There were new neighbors on the other side of the double bungalow. The older gay guys had bought a condo and moved out, and these new kids sucked. They threw a party (thanks for the heads-up, guys) and invited Philip and Sherry over. They’d already made the place their own, as Philip, annoyed by a week of noisy hammering and thumping, was aware. The place was like a Victorian brothel, walls draped with dark brown fabrics in Indian patterns. Crummy old couches, beanbag chairs, a plastic bead curtain that clicked and clacked every time you went into the kitchen. A smell of marijuana (Phil had no objection to that) but also patchouli and sandalwood, jasmine, rose and musk. Plus all their longhaired party guests stank of B.O. All this on the other side of their own wall.
         The skinny one, Rocket (did he hear that name right?) kept touching Phil on the shoulder as they talked and using his name a lot: You see what I mean, Phil; look at it this way, Phil; you get it, right, Phil?
         Rocket kept talking about boundaries, house rules, expectations, good neighborliness. (Who are you to talk this way, when Sherry and I have lived here five years? Phil had never met such a condescending son of a bitch.)
         They’d brought over some canned margaritas, and to get away from Rocket and his friends (roommates? who else lived here anyway?), Phil went to get some drinks. The kitchen was unoccupied except for two little girls, each about two years old, sitting alone on the kitchen table. They seemed happy enough playing with each other, but that was no place for them. Where are your mommies? asked Phil. Where are your mommies and daddies?
         One of the girls said: Up-stairs, and pointed. But upstairs was only the shared attic space. He lifted both girls down from the table and led them out of the kitchen.
         The party had moved to the backyard. At least you can breathe back here, he thought.
         One of the roommates (?) came over to Phil. He seemed to ignore the kids. You’re welcome to use our grill, he said, but please clean it afterward, and don’t grill any meat on it.
         Whose kids are these? asked Phil. The guy walked away without answering. It was starting to drizzle. Where was Sherry?
         Two cute hippie chicks were sitting on a bench eating veggie kebabs. Are these your kids? he asked them. They laughed.
         Hey everybody! he yelled. Hey everybody! Whose kids are these? No one paid any attention. The kids seemed unconcerned. He got them a couple of Sprites and sat at the picnic table. The sun came out again and Phil shivered in a sunbeam. Rocket came over and sat next to the kids but ignored them.
         You having a good time, Phil? he asked.
         These kids need their mothers, he said.
         You don’t need to worry about them, said Rocket. They take care of themselves.
         That’s not possible. They’re, like, two.
         Rocket touched him on the shoulder. You should take care of them, then, he said with a look of pity.
         Phil and Sherry raised the girls for the next four years and when the commune moved out and the young newlyweds moved in and gave the place a new coat of paint and an overall well-needed reno, Phil and Sherry packed in a rush and left the girls in the attic (no forwarding address), and when the young newlyweds found them they had no choice but to take them in, these cheerful two-year olds.
💀