The Neighbor

About once a week I wake up in the middle of the night to a car's loud bass blasting Mexican music (I think it's called ranchera). It's always annoyed me and I've wanted to go out there in my pajamas and give the guy a piece of my mind. I'm glad I never did.

Today I was outside with my dog when I saw a white van park across from me. Out popped an older man, his little girl, and a big lab. They parked in front of the house where the loud music comes from.

"How's it going? My name's Brock and I'm your neighbor across the street," I started as I jogged over. "I've just come over to get to know you."

He responded in broken English. "Oh, great! It's nice to know the neighbors."

"Where are you all from?"

"We are from a little city just below Tijuana, Mexico," he explained. "I came up here a year ago to work and I brought my daughters here because the schools are much better in the United States. I work at a church in Orem."

We parted with handshakes and smiles. I told him if he ever needed anything to just come and knock.

My dad always taught me you should never burn a bridge. And he's right. Instead of burning bridges with my neighbors across the street, we shook hands in the middle.