It was early—the first days of social distancing. Shelter-at-home in our city was still three days away. One by one, restaurants were starting to close their dining rooms, and the roads were seeing less and less traffic. At the time we weren’t wearing masks, but the reality of the pandemic was growing. My son, who is in college, was realizing that he would not return to school after spring break. My other children were being laid off from their jobs. My wife’s business trips were all canceled.

I was supposed to be on beautiful Whidbey Island, WA, attending the final session of my low-residency MFA program—ten days spent with other writers, friends, and mentors talking about great books and workshopping short stories, followed by senior readings, commencement, and a grand reception. It was canceled days earlier, and I was bitter at the loss of the program’s highlight.

My wife, Trina, and I were working from home and having lunch that second Friday in March, when she said, “We should have happy hour on the street and invite the neighbors.” Inwardly, I gave a sigh. Why would I want to hang out with a bunch of people I hardly know? Without my encouragement, I figured the idea would fade. But at three o’clock she was walking out the door with a stack of flyers and a roll of tape. She stuck one on the door of every house, two doors in each direction. “No one will show up,” I thought. “Including me.”

Trina has blossomed since going back to school to earn her nursing degree ten years ago. She entered the corporate world after five years on the med/surg floor at the hospital. Cleaning up all manner of bodily fluids for years with a crew of fellow nurses brought out some latent swagger in her, some boldness I never knew. In recent years she has taken to heartily greeting every neighbor we pass on the street. She will introduce herself to children and memorize their names. With fellow RNs she immediately falls into talking shop. She knows the names of all the dogs in the neighborhood and greets them when we are walking our dogs. She tries to draw me out of my shell when I would rather sit in my chair and read, preventing me from aging more quickly than the natural gravity of my mind.

Happy hours had become a favorite event for her since our children left the house. Now all the bars were closing. Her regular gatherings with colleagues had been suspended indefinitely, but that couldn’t stop her. At 4:55 p.m. she was pouring a glass of Malbec and rustling our camping chairs out of the garage. Trying to be a good sport, I decided to join her. I grabbed a cold IPA and a chair of my own.

We set up on the asphalt in front of our house and sat there in the cool evening breeze, the street silent, the sky overcast. I sipped in silence, feeling exposed. But after a few minutes a screen door opened. The wife of the couple directly across the street came out with her chair and a cocktail glass. “Isn’t this crazy?” she shouted. Her husband was in training to be a city bus driver after quitting his ride-share job. “What a great idea! Robbie will join us when he gets off.”

Soon, faces started appearing in windows. Garage doors started going up. Like freshmen at a high school dance, people started to tumble out, lifting a bashful hand in a limp wave, careful to keep six feet apart. They plopped their chairs down in the street.

People laughed and raised their margaritas or a glass of wine, toasting one another loudly across driveways and on the opposite side of the street. Neighbors reintroduced themselves, and kids came out with their bikes and scooters and skated up and down the road in front of us. Five o’clock turned to six. Six turned to seven. Beverages flowed and tension melted away. And here is the amazing thing: families who had lived next door to one another for years met for the first time. Children who had played alone in their homes for years now met and played with their neighbors of similar age. Republicans and Democrats were soon laughing and swapping stories. Netflix series were critiqued and recommended. I discovered that some of my neighbors are readers, and the idea of starting a book club was floated. I loaned our copy of Where the Crawdads Sing to the lady across the street with my assessment of its literary qualities.

To use my wife’s phrase, everyone was “glad of heart” (i.e., rapidly getting tipsy) which led to some relaxing of the six feet rule. But something magical was happening. The children brought out more toys. A play teepee appeared in the street with blankets for the floor and dolls and stuffed animals. A pizza delivery man dropped off a box to one family. People walking their dogs stopped to comment on our celebration, looking on in envy.

Dark was starting to fall and we were getting cold. We hadn’t even started dinner yet. We bid everyone good night. A collective voice cheered for my wife’s idea and everyone thanked her for organizing the evening. An amazing transformation had occurred. All were now on a first-name basis: the neighborhood had achieved a cohesion that felt like something from the ’60s. Several announced their intention to meet again the following Friday. “Hell, Friday? What about tomorrow night!” one said.

We went inside, but many folks continued loudly out in the street, laughing and whooping with fresh beers or tumblers of margaritas. Trina and I made supper and watched from the table in the kitchen window.

I was stunned. I took my wife’s hand and looked at her, shaking my head. “You did it. I cannot believe what just happened. Look at them!” She just smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

Jeffrey Allen Mays has published in Catapult/Topology Magazine, Newsbyrd and God and Nature. His short story “Malefic” appeared in the 2013 eco-horror anthology Growing Concerns by Chupa Cabra House. His story “Concho Diary” won 1st place for contemporary fiction in the 2017 Texas Short Story Contest. His debut novel, The Former Hero, was published in 2014 by AEC Stellar Publishing and was the winner of the 2015 Texas Association of Authors Book Award, and was a finalist in the National Indie Excellence Awards. Jeffrey received his MFA from Seattle Pacific University. He lives in Austin, Texas.