A friendly rivalry goes too far in an intentional community in Los Angeles.
Prologue:
It was the second week of September.
I was sitting around a fire-pit in the large, grassy backyard of the house that I shared with a half-dozen roommates near downtown LA. The house was a sprawling green Craftsman, with hardwood floors and wide, sunny windows. The backyard had a small garden, a tin shed, and a tall, leafy tree that produced buckets full of lemons.
Our latest addition, a miniature Schnauzer, scampered across the lawn.
My friends and I had just gotten back from the Burning Man Festival near Reno, NV. It was my fourth time — my first with a theme camp — and we’d made friends with a handful of Australians and other world travelers who had spent the week with us. We’d invited them to join us for one last grill night before they left LA.
Some brought dusty suitcases, preparing to catch an early flight; others had beer, and wine, and potluck casseroles. I was wearing a makeshift sarong that I’d safety-pinned together out of a pillowcase — deep blue, with the moon and stars printed on it — still high on the sense of community and group cohesion that we’d built up over the week.
“It’s so great,” said Hailey, in her tipsy Australian accent, “that you and your mates can go to the Burn and come back and all live in the same house together, and for it not to be awkward or anything like that. It’s just so ... inspiring, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, hoping she would turn out to be right....
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