Fiction Interlude, Part 1

The man next door moved in to our neighborhood of slanted cobblestone streets on a crisp September day, if I recall correctly. He showed up in a blue minivan, one of the old ones with wood paneling on the side. The wood looked like it had once come from a nice mahogany tree but now was bashed in on the passenger side door. I passed the damage off as simply a reckless driver, but as I would find out later, the man was anything but careless. Instead, the man across the lawn was quite the opposite.

My family and I went out to dinner the night he moved in. Steak, or something like that. But we got back late. Patrick was asleep, and the street was dark. Tomorrow I would introduce myself to the neighbor.

Instead of assuming his new neighbors would make the first visit, the man decided to make pre-emptive visit to my doorstep the next day. He was wearing a maroon vest that looked as though he had attempted to iron it before this all-important visit, but I didn’t make mention of that the first time I was introduced to Mr. Riley.

“Oh,” he said as he approached my stoop. “I didn’t expect you to be out here. I was planning on ringing the doorbell.”

“Are you some sort of…doorbell repairman,” was my awkward attempt at furnishing a joke. “No, I just like to be formal. As Gayson said, “Friendship is neither a formality nor a mode: it is rather, a life.”

“Well, Mr…”

“Riley. James Riley.”

“Well, I’m glad you see neighbors in such a positive light. I’m Oliver by the way. Oliver Len—”
“Right, right anyways… Oliver, right?

“Ye-”

“I wanted to start my footing in Maine quickly. Do we have any neighborhood potlucks coming up?”

I have to admit:I was slightly taken aback by the man who called himself James Riley -- Here was a man who quoted David Gayson colloquially, rudely interrupting me-a man who didn’t even want to find out my last name! I found that my eyes were wandering to his assortment of yet-unpacked luggage. If he was so insistent upon coming over here to meet me, why hadn’t he taken the time to unpack? A small, second-hand trailer had pulled a small watercraft from somewhere. The minivan’s suspension system was overloaded with bags.

“Potlucks? Oliver? Potlucks?”