It took a solid minute for Hyde to realize that William’s song wasn’t about a cat, but then he got the joke in the last verse and laughed with the rest. From the little he knew of music, his neighbor was insanely talented.

The song was over and the twisting piano came to a stop. “That’s all for tonight, my friends,” William said. “Duane’ll be out in a few.”

The man stood a head and neck taller than Hyde. His full breadth was exemplified in wide, boney shoulders. He removed a blazer from a hook behind the piano and tapped the bulging right pocket. As he turned to leave, Hyde jumped from his stool and intercepted him on the way to the exit.

“William? William Carmel?”

The man was already stuffing his arms into his jacket. He looked at Hyde and narrowed his brow. “I’m not in the mood to sign autographs.”

Autographs? Was he serious? “I heard you play. I think you’re amazing. Can I buy you a beer?”

“Afraid I don’t drink.”

Hyde laughed nervously. “Neither do I. How does Coke sound?”

The man’s eyes were grey without a tinge of color. “Sarah sent you,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“My wife. She’s trying to hook me up.”

Hyde grinned and looked at the floor. “Somethin’ like that.”

“And may I ask the name of Sarah’s new stooge?”

“My name’s Hyde. Whitaker.”

“I’ll tell you what, Hyde Whitaker; I’ll accept your Coke. We’ll chat. And if we don’t like each other in ten minutes, you can tell your wife we had an interesting time and she’ll tell my wife we had an interesting time and we never have to see each other again.”

The tension was gone. If William was opposed to this as much as he was, they might just get along. “Deal,” he said.

They stepped to the bar and sat down. “William Carmel,” Hyde said. “Like the candy?”

“Like the mountain.”

“Awesome.”

“And my wife calls me William.” Will signaled the female bartender. “Two Cokes, Milly?” he said, then looked to Hyde. “How does a boy make it through your generation without drinking?”

“I’m twenty-six.”

“It’s a moral thing?”

“I watched alcohol destroy my friends in college. I have too much to accomplish to let that happen to me.”

“I respect that.”

“My wife doesn’t like it much, either.”

Will nodded. “And what do you do for a living, Mr. Whitaker?”

“I run my own business; Whitaker Electronics.”

“So you’re a salesman.”

“Technically, but--”

“My brother-in-law’s a salesman. Owns an alpaca farm in Virginia. Waste of skin.” Will wasn’t the first to insult Hyde’s profession.

“I guess I prefer speakers and blu-ray players over farm animals.”

“Where’s your store?”

“Three blocks down Boulevard.” He nodded south. “It’s nice working over the hill from my home.”

“You live in Brandywine?”

“Right across the street!”

“So you’re to blame.”

“For?”

“The last house in ‘phase fourteen.’ Hyde and... Kylie?”

“Kayla.”

“Kayla. How do you and Kayla like the Brandywine experience?” Will folded his arms, crossed his legs, and leaned back on his stool.

“It’s friendly. And comfortable. We like the stability of the subdivision.”

“Perceived stability.”

“I’m sorry?”

“What does Kylie do?”

“Kayla.”

“What does Kayla--”

“She teaches dance. Well...” Hyde paused. “She’s about to.”

“Oh?”

“We just began renovating a new studio; part of the reason for the move.”

“Did our wives discuss the dance thing?”

“If there were any conversations about dance, they left me out.”

Milly set two fizzing glasses in front of the men.

“How did our wives meet and plan this little get-together?” Will asked.

“Your wife--”

“Sarah.”

“--brought a Dutch-chocolate cake to welcome us to the neighborhood.”

“I guess I missed that.”

“Then they had lunch together. Mine made yours a salad with strawberries. Best she’s ever had.”

Will’s eyes froze. “Missed that too...” he said, but his mind was detached from the words. The man’s brow curled over his eyelids and Hyde noticed a slight shift in disposition as if his body and brain were pushing out the sights, sounds, and smells of the bar to focus on a single thought. His hand jerked from the counter to his lapel. He patted his shirt and blazer, then said, “Give me a pen.”

Hyde didn’t have a pen but searched his pockets anyway. When he came up empty, he turned to Milly. “Excuse me, Ma’am,” he said, but the bartender was already a step ahead. In one fluid motion, she zipped a pen across the bar, right passed Hyde and into Will’s hand. He clicked it once and scribbled on his palm.

When he finished, he tossed the pen back to Milly, winked, and turned to Hyde. “Where were we?”

“Can I ask what you wrote?”

“Sure.”

“...What did you write?”

“’Salad and strawberries.’ I like the phrase.”

“For a book?” Hyde remembered Kayla explaining Will’s knowledge in the arts; writing, directing, drawing...

“Maybe.” He blew his hand to dry the ink.

“I don’t understand your wife’s concern,” Hyde said. “You don’t seem like a hermit.”

“Is that what she called me?”

“She called you an introvert.”

“Ha!” A new voice chimed in and Hyde swiveled in his seat. The man was Will’s age with peppery stubble and a neon orange vest. He gripped his drink with a chiseled fist; the corner of his lip sagged where a cigarette longed to rest. “Don’t let Billy Carmel fool ya. His extroverted side is just playin’ possum.”

“Thirty years of diggin’ holes has made you crabby, Stan,” Will said. “And if you call me that again, I’ll wring your neck like a canary.”

“Why can’t he call you Billy?” Hyde asked.

“Stan knows better,” Will said. “He’s just had one too many drinks.”

“’One too many?’” Stan grinned. “That’s a new phrase for ol’ Billy!”

Hyde could only grin like a chimp as the men played monkey-in-the-middle with inside jokes.

Will spoke to Hyde but kept his eyes on Stanley. “Stan was my partner-in-crime when he moved to Brandywine. Now he builds houses for the enemy.”

Stan signaled the waitress, gathered his vest, and stood.

“Leaving already?” Will asked.

Stan ignored the comment and turned to Hyde. “If you take a left at the gate, I’m the third house down. It was nice meeting you... and welcome to Brandywine.”

Hyde shook Stan’s hand; meaty, papery, and twice the size of his own. He felt like a child in the company of grizzlies. “You too, man.”

Will sucked the last his pop, let the glass thud and ring on the wooden bar, then raised a hand to Milly. “His drink goes on my tab.”

*  *  *

“Do you like what you do, Hyde?”

“For work?”

“When you were five years old, did you draw pictures of small business owners selling electronics?”

“I drew pictures of firemen.”

“Are you disappointed that you didn’t become a fireman?”

“I had a limited imagination when I was five.”

Will slouched in his stool. His blazer bunched around his neck. “This electronics business... you really feel like it’s your calling?”

“I guess. Yeah. Definitely.”

“When you punch out at the same time every night, you never feel like there might be something more? Like electronics isn’t your thing?”

“I don’t think so...”

“I have a passion for music. But as much as I love the piano, I can’t stand this job.”

“Maybe my passion for electronics is greater than your passion for music.” Hyde meant it as a joke, but Will didn’t seem to find it amusing.

“Managing a store isn’t something you can be passionate about. Passion isn’t ironing your shirt so people will feel a false sense of trust and spend more cash on technology that’ll be obsolete in a year. Passion is dirty. It’s knowing something inside-out and loving it with every molecule of your being; something you need to do or you’ll burst. Is that what selling electronics does for you?”

Hyde wanted to tell Will that he spent his childhood dissecting broken calculators and stereos and VCRs; that he spent four years watching his friends revel in “the college experience” while he studied his butt off and stayed faithful to his girlfriend; that the money he earned as a sleazy salesman made him a business owner, a homeowner, a pet-owner, and a loving husband at only twenty-six years old. But all he could say was, “Yes.”

“Well then,” Will said, “good for you.”