I am in my old car, naked save for some cavernous boxers, parked outside of my duplex in East Dallas. This was a genuine, compacted, century old neighborhood protected from gentrification by an Iron Dome defense system. Nothing was pristine or fluorescent or passed through the Blackrock focus-group sieve. Wonderful.
It is night, and there is a very active party going on within my side of the duplex. I remember the old neighborhood was typically treated to a background hum of polka and Mexican ballads on nights like this, but tonight, college party staples worked their way into the block’s windows.
As I approach, I notice an old high school classmate lying prone on my porch. His face is visible from behind my lattice fence, with a rifle’s barrel poking out through one of the holes. A massive hunter’s scope catches the brown-orange of a nearby streetlamp. I take cover behind my garbage bin and announce myself. My voice cracks and doesn’t carry. I repeat, trying to apex the din of the party.
“Who is there?” shouts my old classmate. I remember very vividly his head ratcheting up to survey his killzone, apparently worried I was some intruder or crackhead. Finally, after a third shout, I am recognized by him.
Inside my duplex, I throw some clothes on and wander around the party for a spell. Everyone seems absorbed in their conversation, so I hover, trying to get a word in from the periphery. Despite not breaking through, I am still comfortable.
My roommate, the host of the party, makes sure the front door is propped open. I remember thinking this is foolish, that an open door and a bunch of hipsters from a theatre program will invite scorn from our neighbors. I wanted to be seen as a member of the community, not as a great gentrifier. That’s about all I remember. I wake up soon after.