House Rules

Last month, my house was on fire.

No short circuits.

No faulty wiring.

No electrical mishappenings.

My house was on fire because my words

had punctured through

the flimsy skin

of a neighbour's magnanimous narcissism.

The sort of neighbour

who sold self-love

like it was antiseptic,

and accountability

like it was an infectious disease.

Most of the neighbours

pretended to be asleep.

While some,

with their doors bolted shut,

discussed how inevitable this all was,

and how the realisation

was merely a matter of time.

A few telephoned the arsonist.

Congratulated them

on their latest victory.

Told them

they had waited years for such a day,

and now that it had finally arrived,

they would celebrate it

over an evening of whiskey

and a lifetime of relief.

Two of the neighbours

jumped aboard my lifeboat.

Spoke of brotherhood.

Of grief.

Of despair.

Of anger.

Promised they would do

the right thing

regardless of consequence.

After all,

spines are what make vertebrates

stand upright,

and they were very proud vertebrates.

The firefighters came.

The police came.

The smoke left fingerprints

on every house in the lane.

Yet not a single door opened.

Not out of concern.

Not out of courtesy.

Funny how quickly

basic decency becomes

a strategic liability

when the fire belongs

to someone else.

You see, courtesies aren't warfare mannerisms.

The self-anointed brothers

visited every evening

for a week.

They unpacked sympathy slowly,

between gossip and speculation,

like men comparing vegetables

in a marketplace.

They spoke for hours.

About grief.

About justice.

About loyalty.

About consequences.

Grief,

I discovered,

becomes communal property

the moment it belongs

to somebody else.

On the eighth day,

they remembered

their houses were untouched.

And suddenly,

household priorities returned.

The one who had a spine

sold it.

Along with my stories.

For roughly the price

of a month's groceries.

The one who never had a spine

lost his appetite for justice.

Being a good neighbour

to the arsonist,

it turned out,

was far more nutritious.

Time passed.

Ash settled.

People resumed

their ordinary hypocrisies.

The neighbourhood

went back to discussing 

weather, property values, 

and conversations about morality,

at a safe distance from consequence.

Today,

the arsonist was finally arrested.

The neighbourhood watched 

through closed curtains.

The man who sold his spine

is still selling stories

for bread and butter.

The one who never had one

is still hoping

to be remembered

as a good neighbour.

As for me,

the house survived.

Poorly.

Incorrectly.

But sufficiently.

Funny thing about fires.

They never really teach you

who your enemies are.

Enemies are predictable.

Fires teach you

who was already standing

at a safe distance

waiting for the smoke.

The house has since been rebuilt.

The door now has a sign that reads:

"Nuisances and neighbours are not welcome."

Experience has taught me

the difference

is mostly grammatical.