He was the first person Phillip and I met when we moved to Stones River Apartments five-and-a-half years ago. Before our moving van came to a complete stop, Dan hurried out to introduce himself.
Our new next-door neighbor.
Instinctively, I knew to discouraged his friendship.
However, Dan wasn't easy to turn away from our door. He wanted, so much, to come in. He wanted to tell us about the autographed pictures of country music stars covering his walls. He wanted to tell us about being president of a fan club. He needed an audience. Most of all, he needed a drink.
Phillip and I didn't have a drop of whiskey to offer, and we weren't interested in seeing his picture collection or being part of anybody's fan club.
Still, Dan came to our door. Finding the door locked, he placed his hands on either side of his face and pressed his nose against our front window.
I pulled the blinds.
I explained to him that Phillip and I had health issues requiring a lot of time and attention. We were unable to be neighborly. We were sorry ...
Knocks at the door continued.
My kindness became firmness which soon turned into coldness before ending up pure hatefulness.
Three years ago, after eating six hotdogs from a neighbor's grill, a roaring drunk Dan collapsed into the swimming pool and died.
Today, after all this time, Phillip and I still feel sad that we never felt sad. What we felt, as the ambulance carried our neighbor's body away, was an overwhelming relief.
And guilt about feeling relieved.
And anger about feeling guilt.
Mixed emotions haunt us still ...
Dan is gone.
