I’m knitting on my front porch when a car roars to a stop in front of my house. It’s a red Mustang convertible, top down on this warm Thursday afternoon in June. Two girls sit in the front, two in the back. They smile and wave at me. I smile back though I don’t recognize them.
“Howya doin’, Becky?” one shouts.
“Sorry?” I call out. “My name’s not Becky!”
They laugh. “She too old to know she a Becky!” one says.
“You a Becky!” another girl shouts. “You a honky, snow bunny, white old Becky!”
Everything next happens so fast. They’re suddenly standing in the car, on the seats, each holding a bucket. They reach into their buckets, lift out water balloons, aim, fire.
My arthritic knees won’t let me escape. I try to reach for my walker, but a balloon smacks my face. Some burst on the porch, burst into the basket of yarn at my feet, burst against my chest, burst in my lap, soaking the sweater I was knitting.
The sour smell of urine makes me gasp. Old urine. Acrid as a dirty litter box.
They keep throwing urine-filled balloons, and now they’re snorting, over and over, then the snorts change to shrieks. “Oink! Oink! Oink! Piggie! Piggie! Piggie!”
Suddenly they stop, smile and wave, but not at me. They are looking at the house
