The Civilized Wildes
by Charles C. Cole
It’s important for the reader to know early on that the author is a bleeding-heart liberal who, until recently, got along with most sorts. I have friends of all stripes and persuasions. I’d certainly prefer my fellow commuters not tailgate me, and I’m not a fan of casual public swearing. I like a moderate amount of alcohol on occasion. I’ve never spanked my kids or yelled at another driver for acting like an ass. But even I have limits.
My new neighbors, the Wildes, are a family of faeries, wings and all. When my teen daughter’s sunbathing next to the pool in her tasteful but revealing bikini, the twelve-year old boy next door “happens” to invite likeminded male friends over for a flying version of tag, or maybe it’s capture the flag, cavorting a foot or two above the top of our privacy fence. Every single time.
Some nights, when the rest of us have slowed down, retreating indoors from the all-consuming dark, activities of a frolicking nature continue unabated for the Wildes due to a form of practical bioluminescence.
The doting parents, very affectionate with each other, appear young, though my wife tells me they’re actually almost a hundred years older than we are. They like to fool around under a new moon, on the back half of their roof, which is right outside our bedroom window. The more enthralled the passion, the more intense the buzzing of their wings. My wife thinks it’s romantic.
One early evening, Finn, the husband, stopped by as arranged, while our spouses and children enjoyed big-screen family entertainment at the local drive-in. Finn was oozing so much charm that I half-expected him to con me into a bad investment. You know: a great deal on an oceanside timeshare in Salt Lake City.
He brought a couple of large ceramic jars of homebrewed mead. They had an apiary on their one-acre lot. We sat around a crackling fire pit, exchanging life stories. He had what I assumed was a trace of an Irish lilt, since his parents had emigrated from the island.
“You sure you won’t have some?” asked Finn. “Erline will be disappointed. She’s a right alchemist, that one.”
“My grandfather was a Quaker: no alcohol, no smoking, no swearing, no fun. On the other hand, my dad, swung the other way, a heathen child of the 60s. The pendulum came back hard for me.”
“I offer only a slight expansiveness of mind,” promised Finn. “We give the kids a wee sip when they have nightmares. Works like a charm.”
“Truth is I can’t handle my liquor: I’m a sloppy drunk. I get sleepy, my words slur, my mouth won’t shut up. So said my uninhibited college roommate, jovially, to my parents when they picked me up one Christmas break. That was then. We make mistakes, and we course-correct.”
“I know you’re a good guy just trying to get through life. That’s what your wife tells my wife. My kind can be a shock to conservatives—”
“I’m not a conservative,” I said quickly, defensively, raising my voice, “not that there’s anything wrong with them.” I was going to prove myself the bigger egalitarian, even if it meant pushing the bounds of civility.
“Drink one glass in the spirit of fellowship. That’s all I ask. And, for a little while, you’ll experience the world through my eyes.”
We moved by the pool. Sweet nectar of the gods. I don’t know why I expected it to burn going down, like liquid fire, but this was as yummy as Mom’s homemade birthday cake. The only warmth was the rush of blood to my cheeks. The stars were brighter, the insects louder, but like an orchestra in the symphony of the night. Finn watched me, his eyes sparkling, his smile growing. For some reason, I thought of the face of a mother looking down at her newborn babe, welcoming and protective.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Amazing. A little intimidating. Borderline loud. There’s just so much more of everything. Makes me want to run around while my senses are so sharpened. You know, look under logs, at blades of grass, climb a tall tree, fly.”
Finn laughed gently. “There’ll be no flying tonight, my good fellow. Plenty enough to notice right here with your feet firmly planted on jolly mother Earth.”
“Debbie Downer.”
“Enjoy the movie,” said Finn. “It won’t last.”
“This is your life?”
“Yes and no. That’s what the best days are like. You don’t want to see the worst days.”
Finn and I became friends. I taught him cribbage. He taught me how to play the fife. We even offered to let the Wildes use our pool, but they don’t like to get their wings wet. Erline is quite content to sit on the edge and swing her legs through the water.
One night, when the wives and kids had gone to watch fireworks along the river, Finn came over for cards but without mead. He was distracted. He had a new boss starting soon. His company, something to do with the Internet, had hired an elf.
“All my life, me da and me ma warned me about power-hungry, money-grubbing elves. Descendants of royalty, many of them, who took the attitudes of ye ancestral palace with them into the modern world. Humans are awkward, sure, a wee bit scared but well-intentioned, the lot of them, but elves—”
“Give him a chance,” I said.
“Easy for you to say. You don’t hear the voices of Great-Aunt Matilda and Great-Uncle Dewey recalling the Hundred Years’ War, and I don’t mean the one in the history books.”
“I’m here for you,” I said. “And that’s got to mean something.”
It was a rough start for Finn, but it eventually got better. The boss recognized Finn’s abilities, and Finn recognized their overlapping history. The new guy has not yet visited the neighborhood, but I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I found myself sharing mead with an elf.
Copyright © 2023 by Charles C. Cole
