Rough Draft of Final Article

Floating embers softly illuminate the faces of several people around a dying backyard bonfire. The gathering of individuals have found their seats from a motley of furniture; white plastic chairs, couch cushions, a log, a tire, several deteriorating wooden dining chairs, and some have even chosen to retire to the damp, littered ground.

Just beyond the cusp of illumination, a man haphazardly picks at his acoustic guitar emitting a folksy tune that fuels some to dance barefoot wildly around the fire, fleeting in and out of the darkness. They hoot and holler unintelligible sounds, often colliding with each other and falling to the ground in fits of childish laughter; intoxicated by the lack of apparent inhibitions. The scene is tribal.

I stand in my own backyard, two houses down, watching this scene unfold for several minutes. Finally, I recognize Olivia, a twenty-something woman who lives in the house where the bonfire is being held and who, on occasion, I’ve interacted with when I’ve gone over to her house in hopes of borrowing a can-opener and knife.

The first time I approached the house was during daytime.  I grew more hesitant as I got closer, seeing two long and untamed haired guys on the front porch, shirtless, shoeless, and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Climbing two steps and avoiding the mini-cultivation of plants growing in egg cartons, I asked them if they had a can-opener I could borrow. Without breaking his distant glaze and taking a long, hard drag from his cigarette, the man closest to the door responded, “Ask Olivia, she’s inside.”

Entering the house, I was hit with a pungent smell that I could only imagine being the inevitable result of twelve, free-spirited people living in a four-bedroom house. Having had no directions as to where I would find Olivia, I wandered cautiously through the first floor of the house.

The living room overflowed with unbounded and coverless books whose pages all seemingly exhibited the hue of coffee-stained parchment; a collection of rare and self-published literature. Moving on, the dining room, walls painted black, did not house a dining table, instead, in one corner stood a cello and a violin and in the other corner an easel flanked by a wobbly-looking coffee table.

At the doorway to the kitchen, I saw a woman with her back to me preparing a huge salad bowl. Nervously, I uttered, “Olivia?” She turned around, smiling, her dark brown hair held back by a blue bandana, wearing a pair of knee-length, cut-off jeans and a sweaty, white tank top with no bra underneath, leg and armpit hair unabashedly noticeable. Nicely enough, she let me borrow the can-opener.

Tonight, after recognizing Olivia at the bonfire, I decide to make my way over. Arriving next to her, only to find standing room only (I dare not sit on the ground, scattered with trash and God-knows what else), she turns to me and says, “Hey, John, right?” Nodding my head and trying to start a conversation I reply, “So, what’s the deal with all these bonfires lately?” Olivia laughs and shares, “Oh, well, our power got cut off over two weeks ago so this is kinda our only light during the night. Good thing the weather has been nice.”

 I momentarily get lost in the thought of sharing a house with eleven other people and without electricity. The thought sends chills through my body, which the dwindling fire fails to warm. I muster the only response I can think of, “No, electricity? That must really suck”, to which Olivia, aloofly replies, “No, not really. It is kinda nice.”

Watching the others continue to dance, the lack of anything in common with them strikes me and I grow uncomfortable. I try to make more small talk with Olivia, “How long have you lived here? Does it get crazy with all these people?” She doesn’t take a moment to gather her thoughts, “I think I’ve been living here four, five months. I don’t really know. It’s not that crazy, we have chores assigned to people each week and we just live day by day. We try not to stress about things.” I get the sense that everyone hear shares the characteristic of speaking few words but having many thoughts.

Another man, sitting somewhat across the fire from us, has apparently been listening to our conversation. He jumps up from his sitting post on a tire, and comes over to join us. He is wearing tight, rolled-up corduroy pants, a ripped, yellow tank top, and, peculiarly, a bicycle helmet. Now only a couple of feet away, I can see his face, hidden behind dirty and sweaty strands of hair and a full, bushy beard.

His most striking feature is his wild brown eyes, a sharp contrast to the appearance of wear and tear the rest of his face shows. Leaning in towards me, I noticed his jitteriness. Dousing me with breath that has never known, or at least forgotten, a toothbrush, he says, “Olivia is the mother hen. Yup. Cooks and cleans. Always painting and cooking and baking. You should try her food. Try her salad. I love it.”

Not knowing how to appropriately respond, I say, “I’ll be sure to try it. What’s your name?”. He recoils and says, “I don’t have one”. He goes back to his tire. Olivia tells me not to mind him because “he is probably just coming down from his high… he does heroin.” I ask her if she does drugs too. “No, I don’t do those drugs. Sometimes I’ll smoke pot or something. But no. I don’t do those drugs”, says Olivia.

Without being prompted she continues, “I mean, everyone does what floats their boats here. I’m not going to judge. Yes, some of us do all kinds of drugs here. Others don’t at all. Don’t even smoke cigarettes. We are just very accepting of each other and I don’t really see anything wrong with that.”

I let this shock to my way of thinking soak as I sit and continue to watch the madness of unchecked liberation drive deeper into the night. I can’t help but think that these people are the grown-up lost children of William Golding’s novel. I ask Olivia if I can come talk to her more formally next week and she agrees.

When I returned the next week, I again encountered the two guardians of the free-spirited temple. I ask them if Olivia is home and they respond, “Who the fuck are you?”. Today is not a good day to be an outsider. Shocked, I reply, “Uh…I’m your neighbor. We’ve met before. Uh, so is she home?”. Coldly, the more vocal of the two says, “No, she doesn’t live here anymore. Don’t know where she is either and its no one’s real fucking business too.”