that time Stumpy hasn't needed any help, hasn't asked for any help--'
'He was screaming though, crying out like he was trying to talk.'
'That's the way he does talk. He's always that way. I admit it's a little unnerving at first, but... well, like I said, you get used to it. I don't think he was upset or in pain or trying to enlist your help. More than likely, he wanted you to get off his trails and go somewhere else. He doesn't much like company, and he seems to be pretty possessive and territorial.'
'So there's nothing we can do?'
'There's nothing to do. Stumpy may be handicapped, but other than that he's like any recluse or eccentric. If he had arms and legs and could talk, he'd still be living out in the woods, only you wouldn't think anything of it. You'd think he was some crazy survivalist and never give him another thought. Well, that's exactly how you should think of Stumpy.'
'What if sometime he really does need help?'
Ray shrugged. 'I guess he'd make his way to someone's house and try to get their attention somehow.'
Barry thought of that horrific shriek, of the way the limbless man had looked as he strained his thickly corded neck and opened his toothless mouth. A chill passed through him as he imagined waking up in the middle of the night to find such a sight waiting for him on his doorstep. Maybe it was just his line of work, the fact that he spent his days dreaming up horrors of the flesh and terrifying images of the supernatural, but he could not seem to summon the sort of understanding and acceptance that he knew he should have, and despite his well-intentioned sense of outrage, his real gut reaction to Stumpy was one of fear and disgust.
Ray offered him a beer, but Barry said that he'd already been away from the word processor for too long and he'd have to take a rain check.
He walked back down the hill toward home. The Suburban was back in the driveway, and Maureen was just clicking off the phone as he walked through the door.
'Oh,' she said. 'That was for you. Where've you been?'
'Out for a walk, Who was it?'
'Your old pal Neil Campbell from the homeowners' association.'
'Jesus Christ.'
'Apparently, someone complained that you were playing music too loud this morning. Neil wanted to inform you that Bonita Vista does have noise restrictions and the rules state that music cannot be played so loud that it can be heard from someone else's lot.'
'Too loud? It was Ladies of the Canyon, for Christ's sake. And you could barely hear it downstairs, let alone outside of the house.'
'I guess sound carries here.'
'Is he calling back? Or does he want me to call him back?'
She shook her head. 'He'll send you a memo.'
'This is getting ridiculous.' Barry looked at her. 'They're your friends, couldn't you tell them that we like to listen to music, that it doesn't harm anyone, and, by the way, mind your own damn business?'
'No one's trying to cramp your style, hon. They just want you to show a little more respect to your neighbors. It's not an unreasonable request.'
'It is if it infringes on my rights. I live here, too, you know. And I should be able to live my life in my own house and do what I want on my own property without someone else trying to dictate and regulate my behavior.'
'They're only infringing on your rights at the point where your rights begin to infringe on other people's.'
'What kind of double-talk crap is that?'
'It means that, yeah, you live here, but you're not alone. Other people live here, too, and we have to take into account their feelings.'
'Shit.' He looked at her disgustedly, and they probably would have gotten into it then and there, but at mat second the phone rang, and Maureen pressed the Talk button as she brought it to her ear.
'Hello?'
The expression on her face brightened instantly. 'Hey, how are you?
... Yeah... It's great... Uh-huh... No, not at all... Yeah, hold on.
He's right here.' She handed Barry the phone. 'It's Jeremy!'
He took the telephone from her hand.
'Dude!' Jeremy said. 'Long time no hear!'
Barry smiled as he heard his friend's voice, and for a brief second he was back in California, back in the real world, far away from Bonita Vista and deformed men and homeowners'
associations and pending memos about excessive noise. 'Jeremy, you loser! It's about time!' 'Yeah. How goes it out there in the boonies?' He took a deep breath, and though he was still annoyed, still upset, he found himself chuckling at the absurdity of it all.
'You're not going to believe it, bud. You're not going to believe it.'
The Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions Article III, Land Use Classifications, Permitted Uses and Restrictions, Section 3, Paragraph M:
Without limiting the generality of any of the foregoing provisions, no exterior speakers, horns, whistles, bells, or other offensive sound devices, except security devices used exclusively for security purposes, shall be located, used, or placed on any Lot. In addition, any noise generated from the interior of a home, including but not limited to the sound from television, radio, audio reproduction, or live instrumentation, must conform to agreed-upon noise levels. No sound that is determined by general consensus to be a nuisance or that is audible from the Lot of another Resident will be permitted to emanate from any Property during any time of day.
'I don't know, Ray. I just don't know.'
The two of them sat on canvas butterfly chairs next to the barbecue on the Dysons’ deck, while the women remained inside talking. Past the town, past the hills, past the trees, the canyon lands were a brilliant orange, sandstone cliffs dyed bright pop-art colors by the setting sun.
Barry looked over at his friend. 'You'd think that in a place like this, out in the middle of nowhere, they wouldn't have rules and regulations and homeowners' associations. Tracts and subdivisions in southern California, yeah, I'd expect it. But out here?' He shook his head. 'Whatever happened to living out in the country with broken washing machines on the back porch and cars on blocks and angry dogs tied up in the yard?'
Ray stood and flipped over the burgers. 'Yuppiedom's gone national.
It's everywhere, from sea to shining sea. You can't escape it.' He pointed with his spatula toward Corban . 'You want your white-trash houses, your mean dogs and broken cars and junky appliances, buy a place in town. You want good views and big houses and cable TV, then you're stuck with Bonita Vista.' He sat down again. 'That's the problem. All these city people like us, longing for a rural lifestyle, all us retired people and tele commuters we want the comforts of home.
We want fresh vegetables and gourmet food in the stores, we want fax machines and cellular phones. And we're willing to pay for it. But when we bring that shit out here, we bring the rest of it, too. The gated communities and homeowners' associations, the need for conformity and exclusivity. Turns out that we didn't really want to live the rural life at all. We wanted our city life with nicer scenery.'
'You really think so?'
'Tell me,' Ray said. 'Why did you buy a house in Bonita Vista? You liked the homes, right? You liked the landscaping and the views. If this hadn't been here, if the only homes for sale in this area had been the ones in Corban , you would've moved on, found some other town to live in. You wouldn't've wanted one of those small dirty houses with dusty yards or one of those broken-down trailers in the pines. The thing that attracted you to Bonita Vista is that it's clean and well-maintained. What you liked about this neighborhood is what the homeowners' association has made of it.' He paused. 'Me, too.'
'So we're hypocrites, huh?'
'No. But we were lured here, trapped, misled.' He motioned around him, at his house, at the other houses beyond. 'We thought this was all natural and organic, we didn't think it was an artificially maintained environment.
