Chapter 18: "Neighbors"

Chapter 18: "Neighbors"

An argument was brewing in the Stein household. “I don’t see why we have to welcome them to the neighborhood.” Julia grumbled. She had wanted to give them a very sensible bottom shelf cabernet but her husband had insisted on splurging for a Sonoma chardonnay.

“Everyone loves California white wine.” Jim assured her. “I’m sure if we set a precedent of bringing over good booze they’ll reciprocate.”

“I still don’t see why it has to be our wine. Look at it, it’s an unoaked coast grown chardonnay. That’s way too good for people we’ve never even met. For all we know they could be liberals.”

“Then at least they’ll have good beer.” Jim snapped as he grabbed the bottle then rushed across the street before Julia could stop him. He paused in the front yard, something was different. The peonies and marigolds had all been plucked out and replaced with what could loosely be described as weeds but more accurately classified as abominations in plant form.

A tortured snap dragon nipped at his heels sending Jim running for the safety of the doorway. His fist stopped mid knock when he heard the clanking of what might have been chains followed by an unearthly wailing.

Just knock once and then you can go home and pretend this never happened, Jim told himself.

“Stop being such a sissy.” Julia said as she pounded on the door. “If there really are such things as ghosts they’re probably harmless.”

The front door creaked open to reveal a fantastically tall man wearing a wool sweater and a look of intense annoyance. “If you’re selling something, I’m not interested.” He huffed as if he had just ran up several flights of stairs. “We’ve already got religion, we’re happy with our long distance service provider, and I don’t need aluminum siding.”

Jim thrust out his hand. “Actually I’m just here to welcome you to the neighborhood. My wife and I decided to take it upon ourselves to offer you this bottle of wine and say that it sure is nice to see your house filled with life again.”

A tall woman in a low cut t-shirt and tight sweatpants leaned against the door frame and blew a cloud of smoke out of the corner of her mouth before she spoke. “What’s so nice about it?”

Jim looked around for any evidence of a cigarette or a cigar. “Surely that can’t be healthy.”

“It’s a filthy habit I’ll admit.” Smoke roiled out of her mouth and nose as she spoke. “But I can’t seem to kick it.”

“I’ll be the first to admit I don’t understand why she does it.” The man said, “But she seems to enjoy it so I tolerate It.”

“Just tolerate?” The woman asked.

“Wow, you almost describe it like you were there.” Jim observed, somewhat in awe. “You must really know your wines.”

“I dabble.” The wife admitted. “But really once you taste a truly fantastic vintage you tend to remember it.”

“It’s a shame they don’t have something like that for beer.” Jim said. “I’ve always thought that it’s a shame nobody pays attention to beer like they do with wine.”

Bill nodded. “I’ve always felt that good beer never gets enough recognition. I once had this fantastic beer at a monastery in the Netherlands when I was visiting back in ‘84. Now those guys could brew!” He said emphatically.

“No doubt! I did a brewery tour when I was in college. I think I had my bodyweight in Belgian beer that summer.” Jim sighed. “That was fun.”

Julia was still looking at her wine glass as if she were afraid it would bite her if she tried to take a sip.

“So sorry, I almost forgot.” Bael reached into the fridge. “Did you want a beer? Mr...?”

“Stein, Jim Stein. And I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“I’m Bill Sharoth and that’s my wife Margaret.” Bael rummaged deeper and deeper into the fridge until he was up to his hips. “I think I have a Belgian... somewhere.” Bael kept going until only his feet were showing. “Ahah!” Came a cry of triumph from the echoey depths. “Got it!”

There was what might have been frost or possibly snow sloughing off of Bael shoulders when he handed over the bottle and two glasses. “A real Belgian Centi-Septuple!”

“Woah...” Jim popped the cork and a warm aroma of malt, fresh ripe oranges and something that might have been cloves washed over him. For a moment he found himself transported back to his youth. He was twenty years old again and a blond woman with braids was winking at him from across an ancient wooden table with a hand carved border.

Fall was in the air and wind ripe with the perfume of dew on fallen leaves circled around him. Then it was gone and he was back in his neighbor’s kitchen.

He looked down at the bottle with disbelief. Had he been there this whole time? Or for a brief fleeting moment had he escaped to somewhere else? Jim poured a glass for his host and then another for himself.

“Bill, I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” He said.