There have been times these past six months when all three of my sons and I all were stumbling around in the morning light, wearing boxers, a game on in the background on TV, someone's music playing, all four laptops open. "Hey, anyone want eggs and sausage?" Loud burps were not unknown. Back door open; basketball hoop beckoning. Gadgets everywhere -- Sleek black Razors, conventional cells, iPods, digital cameras, a video camera, a scanner, a printer, a shredder (that came from a girl), CD players, TVs, videogames, rented movies, wireless telephones, skateboards, roller skates, scooters, bikes, baseball bats, lots of balls -- basketballs, baseballs, footballs, golf balls, softballs, soccer balls. Boys and their balls.
The only regular female guest was my seven-year-old. In this environment, she has to be tough. Compared to the rest of us, she seemed to change clothes six times as often, and talk ten times as much. I believe she was the only one who brushed her hair; and the main one who looked in the mirror. Especially on weekends, none of us was likely to change, shower, shave or bother to pick up the shoes and socks that littered the living room at the precise points they had been shed upon entering.
Of course, we had lots of guests, so we cleaned up then; stacking dirty plates in the dishwasher (otherwise we just left them out), recycling newspapers and magazines, hanging up towels in the bathroom -- all the normal stuff.
We all had the occasional sleepover. The little guys had their friends; Peter and I had our friends. The adult sleepovers were rather different than the children's sleepovers. Peter eventually installed a door lock on my room, in place of the gaping hole that had been there since whenever the last lock had fallen out, in some sort of row or another.
He and I would leave each other notes on the kitchen table late at night if it was best to knock first the folowing morning.
Anyway, sometime around mid-summer a new neighbor moved in upstairs; an attractive, friendly, enterprising woman who likes to grill big steaks for her boyfriends, play soft music, and walk around barefoot. She doesn't subscribe to any newspapers, and she has a small nose ring.
You know how it is, let a woman in your life and get ready for changes. All of a sudden, they hang their underwear in your bathroom, and their tiny shirts that cannot be machine-dried over the backs of your kitchen chairs. They tend to insist that basic sanitary standards be observed, something I remember anew every time I find a new girlfriend. They borrow your razor blade and wear your XL T-shirts to sleep in. Mind you, none of this bothers me. I love it. I love women, period.
So, my point here is that all of us guys were away for a few days, and lo and behold, when we returned, what do you think we found? Our messy backyard had been totally cleaned up. And our neighbor had draped her tents and camping gear all over the backstairs, the chairs and grills and basketball paraphernalia. The place looked like Sports Basement. I'm sure she was airing out her stuff after Burning Man.
I think we all just stared at the yard for a few minutes, and none of us said anything. After all, we are guys. We went back to shuffling sleepily around the apartment, drinking beer, bubbly water, or orange juice, according to our preferences, and considered whether there might be a better way to go camping than airing out the stuff at the last minute -- you know, after it had been safely fermenting in bags ever since the last time you came home from the woods.
After a while, one of us said, laconically, "Guess we won't be playing basketball today."
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