DOMINICAN REPUBLIC, HACKEY-SACK, OLD CRUSH, OLD NEIGHBOR, A CREW.

It is evening. I am playing hackey-sack in a group with J.P., an old crush. He is Jewish. The setting changes to my drive-way in the Dominican Republic. I know it is Sunday and I know my parents are holding a BBQ soiree because I smell smoke. We continue playing underneath the coconut tree. A stretched escalade limo that is pearly champagne pulls into our street. It yells expensive. In it are big men coming back from an awards show sporting colorful baseball caps. Around their necks hang heavy shinny chains. They want to know where to park, so I get into the limo and lead them plus or minus 5 FT. where the street ends. They can park here. When we walk towards my house someone notices bottles of alcohol lined on a brown folding table in front of my neighbor's home. They live across the street in a two-story, white washed, cynder block home, with a front yard, and an overhanging balcony. Someone is angry and chastises my neighbor for making alcohol available to minors. I am annoyed this person is so North American and disrespectful of different cultural ethics. Nevertheless, we still go inside to tell the neighbors. When we peer inside they are watching television after a long day of drinking; they do not understand the severity of the situation but are polite. An old woman with a patchy faux-hawk wearing a white flowy nightgown asks if I am B.'s daughter. I say yes. She smiles and comments on my piano playing and that she occassionally watches me playing through her window.j