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Two Gardens and the Growing Discontent They Spawned

ÒThen the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked.Ó This line is often read as if the fact of nudity is held as poor taste in the eyes of divinity, but the reaction of the deity is not to the nudity itself so much as the knowledge of it.

I was still living quite isolated on St Charles Ave. in the little cave that Laura Russell had rented me when I first came across The Tomato Man. My bedroom window backed up to the back staircase of an apartment next door. All of the houses in the area were stacked on top of each other, and were cut into many apartments, so as to give one the feel of living in an ant colony of peaks and valley made by the houses of various heights, and the alleyways they made as one wound his way from the street to his particular door. Outside my window just under the sill there was a small concrete outcropping that reached to the ground, with a space in it filled with dirt and covered with leaves. A small tree was attempting to make this place its home. When the stairs of the neighborÕs house turned their second flight the side of them ran alone the side of this outcropping. No one ever used these stairs, and I was not about to complain. My little house was in the rear of a larger house, and surrounded by towering structures that protected my apartment from the noise of the street, and the lack of noise of neighbors was appreciated too. Then I met The Tomato Man.

ÒHow ya doin?Ó He said with seeming forced exuberance. I was on my way to my door down the alley and noticed him standing on the stairway. I figured he had just moved into that apartment and was checking out the lay of the land. I greeted him with as much pleasure as I could muster after a full day of work. He immediately went into the bold scheme he had been planning when I walked up. It involved changing that staircase into a lush tropical garden, including groves of tomato plants in my concrete box. ÒYeah, . . . You can have some too, nothing like fresh tomatoes man.Ó I thanked him, and because of his generosity overlooked the fact that he hadnÕt even asked if he could use the space that was clearly on my property.

I went inside and didnÕt think much of the encounter. I was tired, and had little faith in grand planners such as The Tomato Man, who resembled the Apostle Peter. Such types would gladly jump out of a boat with enthusiasm, after clothing themselves and before gauging if they could even swim the distance, not to mention pondering the fact that they could row to shore and not get wet at all. I cooked my dinner and passed into sleep early that night, which was my custom often at that time.

I was shocked over the next few weeks and months as the rickety old wooden staircase was converted into a horticultural wonderland. Cane poles were stuck into the ground at the base of the stairs and curved over the top from the back in arches covered with various vines. The concrete window garden was cleaned, turned and tilled. Tomatoes were sprouting in it within days of our first conversation. Huge buckets were filled with earth and capped. These were then turned over and small holes were cut in the bottom of each. In those holes a type of vine tomato was planted and once they took root and had a few inches on them, a wire was strung from The Tomato ManÕs roof to mine, and the buckets were hung from them so the tomatoes would grow down over the staircase creating a true hanging garden. Every inch along the staircase was utilized. I feared to wonder what this man would have done if he actually had possession of a yard.

The planting itself I didnÕt mind so much, it was beautiful if not cluttered. I didnÕt mind that The Tomato Man was on the staircase most afternoons when I got home working on his ÒgardenÓ. What started to get to me was when he and his friends would sit on the stairwell late into the evening and chat rather loudly two feet from where I lay my head to sleep. To aid their evening revelry they installed a bright floodlight that shined down the staircase directly into my bedroom window, which is rather amazing considering it was only about one by two feet. I never approached these people about all this, I simply lay in the dark hours stewing in my rage and making up horrible stories about what these peopleÕs childhoods must have been like for them grow up with such disrespect. My bedroom wall, the only thing between us, kept them from seeing my plight, and kept me from expressing my dismay at them. Because of it, neither of us was able to empathize with the other.

It was a few months later that I finally left their Eden in the dust for my current residence, where I live with my brother, sister-in-law, and wife in a double shotgun. WeÕve planted our own small garden in the courtyard of our house. The Tai Basil has taken to the rich soil deposited by the Mississippi River and grown to the size of a small tree, and the blushing beauty peppers are quite lovely in bean dip.

A little while ago we were sitting in our courtyard on a nice Saturday evening, listening to DJ Flaco spin the latin beats on 1540 AM. We have a general habit of spending our time together on the weekend listening to that program, which goes off the air at 10:00pm. Then we put on our own music and hang out till bedtime. ItÕs a nice way to spend time with family and friends.

This particular evening was greatly interrupt by a high pitched very effeminate yet male voice, Òexcuse meÓ, it said, Òexcuse me, some of us are trying to live up here.Ó We were all shocked at the disruption of our solitude from the wall of the house at the back of our courtyard. This wall usually serves as our entertainment. Collage students move into this place and in the early evening, like around when DJ Flaco is going off the air, we arrange our chairs in such a way as to be able to watch the shadow puppet show of these youngsters primping, pinching and tucking their way into their finery before hitting the clubs. We all laugh and make commentary, but this was the first time that wall had ever made commentary on us. The window slammed down and we were left alone to make our case to each other. ÒItÕs not even ten oÕclockÓ, I said. Though it turned out I had much more sympathy for this guy than my spouse or any of my siblings or friends. I understood what it was like to have people partying outside your window when youÕre trying to sleep. On St. Charles I had people partying on my roof from time to time, it was not pleasing. We all vowed to blow it off and assume his hissy fit was justified because he was having a bad night.

That Wednesday we were sitting around our table discussing the ways of the world. It was around 8pm this time. The was no music, no debauchery, just plain conversation, when once again that squeaky voice whined its way into our peaceful world. ÒCould yaÕll please keep it down?Ó The wall insisted. ÒSome of us are trying to sleep.Ó The window slammed down deafeningly before any word of response could be considered.

This time the guy lost my sympathy. Even when the Tomato Man, who I never confronted, was bothering me I would at least wait till ten oÕclock to get angry and toss and turn. Over the next few weeks we were often interrupted by harsh words from the wall or at least the intentional slamming of a widow.

During this time I was always conflicted. There were many conversations about the character of this person who seemed bent on disturbing us for disturbing him. Often I found myself defending him, knowing my experience with the Tomato Man and his garden. Sometimes we were out later than we should be making a racket. But sometimes we were well within out rights when we were admonished. My wife vowed to buy a box fan for him to run while he slept, its hum droning out our merrymaking. That way he could sleep in peace and we could have our courtyard back free of recrimination, but the best laid plans of mice and men usually donÕt attempt to even realize themselves. We soon found ourselves questioning our activities when we proceeded to enjoy the fruits of our labors in our courtyard. Are we being too loud at 8:30 in the evening? Someone would bring it up, and everyone would be worried for a second, then quickly grow defensive and angry, ÒIÕm not gonna be afraid to hang out in my own courtyardÓ was a common response.

It was my brotherÕs birthday the not too long ago and we decided to cut loose a bit on that Saturday night. We were having a few cocktails, and celebrating with cake, nuts, cookies, presents, and all the fanfare deserved by one celebrating his thirty-first year, the year that marks the end of any semblance of still being close to your twenties. Around ten or so there was a slight murmur, do you think weÕre being too loud, someone whispered, but it was quickly forgotten. There was no need to worry; this was an occasion for celebration. The night passed and all were well pleased with the festivities.

I was sitting in the courtyard with my wife and a few others when the wall opened its window. ÒExcuse me.Ó Said the effeminate voice ÒExcuse me, does anyone know what time it is? I canÕt seem to find my clock. Does anyone know what time it is?Ó My wife got up when she saw the window open and went inside, knowing she had had a few too many to deal rationally with the wall tonight. We all rolled our eyes a bit, and perceived what was coming, but I decided this needed to be addressed calmly, so I took out my watch and said, ÒItÕs eleven twenty.Ó Before I got the last word fully out the wall said in a naive and dreamy tone overloaded with sarcasm, ÒGeeeeeeeeee thatÕs really late, YaÕll do this all the time, and IÕm getting tired of it. We share this space and . . .Ó

This time I wasnÕt going to let that wall slam its window in my face. I cut it off, and began my speech of relating the fact that hiding behind a wall and objectifying your enemies doesnÕt help. I did it with Tomato Man, and with the wall here. I gained comfort from neither. ÒLook if you would come down here and talk to us like human beings, youÕd see we arenÕt evil people, we just enjoy each otherÕs company . . . Ó But the wall cut me off from my speech, well rehearsed through the guile of moral reasoning.

ÒIÕve talked to you plenty.Ó The wall said.

ÒNoÓ, I said, ÒYou scream you donÕt talk.Ó

I was met with a slam.

I was upset that I, the only one who was in any way sympathetic to his plight, was the one who ended up having to deal with him. In one way he was wrong. We donÕt share any space. We each rent our own space, and we happen to rent the courtyard where we are able to sit and derive pleasure from the company of others. But, I knew in the wider moral universe he was correct, we do share the space, and as the night grew later, and drunken party guest hid in the bushes and sang, ÒYouÕve got to hide your love awayÓ I was ill at ease. The calm of my garden had been destroyed by my knowledge of malcontent. At midnight I corralled everyone inside and was unable to fully enjoy the party, because I knew my nakedness. I knew it was wrong to be so loud when we knew the wall didnÕt like it, even if he wasnÕt the most diplomatic about expressing it, penning up his rage until it exploded in tantrums, and slammed windows. I decided I needed to do something to make the peace, . . . Maybe buy him a box fan.

Phillip G.