The Satanists don't live there anymore.
Maybe they think of themselves more as goths or pyschobillies. Whatever label they ascribe to, they seemed cool to me.
The Satanists have moved out. The 1980s black Mercedes Benz is gone.
Like everyone else during quarantine I've been taking walks around my neighborhood. I do it whenever I can get some time away from work. It’s important to me to go outside at least once a day, even if I’m walking the same eight block stretch down the street and up the hill and back. I prefer to go out in the morning before the sun gets too hot, or in the early evening to climb the hill and watch the sunset over the bay and onto San Francisco, but if I need a break at noon I take it and do my loop.
At the crest of the hill overlooking the bay and the freeway there is a cute little house, painted red and brown and accessorized with an old metal awning like a pink fringe above the front door and picture window. On the sidewalk opposite the house are two lawn chairs and a sign tied to a pole that says “The Vista,” with an invitation for neighbors to take a seat and enjoy the view.
One day on my walk I got to the top of the hill and observed three older millennials, maybe Gen Xers, all in black outfits, sitting at a table in front of the cute house on patio under a large umbrella. Ever since then, I’ve referred to them in my head as The Satanists.
Maybe they think of themselves more as goths or pyschobillies. Whatever label they ascribe to, they seemed cool to me.
The two women wore black wide-brimmed hats. The man wore a fitted black tee with the sleeves rolled up, showing off his neo-traditional tattoos. They weren’t barbecuing or listening to music or playing cards or eating. They were just there at the table opposite their Home Depot water feature, enjoying the sunny day from under the shade of their canvas umbrella.
There aren’t a lot of people in my demographic in my neighborhood. It’s mostly older retired folks and families with kids, so seeing this black-clad group of young people felt like an opportunity to maybe make some friends. As I walked past their patio gathering I looked over and made what I thought was a smile but was probably a smirk. I’m shy, not good at smiling at people, and I felt self conscious in my unstylish bike shorts and baggy sweatshirt, so that’s as far as my interaction went.
I had a brief fantasy of being invited over to hang out and make popcorn, watch The Devil's Mass and talk about Anton LaVey. It wasn’t clear to me if all three lived at the house, but I like to think that they did.
For months after my first sighting of The Satanists I’d take my walk and keep an eye out for them. I would see the Benz, but not The Satanists. Sometime around Christmas I saw an old wooden desk out on the front patio. I thought about taking it home, but I don’t have enough room in my apartment for more furniture. A few weeks later the desk was gone and a large wall mirror was out on the patio. I thought about taking this home also, but noticed a crack on one of the corners and my superstition said not to.
Last month on my trek up the hill I noticed the exterior of The Satanists’ house was now painted a light green color. The front door was wide open and there was no furniture inside. A red Dodge Ram pickup truck was parked where the black Mercedes used to be. The Satanists got gentrified out. Or maybe they owned the house and sold it while the market is hot and moved to a compound somewhere east of here.
I feel bad that I didn’t actually try to interact with them. Perhaps I could have made some friends and shared some experiences. Too often I’m left wondering what could have happened. I do feel grateful that I saw them at all and have something to wonder about. Do you know what I mean?