Plastic White Fence

There’s a second side of the plastic white fence. Maybe it’s wooden. It’s too dark to tell which and it’s been too long since the last time I’ve been near it, couldn’t tell you the last time I’ve even touched it to see. It divides the lawns of my neighbors and my own and I can tell you which side has the greener grass but you’ll know soon enough. 
What I’ll tell you is that the last time I saw my neighbor’s ex-boyfriend was in prison. The last time I saw my neighbor was when she bailed me out and the last time I saw her son was at the corner store. I don’t know what he was there for. He was there with three other people. I was there for cigarettes. It’s wild to think how long you’ve seen someone, it could be years over years and still, at the slightest side glance, you know it’s them who stands before you. It took me less than a second to know who he was. I acknowledged him with his name and he tossed a wise look at me and tipped his chin and then left the store. I have only two memories of him. I remember him forcing me to eat ants when I was a kid at his mother’s daycare and I remember him yelling from the other side of the fence, threatening my father’s life. Since then all I’ve known is that he’s just been in and out of prison. He’s out now. I leave my truck unlocked with the windows rolled down and I’m surprised he hasn’t robbed it yet. Then there is the fact that all there is inside are a few books and some empty packs of cigarettes and water bottles. Who would want those?
I’d ordered a drink at a bar downtown and I drank it and paid for it and then left. I’m trying to slow my drinking down, especially on bail conditions. I was out of smokes. I’ve been trying to knock those, too but I was on the edge so I caved and drove to the store to pick some up and there he was. It was an insignificant encounter as I reflect on it but then again; what encounter is ever insignificant completely? 
I’m on my porch now smoking and waiting for a woman, who is probably upset with me because I’m not always polite, and I’m looking at the fence and thinking about that saying and about the grass and about my life and about his and about all lives in general and you know what, who cares?
But it is true. There is a second side to the fence. One side has greener grass than the other but the soil is all the same. Even if there is no grass and its desert sand or its pavement or it’s just dirt over there and where you stand. Its quality is all in how you care for it. Maybe I haven’t cared for my life any more or less than my neighbor has, even if it may appear so, but appearances are deceiving. What you always know, instinctively, is how well someone has cared, to what level, how they’ve tended and kept their side and your own as well. In five years my lawn could be overgrown and full of patches and weeds and dog s**t and anthills. My neighbors could be fresh and green and mowed. It won’t be so but it could be. 
I remember one other memory now. He’d got a new dog. It was a pit-bull. The dog looked scared for some reason. It looked a bit shaken but also defensive. My neighbor’s son kept kicking and punching the cage, poking it with sticks. He got a kick out of watching the animal’s reactions. I can’t say I didn’t either but I stuck my tiny hand in to pet it and the dog licked my fingers and that’s all I can remember. I was knelt down by the cage. Josh was standing above me, watching his pit-bull, laughing. He was always laughing at something.

Reviews

[Robert Parlange]

I like your writing style. It seems natural like a conversation. Matter of fact, that is the impression I got from this story: that it was a conversation with some guy.

Very good. Keep writing.

[Cris Roley]

Thank you Robert!