As a freshly minted college junior, I finally had the chance to live off campus and really experience freedom. A few friends and I went in on a house in quaint New England town our little school called home. Within a few weeks of moving in, we turned a once decent family home into a complete bachelors pad. Posters were haphazardly tacked to the wall and beer cans adorned every corner. It was perfect. The hot New England summer was fading, and we decided to have a cookout to finally meet our neighbors, for fear of their itchy fingers dialing the police every time we had a party in the future–fear of underage drinking arrest is certainly real at that age.
We knocked on doors all around the neighborhood, and were met with smiles and non committal responses. Our next door neighbor wasn’t home, so we walked back into the house. It was getting to be late Thursday and our fake ids begged for a test drive at the local bars. As I came downstairs and waited to leave, I noticed the lights on in the house next door. My roommates were all getting dressed upstairs, so I hollered that I’d go invite our neighbors to our block party extravaganza. I let myself out the front door, walked the few yards down the sidewalk and rang the bell next door.