Meeting the Neighbors

"Hi there. I just moved in next door, and I want to fuck the shit out of your son or daughter."

Neither the plain white man who spoke nor the plain white door whom he addressed seemed amused. They held their gaze for a moment, but the man broke first, dropping his head to match his already slouched shoulders. He stared somewhere beyond his pigeon-toed feet and the cement doorstep on which they balanced, seemingly lost in the moment if not for the constant motion of his hands as he fidgeted with his hair and his shirt. Slowly his head lifted back up, fueled by the exaggerated exhalation of a sigh. His arm quivered as he pushed the plastic button next to the door.

Ding-dong. A speaker had been installed in the entryway, warning the man that it was too late to leave unnoticed. In his left hand he held a pen clipped to a paper document. His right was plunged into the front pocket of his jeans all the way up to his wrist. He pulled it out and placed it stiffly at his side, where it remained for but a moment before it disappeared into his rear pocket. Another brief moment, and it was back in his front pocket once again.

The door jerked open, and a tall, weathered man dominated the doorway. A black felt cowboy hat hid all of his hair but the bottom of his smoky gray sideburns and matching eyebrows, the latter of which now caved in towards his rather ordinary nose. "Who err you?" His voice was like a cobbled road.

"Hello sir or madam. My name is Reagan Roosevelt Nixon and I recent--"

"Yer parents confused err summ'n?" the cowboy interrupted.

"I'm sorry?"

"You say yer name was Reagan Roosevelt?"

"Yeah, umm," he pulled on the collar of his shirt, "it's for Teddy." Met with a vacant stare, he continued, "Roosevelt, that is."

"Oh." The cowboy considered that for a minute while his finger scratched at his smooth chin. "Well go ahead then, son."

Reagan paused, his eyes rolled upwards in recollection, and then he spoke again. "Hello sir or madam. My name is Reagan Roosevelt Nixon, and I recently moved into your neighborhood." He robotically pointed towards his right. "I am legally obligated to inform you that I am a registered sex offender. Please sign this form acknowledging that you have been made aware of the danger posed to your children." His left arm stiffened towards the cowboy.

The man looked at the document in Reagan's hand, but didn't take it. "This some kind 'a prank?" His eyes bore down on Reagan like loaded pistols.

"No sir. A law was passed recently requiring sex offenders to go door-to-door alerting their neighbors." Reagan's voice was uneven now.

"Sounds like the work 'a them damn Dem-o-crats." The cowboy scowled.

"Actually, I believe the bill was introduced by a Republican."

"Well now, I reckon it's not such a bad idea." The cowboy took the document from Reagan. "So yer a danger to my children, huh?" He took a step back in the doorway with his left foot and turned his body perpendicular to Reagan. "Barbara!" he called into the house. "Gitcher ass over here."

Wooden panels lined the walls of the large room behind the cowboy. Along the top rim was a circle of stuffed heads, interrupted only by the doorways leading away from the room. Each head belonged to a different type of animal. Directly in front of Reagan was a black bear, forever roaring at entrants. Or yawning at them.

An overweight woman nearing her forties scurried towards the door. When her eyes met Reagan's, her head dropped and her feet slowed. She came to a stop a few feet behind the cowboy. "Barbara, this boy's a sex offender. I don't want choo hangin' 'round him unless you plan on gettin' married." The woman nodded, still looking down. "Now git back to yer soaps." She turned and scurried back into the depths of the house; the cowboy once again faced a confused looking Reagan. "She ain't got no tongue," he explained. "Had to cut it out fer back talk."

Reagan's eyes went wide. "Sir, I just need you to go ahead and--"

"Don't choo get no ideas about that neither. Takes away all the pleasure. She ain't worth nothin' to you anymore." He signed the paper and handed it back. "Anything else you need, son?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." Reagan's voice flattened, and he stood up straight. "What's a modern day house without a modern day appliance? Sir or madam, what would you say if I told you that you could own a gourmet quality cappuccino maker for less than the cost of thirty cups at your favorite coffee shop?"

Slam! A gust of air blew Reagan's hair back, and his ears rang from the blast. He hurried away from the brown house and then turned down the street towards his next destination. His pace slowed as he approached the small stone house, and timidly he rang the bell. As he waited, Reagan rehearsed his speech. Nobody answered, and he rang it again. This time a young woman of roughly thirty opened the door. She wore a tight purple tank top, black capri pants, dull, black metallic rings in her ears, nose and bottom lip, a phone in her hand, and a frown.

"What?" It was more of an order than a question. The phone remained pressed against her head.

"Hello sir or madam. My name is Reagan Roosevelt Nixon, and I recently moved into your neighborhood." Again, he pointed mechanically to his right. "I am legally obligated to inform you that I am a registered sex offender. Please sign this form acknowledging that you have been made aware of the danger posed to your children."

The frown disappeared as she pulled the phone closer to her mouth. "Oh my god, Jackie. You are not going to believe this! There's a rapist at my door!"

Reagan waved his arms defensively. "No no no, you don't understand..." The woman wasn't paying attention to him, however.

"He's here to get a paper signed or something." She paused. "No, he's looking at my face." She paused again. "I don't know why not." Another pause. "You know my purple tank top?" Pause. "I know! It makes no sense." Pause. "Good idea, let me ask him." She pulled the phone away and looked at Reagan. "So you must be into domination, right?"

Reagan's face scrunched together and his arms lifted with a shrug, the palms of his hands facing upwards, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know, S&M. Whips and chains and torture. Hold on a sec." She spoke into the phone again, "Say that again, Jacks?" Pause. "No, I think we'll be all right, he looks pretty harmless." Pause. "Ok, I'm going to ask." She raised her arm and braced it against the doorway, then looked at Reagan with pleading eyes. "How would you like be Master for my girlfriend and me?"

"Look, I just need you to sign this paper and then I can go." Reagan's voice was stronger now.

The woman winced. "How are you possibly not interested?"

"I'm gay, ok? I'm gay and I had sex with a young boy. Now, please, sign my god damn paper!"

"Fine." She snatched the document from Reagan's hand and scribbled furiously. "That was your last chance, sicko," she said as she handed it back. The door slammed even harder this time. Reagan checked the signature and continued on to the house across the street.

The grass was high and unkempt. Two rocking chairs sat on the front porch. Empty beer bottles lined the railing from one side of the house to the other. A ripped screen blurred the door behind it with a shield of dried mud and dead insects. Reagan searched for a door bell with his index finger, but unable to find one lightly gripped the dirty screen door handle with just his fingertips. His head shied away from his outstretched arms as he opened the screen door and knocked three times solidly, letting it shut violently afterward.

A pale man in his early 20's opened both doors. His eyes swept over Reagan from the feet up. "Sup, man?" he asked Reagan. He wore a faded baseball cap with a tattered bill, a tight fitting t-shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and aviator sunglasses. In one hand he gripped a silver beer can.

"Hello sir or madam. My name is Reagan Roosevelt Nixon, and I recently moved into your neighborhood." Reagan began to point.

The man raised his free hand to his face, covering his mouth, and burst out laughing. "Are you serious, bro? What kind of name is that?"

"It's for Teddy."

"Huh?"

"Never mind." Reagan's head began to bob as he silently mouthed the words to his scripted speech. He continued, "I am legally obligated to inform you that I am a registered sex offender. Please sign this form acknowledging that you have been made aware of the danger posed to your children."

The man began laughing hysterically and jumped up and down. "Holy shit, dude! Come in, I gotta show you to my roommate."

Reagan crossed his arms across his chest, palms outward, and turned his head as if bracing for a punch.

The man waved him inside. "Come on, dude. You want me to sign that paper?"

Reagan relented, dropped his arms and followed him inside. They entered the living room. Clothes and video game controllers were scattered liberally across the aged brown carpet. A textbook propped up one leg of a wooden coffee table, though it still leaned considerably. It was covered with magazines, protein bar wrappers, and pipes. The walls were scuffed and blank, and the stench of marijuana filled the musty air.

"Kyle!" the man in the cap yelled. "Kyle come check this shit out man!"

Another man, of similar age and dressed in an identical uniform, except for the sunglasses, emerged from a back room. "Who the hell is this?"

"Dude," said first man. "It's a fuckin' sex offender. He's gotta go door-to-door and shit."

"What the hell is a sex offender?"

"It means he fucks little girls, bro. Right, dude?"

Reagan's mouth gaped open. "Ummm. Well...I was convicted of statutory rape."

"See, bro? I told you! He rapes little girls. With fuckin' statues and shit!"

"Badass, man. We just stick to like teenagers though," Kyle explained to Reagan. "What kind of drugs you use, dude?"

"Drugs?" Reagan's hands were fidgeting tirelessly. "What do you mean?"

"You know, like to knock them out," Kyle said.

"I usually just stick to roofies, but Kyle swears by qualudes," said the man in the glasses.

"Yeah man, old school. And you get more response from the bitch," Kyle nodded as if he were agreeing with himself.

"Here, sit down, dude," the man in the glasses gestured towards the ragged coach next to Reagan. "Tell us how it feels to fuck little girls. I've always wondered myself."

"I really need to get going, I have more houses--"

"I'm not signing that shit, " he pointed at Reagan's document, "until you tell us what it was like."

Reagan sat down.

"I bet you do it rough, huh?" asked the man with the glasses.

Reagan swallowed hard. "Actually...it was very tender." Reagan clasped one hand over the other, rubbing it gently. His voice softened. "We were in love. I protested at first, not for any moral reasons I assure you. It felt right. But I knew it'd get me in trouble, that we'd be found out. After a while, I gave in, I couldn't help it. When someone wants you, needs you, so badly, someone you love so much, you can't hold out. And his eyes were so pitiful..."

"What the hell did you just say?" Kyle barked.

Reagan jolted to attention. "I'm sorry?"

"Did you just say 'his eyes'?" Kyle asked incredulously.

Reagan's hands moved faster now. "Yeah, I, uhh--"

"Get the fuck out faggot!" Kyle screamed.

"Get the fuck out of my house you queer piece of shit!" roared the man in the glasses.

Reagan jumped out of his seat and clumsily fled the scene, tripping over the mess on the floor and stumbling out the door.

"He touched my couch!" called a voice from the house.

"Now you gotta burn it..."

"Fuck!"

Once back at the street and away from the house, Reagan took stock of his inventory. He held up his pen, the document with its signatures, and finally a brochure for a cappuccino maker. After counting his belongings, he headed up the road, pausing again after a few steps. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tri-folding black leather wallet. Reagan opened it and gently extracted a small photograph. A boy with mischievous eyes and a slight smirk was looking off to the side, like he knew something the camera did not. Reagan's thumb rolled back and forth across the face, caressing its image. A car sped by and he put the picture back. He looked up at the old stone house now in front of him and plodded across the yard and up the steps.

The door was adorned with a polished brass knocker in the shape of a perched eagle. The eagle stared out into the distance, above Reagan's head, with an air of nobility. Reagan stood on the doorstep for a minute, looking up at the eagle, and the muscles in his face relaxed. He lifted up the hoop attached to the ends of the eagle's perch, and jerked it three times against the door.

An elderly woman opened the door partway and peeked out from behind the gap. "Can I help you?"

"My name is Reagan Roosevelt Nixon, and I just mo--"

"Reagan Nixon?" the woman opened the door wide and squinted through her glasses. "Is that you?"

"Mrs. Ford?"

"Reagan! I haven't seen you since you were in my Sunday School class!"

Reagan scratched his arm and mumbled, "Yes ma'am."

"Well, what brings you here, Reagan?"

"Is your....is your husband around?" Reagan was scratching at his neck now.

"Of course! He'd love to see you too. Why don't you come on in?" She grabbed Reagan's hand weakly and led him inside.

It smelled like brown sugar and chocolate. The small living room was decorated with dozens of framed photographs. An old-fashioned TV glowed silently in the corner. A nearly bald man watched from a couch with a blanket draped across his legs. "Chester," Mrs. Ford called softly, to no response. "Chester!" she shouted louder.

The man turned towards them, looking puzzled. "Who is that?"

"It's Reagan Nixon. Remember George and Mary's son?"

"Oh, yes! I remember him. How are you doing, my boy?"

"Very good, thank you Mr. Ford," Reagan answered loudly, giving a stiff bow of his head.

"Why don't you sit down, Reagan? I've got some warm cookies and milk ready." She left the room before Reagan could respond. He took a seat across from Chester.

"So what brings you to our home, Reagan?" Chester had turned the television off. "Good news, I hope."

Reagan made eye contact with Chester, then quickly looked down at his hands, which were currently playing with his pen. "Well sir, not exactly. I just moved in across the street, you see..."

"Did you hear that, Nancy?" Chester yelled in her direction. "Reagan's our new neighbor!"

"Yes sir, and, well....you see...they just passed a law recently..."

Just then Nancy returned from the kitchen with a silver tray holding a plate of cookies and three tall glasses of milk. She set it down on the coffee table and sat down next to Chester. "You bought the Wilson's old place, huh?" she asked Reagan with a smile.

"Yes ma'am."

"How are your mother and father doing?" she asked.

"They are well. Or...I think they are. They were the last time we spoke. We don't see each other much anymore."

"Oh, well that's a shame. They're such good people. Are they still active at the First Baptist?"

"Yes ma'am, as much as ever." Reagan took a sip of milk.

"Would you be quiet, woman? Reagan was talking," Chester said.

"Oh, I'm sorry, go on Reagan."

"Yes, well, as I was saying, they just passed a law recently," Reagan tugged at his collar. "It says that when a registered.....when a registered sex offender moves into a new area, he must alert the families in that area of his presence." Reagan leaned back and turned his reddened face away from the Ford couple as if bracing for a slap.

"Oh my," said Nancy.

"What are you telling us?" asked Chester. "What did you do?"

Reagan sighed. "I had a relationship with a fifteen-year-old boy." He spoke to the floor.

"Well that's not so bad, is it honey?" asked Nancy.

"No, not necessarily," said Chester. "Why don't you tell us about him."

Reagan looked up at their plain expressions. "Are you serious?"

"Of course we are," said Nancy. "We want to hear all about him. Were you in love?"

"Yes ma'am, we were. I met Puck at a small writing group that I found on the internet. I was looking for some way to get a lot of my inner anger and frustration out after I came out to my parents."

He paused and examined the Fords' faces, which looked back at him with interest. "You know how they are. Anyway, most of the people in the group were just bored, uninteresting housewives. Puck, though, he was an artist. He had that spirit. He said he wanted a more mature audience than he could find at school, but I think he just wanted to show off."

"I think we kind of needed each other. He was my sounding board for getting all the bitterness out, and I was his escape from a childhood that he had passed by a few years early." Reagan hesitated. "I know this is going to sound bad, but he really was very mature."

The Fords' expressions remained steady. Chester asked, "What happened then?"

"Puck had an argument with his parents. They started to suspect his lifestyle, and wanted to send him away to a Christian boarding school. He ran away to my house, but he didn't tell me about all that. He said he needed me, that he loved me. I told him the same. We made love for the first time and the last time. His father had followed him and called the police. I've been in jail for the last year."

Reagan's eyes glistened now, and he rubbed at them with his knuckles. Nancy put her hand on his leg and said, "He sounds wonderful."

Reagan looked at her. "Shouldn't you two be hating me right now? The Church doesn't look fondly on this kind of thing."

The Fords looked at each other and laughed. "I guess we have something to reveal to you too, Reagan," said Chester. "We gave up on the church years ago. Now we serve a new Lord, one who wants us all to be happy with who we are."

"Who?" asked Reagan.

"Why Satan, of course!" Nancy squeaked giddily. "Say, why don't you bring Puck along to our next service! I do love inductions. Though, we'll have to find another virgin..." Nancy appeared to be lost in thought at this.

Chester nodded in agreement. "Yes, I'm sure you two would love the blood orgies. Nancy and I have never felt closer." He grinned and pinched Nancy just above the hip, causing her to squeal.

Reagan's face went as white as the milk that clung to his upper lip. The glass slipped out of his hand and splashed onto the floor. He scrambled to his feet, crashed through the door, and raced all the way back to his own house. Without stopping, he threw the door open, leapt inside, and slammed it shut. His breathing was heavy, and he leaned all of his weight against the door.

On the floor, jutting out from his left foot, Reagan noticed a pink envelope that had been slipped through the mail slot. He stepped away and picked it up off the ground. "TEDDY BEAR" had been written in block lettering across the front. Reagan ripped it open hastily and yanked out a sheet of lined notebook paper.

Dear Teddy Bear,

I missed you so much while you were in prison, but dad wouldn't let me even talk about you! "That 30 year old faggot," he called you. I hope I don't get my wit from him. He's so obnoxious.

Anyway, so after the first month or so I got to thinking. Do I really want to spend my life with a convicted felon? I mean, you're nice and all, but I don't think I could handle that kind of public embarrassment.

Oh, also, Baron Rogers, the quarterback at school, came out to me, and we've sort of got a thing going. I think it's better this way because I don't have to worry about him holding up a liquor store or whatever it is you criminals do in your spare time. And his mom makes the best sugar cookies in the world, oh my god.

Goodbye Teddy Bear, I hope you figure things out and stop breaking the law all the time.

Love, Puck

Reagan collapsed to the ground, his back sliding along the door against which he leaned at a controlled speed. He dropped the letter onto his lap and pulled out the picture from his wallet once again. Two tears rolled down his cheekbones, one on either side of his face, as he ripped the picture in half. With a sniff, he wiped the tears with the back of his left hand, and then held his arms tightly against his body. Now, for the first time all day, his hands were still.