charlotte screamed--I was already yelling too and
she told us to stop before we broke any of our windows. Snowballs are
pretty great at getting through wire fences if they're hard packed and
small enough, and even past iron bars over your front windows. Not that
I was hoping to aim for your front windows. So, the Phelps-Somiley
Snow War of 2010 ended in a draw.
The
following year, he and I got up really early and shoveled our back
porches together. There’s perfect quiet in the back yards, here. The
alley was almost completely quiet. And I never really liked my back
yard. Very primordial. Mountain lions kill deer in the silence of the
woods all the time--okay, so, not around here, but I hear it does
happen. But to go out and do that with a friend, and for there to be no
more flare than the thrill of adrenaline, no snarky kids with
snot-noses, just aiming into the silence, daring to see it land before
ducking again for cover. Cars pass through the alley and slow, peer up
into our yards to tell if it really is an old black—err, African
American man and his pudgy, winter-pasty, worse-for-wear neighbor. No
neighbor able to deny that both of us have the bravery of real athletes
in that pristine moment, to have risen to the occasion. Amazing.
Afterward,
Somiley asked me about my two boys. Daniel is a freshman in college
now with the Facebook page I'm not allowed in and all at, but back then
he was just a shrimp starting out with texting callouses on both
thumbs. I told him how Dannie drove me crazy, and Dr. Somiley gave a
half-hearted snort, I think it was laughter. He said his son Bo never
grew out of it, but that the father's attitude has more to do with how
the son comes out and not to get upset if I can't make Dannie work
harder right now, or eat better, or back-sass less.
"Back-sass? Bo? Pork chop soup? Did you say you were Southern, or did I always just assume as much from your accent?"
Somiley
said, "No, Mr. Phelps. You never did ask. You appropriately minded
your own business until now. I was born in Georgia, came up here to
live with my father and then got sent back to finish out with his mother
and my grandmother, down South. Satisfied?"
So,
I assumed it wasn't a happy shuttling back and forth. Somiley became
aware of his tone and assured that Washington, DC was now his home and
he'd raised his kids here and all, in our very neighborhood, in fact. I
didn't realize this because their son was about my age and living in
another part of the District with his own family. They never visited.
Last
year, I did not see Somiley as much. We weren't those kinds of
neighbors to go over to one another's houses. I had my family and my
work, and he had an axe to grind that I sensed I could never ask about.
I didn't see any of his house except for the front door where the
snow-shovel was kept during winter. Once, I was locked out and asked to
use his bathroom and he stayed inside the house, though I could hear
PBS Create blaring from the living room. He sort of shrank into his
chair and pretended not to be home. I was, of course, perplexed, though
one can't be perplexed about peeing for very long. Afterward, I didn't
judge. I made myself forget about it. Then, late that year, Somiley
started to have visitors. First, my wife said Somiley's son was
there--wasn't it funny that he was named Bo?--she said. Charlotte's
always interrupting herself. 'Not really, Charlie' I must have said
because she shoved me at some point during that conversation. Charlotte
remarked at how Bo had two boys to match our own, and that she couldn't
tell if his wife was wearing a weave or not. Her hair was styled so
beautifully and she wondered if she could try it? Was there a way to
politely ask? One of my wife's co-workers took her to see Good Hair,
with Chris Rock in it during the summer. I assume it was a funny
movie. I also assume that Charlotte likes me making fun of her, for
coming to me with such easy set-ups. Oh, dammit, I can't cross that
out, either. Anyways, my wife is charming, really charming if you would
just try to get to know us, Mr. Tannenbaum. She's silly, but she
doesn't mean any harm.
On
the other hand, and what I want you to know is, your walls are thin. I
heard you when you shouted that I was a terrible neighbor. Have you
lived in a rowhouse before? When Somiley was there, we heard a few
arguments come through the walls too. First, with his daughter-in-law
with the 'good weave' as my wife says--sadly, I don't know this woman's
name. She should have been the one who sold you the house, the real
estate agent. Next, Bo would come without the kids or wife and he and
his father would get loud. I heard only parts of their arguments. At
that time, it was something about Somiley needing a ride to get places.
His Cadillac hadn't been moved from its parking space all last winter,
come to think of it. After I got laid off, I didn't have much else to
do. I found a way to offer him a ride, politely, I thought, but that
conversation ended badly. We heard less and less from him and more and
more from his son. The Metro Access van and sometimes a shuttle from
George Washington Hospital Center would drop him off. I was born at GW,
not that I remember it. But I always think it when the name comes up.
A worker would try to help Somiley inside his house every time, but he
refused. I could tell by their looks, they hated Somiley like I did
once. If it weren't for the economy, the one hospital guy I noticed
would have pitched that snowball in his hand, during the winter of 2011.
The
snow almost didn't come at all that year. In fact, I felt certain that
it wouldn't, and I also wanted an excuse to talk to Somiley, so one
day, making my snow shovel more than obvious where I stood on his back
porch, I knocked on his door. He came bundled up and we sat on his
porch. Somiley did not look good at all. Pale for him, even
gaunt-looking. He wasn't going to the hospital anymore. I think I
knew. Charlotte says that I can't have known, but right then, I knew.
It was going to be his last Christmas.
"You know, my son works down at the National Zoo. That's why he's here sometimes."
I
doubted that, until Somiley started to smile with his abominably
straight teeth. I watched him talk about the Invertebrate House, Bo
called it 'Inverts' and that his son cleaned a tank full of hissing
cockroaches when he started out. Now, he ordered a team of volunteers
around who giggled through cleaning up after animals, chopping
earthworms... you name it, they did it with him and they loved it, for
some reason. Somiley was proud, saying that about his son Bo. There
was an octopus at Inverts--I'd seen the octopus, but I hadn't realized
it wasn't the exact same octopus I knew as a child. Somiley knew all
the good stuff, the real stuff. The reasons behind everything.
"I
think I can... I think I can ask him. You could take your boys with
him to see what goes on behind the lobster tank, or how they feed the
spiders. Would they like that, Tim?"
"Oh,
that's kind of you, but my boys are getting too old for the Zoo.
They'd just complain at me and make fools of themselves. Don't trouble
yourself. If I can't shovel your walk, since the forecast was wrong
about snow, yet again... is there anything else I can do for you, Dr.
Somiley?"
"Nobody's too old for nature, Bo. Don't go thinking that just cause you do something unconventional, that it's useless."
"But I'm Tim. Dr. Somiley, are you alright? I think you should get back inside."
"You
chose to work from the heart. No shame in that. Sometimes it's not as
tangible as looking inside a person's mouth and seeing that they need a
filling. Sometimes, people need to smile. The one thing daddy, your
grandaddy taught me. Nature can heal a body like nothing else. It's
why I got sent back to Georgia."
I'm a bit of a sleuth, you might have already sensed it. "Was that really the reason?"
Somiley
stood in the doorway, looking exhausted. He’d slipped into some kind
of… I dunno, another way of speaking, as if he were at home, really down
home. "No. But it's what your granddad told me. He had some stuff
goin' on... but now that I'm older, I think it was nice of him, to go
out of his way and make it bigger and better than it really was. Just
because he did it in a strange way don't mean it wasn't gettin' at the
truth. Now, you keep at it, Tim. Keep those boys smilin'. You reach
out however you can. Whatsoever you do, do good work." He lifted his
hands up and reminded me of a preacher. That's not racist, is it? I
hope not. He looked like a preacher. He felt to me like a preacher.
That was my last conversation with Somiley.
He
also spoke a lot differently around his son than he did me. Sometime
after New Years' an ambulance came to the house. Mr. Somiley had passed
away.
So
that you understand, the house you're living in right now isn't even
yours. It almost went to Bo and his sons who are the same age as my
sons. My wife was dead-set on asking Bo’s wife about the weave, over
tea someday. We were ready to help the family move on. I found a
plastic snow-ball gun thing at the Target on Columbia Road. I told
Dannie and James that they would be in charge of artillery and would
have to keep the snowballs coming. Dannie was a senior in high school.
He actually wanted to be in the Phelps-Somiley Snow War of 2012. It
was to be the snow-ball fight to end all snowball fights. But only if
Dannie could use the Snowshooter Mega-Apocalypse 9000.
Mr.
Tannenbaum, the land you live on is sacred ground. It is a battlefield
where men who spend their entire summers wrestling with, um, lobsters
and invertebrates and stuff come home then make ready to dig into the
trenches. It is a place where oldsters and youngsters make a pact to be
bad once a year, while the wives sit down to talk about fake hair, of
all things. If you had any balls about you yesterday, you would have
taken that snow-ball to the face. You would have liked it and you would
have returned fire!
I
suppose this started out as an apology letter, evidence of how I’m a
good neighbor, but now it's not. This is documentation, with a copy for
myself to-file, that when the Somileys could not move in and raise a
third generation because it was too painful, I didn't give up. We
invited you over and you never came. I asked you politely about where
we should build our new fence and you only grunted at me. I always try
and scooch up so that you can have a parking space if no one else takes
it. I ask if you've been to the Zoo yet. I understand that people want
their privacy, especially these days. Especially in this city. And
just because you're of an age, I know you don't want others assuming
that you need help, so after this, I won't push anymore.
But
now you know that's why I did it. I was trying to be a good neighbor.
I am sorry that I aimed for the head. Being out of work, I play too
many console games not to make it a kills hot on the first try, it
wasn't anything personal. But I no longer want to live in a city where
people don't say hello on the streets or know how their neighbors are
really doing. Nor do I want to live in a world where a grown man can't
throw a friendly snowball across the fence.
Regards and have a Happy Holiday,
Tim Phelps
Northwest, DC.
Tim
Phelps, his family, and all his neighbors are fictional characters
based on many of my real life experiences growing up, volunteering,
playing, and working as a black—err, an African American--uh, no let's
stick with black woman in Northwest Washington, DC.
Mi'Raah was announced over the dying woman's speech.
The pirates saluted, or didn't know to, and parted ranks. Mi'Raah had
drips of water all over her robes and flecks of white ice in her hair. A
sheet of it slipped down over her gold breastplate, more evidence of how she'd
survived the battle.
