No country for old Friends
- Dec 22, 2025
- 5 min read
“Like I said, it was awful.” She uncocked the finger and noticed for the first time that the groceries were still in their bags.
I watched from my Mom-watching couch as she put the food away, slamming the cabinet doors more than usual. She was like a feral creature who, once it had a taste for freedom, couldn’t get comfortable with the stuckness and structure of town.
She sat. She stood and stalked across the kitchen a couple of times, opening the cabinets and fridge doors only to slam them again. She ripped a banana off the bunch and scowled at it to show how furious she was that it wasn’t a donut. The Stuck House was supposed to be the only place where the universe had to obey her rules, but now she couldn’t even boss around a lousy banana. She dumped it back in the bowl with a little extra oomph to prove her point.
“Let’s go for a walk,” she said finally. “I need to burn off these nerves.”
“I thought you’d never ask!” I ran to the door to remind her where it was.
As the Mayor, I was dying to check on my constituents and smell all that had happened in My Hometown while I was away. My Trail, which I patrolled at least once a week, was a three-and-a-half-mile path along the last strip of land before earth gives way to sea. Way back in New Mexico, the Witch had briefed us on the brouhaha that erupted when every bored person in California visited My Beach on the same day. A day like that is usually called summer, but this year it was called irresponsible. So they closed every beach in California as punishment. Only people who didn't need a car to get there were allowed on the beach, which made us exceptional. The Stuck House clung like a barnacle onto the flank of a steep hill, exactly one mile from the End of the World.
I checked over my shoulder to make sure that Mom was coming to the door. “Does this mean that we need to run down the hill?” I asked. “… and then back up again?”
“I think it’s okay if we park downtown.” Mom is usually an encyclopedia of parking rules, but this time it sounded like she was asking me.
“Won’t it look suspicious if we sneak to the beach in a car?” I asked. “What will we say when they question us?”
“I hadn’t thought of that. The stores are closed, so we can’t say we’re shopping.”
“And we can’t say we’re visiting a Friend because that’s illegal too,” I reminded her, “even if you had friends to visit.”
“God, I’m not used to proving my right to be out in public. I guess I’ll just run with my ID so I can prove that we live in town if I get stopped.” Mom found her wallet among the counter groceries that didn’t have an away to be put in, peeled a card from inside, and slipped it into her pocket.
Instead of the Wagon, we mounted our inconspicuous car, which still had all of its paint and no mirrors out of place to raise suspicion. The car rolled down the steep hill and came to rest in the same beachfront neighborhood where it usually parks.
As we walked, Mom looked from side to side, waiting for the Law to jump out of someone’s driveway and demand to see our papers. I strained at the leash to sniff the unfamiliar signs lined up like sentries along the path. Each stood at attention as far from the last as it took to walk in a minute. Their big, heavy letters smelled of aggression and suspicion.
“What do they say?” I snorted.
“They’re telling us to GO HOME!” Mom read.
“Rude.”
“No kidding. I get the sentiment, but there are nicer ways to say it.”
There were more signs in front of every car kennel, and a fence of crime scene tape that warned of the dire consequences of parking there. The pier was gated and chained, and there were no fishermen with buckets of fish guts blocking the sidewalk.
I smiled at some of the same people that I usually see on my patrols and Mom waved. They waved back, but went wide as they approached, turning their smiles away before anyone could catch real friendship. It was exactly how Mom behaved when she was at risk of having to say hello to an almost-Friend. Suddenly she becomes very interested in the label on her crackers, reading the ingredients as intensely as a whodunnit until the coast is clear.
At first, I forgot. I thought my neighbors were avoiding Mom’s smell until I remembered that she’d already showered today. The filth keeping my Friends on the far side of the sidewalk wasn’t coming from Mom’s armpits, but much deeper inside.
When we reached the second hill, I recognized Rick and Diane ahead. Rick and Diane walk the second hill every morning with treats in their pockets, looking for dogs to pat. I’m always happy to oblige.
There’s no time for patience when you remember how much you miss a Friend. I raced to meet them while Mom used the leash as a brake, pulling my sprint into slow motion. It was just like that scene where two friends run into a hug while the music swells. As I came into range, I veered to Rick and Diane’s side of the trail and slowed down for treats.
Just as our eyes met, there was a yank on the leash.
I looked back at Mom, but she wasn’t behind me anymore. She was already a leash-length ahead, barely keeping her walk from exploding into a run. She turned her head away and lifted her paw in a hello to show Rick and Diane that it wasn’t because she didn’t recognize them that she didn’t stop.
I pulled back on the leash with all my might. “Mom, wait!” I looked back at Rick and Diane, who were also smiling and holding up hello hands instead of reaching for their pockets.
“You guys, it’s me. Oscar. Your friend. Haven’t you missed me?” I walked sideways as slow as I could to stop what was happening, but Mom’s mind was already made up. The only treat I could offer Rick and Diane was a view of my unpatted butt as we walked away.
“What was that all about?” I asked when I caught up to Mom. “Didn’t you see that it was Rick and Diane that you were waving to?”
“People’s boundaries have changed, Spud. And Rick is pretty old. He’s in good shape, but we don’t know what kind of health conditions he might have. We’ll have to give them space for a while.”
“But Rick and Diane love me,” I reminded her. “They would never turn their backs on me. You’re the dirty one. Can’t you stand back or something instead?”
“It’s not about how much they love you, Spud. It’s about how much you respect them.”
“No fair! Love is supposed to add to life, not take the best parts away. This isn’t America anymore! I want to go back to the way things were before.”
“Me too, buddy. Me too.”
My Trail ends at the world-famous Wooden Taco Bell, where you can order quesadillas and fizzy drinks from the beachside window without putting on shoes. Usually, the Wooden Taco Bell is swarming with as many tourists as Alcatraz, but today the beach was deserted and the quesadilla window was dark.
“This is terrifying. Thank goodness work starts tomorrow.” Mom tapped the turn-around pole and about-faced toward the car. “I don’t think I can handle this stress without a distraction.”
Want to keep reading? Grab Oscar’s book, No Place Like Alone on Amazon.
