Four Levels of Fun

Parties have four levels of fun: we had fun, the neighbours know we had fun, the entire Internet knows we had fun, and the prosecutor says we had fun. We started calmly. Barely reaching level 2. Before the reporters from the national TV arrived, we managed to launch a catapult at a residential building. And it wasn’t our worst idea that night.

I got bailed out. At least, until the trial. I also got a tracker attached to my leg. Apparently, the neighbour got a new tenant. He walked out of the building with a large crate in his hands. Stopped when he saw me. Looked at me sitting on the bench. I leaned back, took off the hat, and stared at the sky. He walked past me, making a growl-like sound.

Still mad at me. Understandable. We launched a burning car tire at his kid’s bedroom. If the noise we made didn’t wake up the kid, I wouldn’t get a bailout.

The new tenant stepped out from a U-Haul truck. Waved at me. I waved back. He lifted a box from the back of the truck and walked to the entrance.

“Buongiorno, vicino,” I said.

“Buongiorno, parli italiano?” He grinned. Put the box on his knee. “Troppo pesante. Ne parleremo più tardi.”

I nodded and smiled. How do I tell him I learned Italian from cooking shows? I can discuss the fat content of beef, but I have no clue what he said.

Neighbours met at the door. The old one waved his hands in the air. He was spitting as he spoke. Pointed at me three times. Four times. He put his arm over the other arm and bent it. A catapult. I fanned myself with my hat as the new tenant’s wife walked past, clutching a wide-brimmed sun hat.

“Buongiorno, bella.”

She smiled and tossed her hair over her shoulder. I looked at her legs as she walked to the building.

“Bel culo.”

She giggled and sped up. All three talked. More hands in the air. More pointing at me. I scratched my leg under the tracker.

The new tenants disappeared inside the building. The old one walked back to the truck. He stopped in front of me. I looked up. He spat in my face. I wiped my face with my hand. Still sitting. He walked to the truck, closed it, and got behind the wheel.

The new couple walked out of the building. The woman hid behind the guy when she saw me. I pressed my fingers into my forehead. Mumbled the sentence to myself, preparing to say it out loud. They walked by, looking away from me. The woman ran to the car, covering her buttocks with her hat. The guy looked at the sky. “Madonna,” he said, raising his hands over his head. The new tenant closed the truck’s door. Boxes still inside. He pulled a phone out of his pocket. Called someone. Pointed at me as he spoke. I repeated the sentence to myself twice. Stood up and yelled to them:

“Verrai alla mia festa domani?”