THE BLOCK PARTY
In a fit of appalling civil disobedience, a band of rebellious neighbors in a certain north Fresno neighborhood staged a block party late Saturday afternoon almost within sight of, and certainly within earshot of, not one but two city councilors. Dangerous, to be sure. Here it was lawlessness on a molecular scale — not as acutely life-threatening as the genuine riots underway at that very same moment in the state capitol 250 miles to the north. There 300 businesses were looted, burned, and ruined in unique neighborhoods that might never recover. No party, serious business,
Yet here it was an affirmation of life and the irrepressible tendency of the human animal to gather and socialize.
Meekly at first, then with the boldness and abandon common in the days of old, they appeared. It was as if they knew what to do. The Millers, then the Greens (not their real names), followed by the Andersons and the Bettencourts (nor theirs) — in twos and threes they fell-in to form a perfect circle in the bulge of our cul-de-sac— expanding the circle like an amoeba each time someone new arrived, maintaining the silent stricture of social distancing — six feet and not a smidgeon less. More than a little self-conscience in their silly nose and mouth underwear, they arrived bearing prizes of hors d’oeuvres and crudités to share with their friends. But alas, none dared snare even a morsel, so raw remained the warnings of cough and fever and unending pain carried by the dreaded virus lest they remove their fashionable mandatory masks to sample a bite. And worse, the stigma imposed by a prancing band of busy little people newly empowered by some higher, unseen health consortium — just the thought of which brought large men low and strong women meek. The penalty for such subversion was outsized and outrageous. Shopkeepers broken by astronomical fines for allowing a patron to flaunt masklessness; patrons exiled for life from venues as common as a Big Box Store for the same offense. Luckily this crowd accepted the risk gladly for in a real war, a shooting war, they would have been rewarded with medals of merit and bravery, lionized, loved. These were indeed a Band of Brothers and Sisters, neighbors of longstanding ties. Friends! A party!
Soon the masks were off and the libations flowed, many would say like the first frat party of Rush Week. What happened later is anyone’s guess.
It was a fine fling full of laughter and gossip and goodwill. These lawbreakers and merrymakers had reached their limit! For three long months each had toed the government line with a steady diet of nothing but “watch you distance there, buddy,” or “nope, gotta wear that mask inside the store,” or “cover your sneeze, dammit!” or “shelter in place.”
Meatballs and tacos, tri-tip and Tequila — all laid out on trestle tables as far as the hungry eye could see. Yes, and deserts by the dozen, beverages and booze and beers, chips and dips and nary a worry about that pesky rascal no one cared to name.
What a spectacular night!
Still the coronavirus was there. It was everywhere. Invisible nuke bombs hidden in tiny droplets of human interaction; bouncing on waves of the wind like fireflies on a summer night. A risk. A terrible risk. A threat that will always be with us. For as long as people yearn to share their humanity and stand near the fire just to chat there will be risks, and looters, and curfews, and masks and sterile wipes and threats from awful unseen places. And block parties to remind us who we were just three months ago.