Not in my Neighborhood

I awoke to a barrage of text message alerts.  Opening one bleary eye I flopped my arm over my head reaching for my phone and slowly drug it back toward my face.  The sinking feeling in my stomach wasn’t from the drinks I had last night.  I shot straight out of bed and bounded toward the window, hoping against all hope that the photos that now graced my phone were a mass conspiracy.

They were not.

My morning encrusted eyes were treated to the sight of my sweet, loving husband dressed in nothing but a yellowed tank top, his knickers, and a beer helmet.  He was pushing an ancient mower and waving to the neighbors with a carelessness reserved only for the very young and the very old.  Since he was neither, I wrapped myself in my bathrobe and threw myself out the door in attempts to save him…well me, from further gossip and photos.

“Honey,” I yelled over the metal-on-metal sound of the mower, “what the fuck are you doing?”

He just grinned and gestured to his ears and then the lawnmower. I raised my hands and mouthed “What the fuck are you doing?”

The mower sputtered and died as my husband walked over to me in frayed flip-flops.  I also sputtered and died a bit as he threw an arm over my shoulder.

“How ya doin’ wifey.”

“Frank, for the third time, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Well, now ya see here lady buck…”

“Stop that, we are lawyers.”

“Na, ya see here,” Frank said leading me to the sidewalk, “we gots us some new neighbors and I want them to feel welcome.”  Frank pointed to the house across the street which was now sporting a confederate flag in the window.  A woman in dressed in a smart black pantsuit with blonde hair so big it would put Dolly Parton to shame walked out of the house and sneered as my husband waved at her.  She got into her newer red ford which sported a “Lock Her Up” bumper sticker and the words “American” stuck to the rearview window and drove away faster then was appropriate for our quiet suburban neighborhood.

“Oh.  I see,” I said to my husband, “I think we should have a party.”

“A BBQ?”

“Well, of course, laddie buck, can’t have a fundraiser for the RAICES without some good ol’ southern cookin’.  I'll start inviting people over now. We can make a day of it."

"Don't forget the curlers to go with your bathrobe," he called as I went back inside.

*Author's Note: RAICES is the Refugee and Immigrant Center for Education and Legal Services.  More information about their services and how to donate can be found here:  https://www.raicestexas.org/