« Internet Sucks -(A Little Bit)- | Main | Where Does Brian Live? »
January 28, 2005
My Neighbor's House
My relationships with my neighbors are always strange. I think it is mostly because they are.
The drunk guy on the other side of the alley that would always ask me to throw away something big so he could call his connections at the city to get the garbage men to pick it up. "Any thing. Any time. Just let me know."
The guy next door that threw a full can of beer in my face, splitting my lip wide open, because I walked down the stairs too loudly (unfortunately he immediately sped off and never returned; I never got a chance to slash his tires) -- the guy who lived in his mother-in-law's house -- the mother-in-law that affectionately (I'm sure) referred to him as "Asshole."
The guy that flew the confedrate battle flag in front of his home dwarfed by its 4 adjoining garages filled with disassembled lawn mowers -- the guy that would stick his head and a Budweiser-filled hand over the fence every couple days and while pointing to my dog say, "Dat dog gah pih init."
The guy that cut off several toes in a lawn mowing accident that came over to my yard to pull weeds from around my front porch for some reason.
The two sisters in their late 70s that, weather permitting, split a 40 in their back yard every night -- the ladies that would always call me over to tell me that they thought I looked exactly like one of the boys they knew that died in Europe during WWII. Did I want to see the love letters he left them?
The guy that stood in front of their house for hours at a time, weather permitting, holding a flyswatter, wearing state trooper sun glasses swatting at flies.
The guy in the wheel chair that seemed to be the only thing that could make the guy with the flyswatter return home -- the guy who wheel up to me, introduce himself as "Crazy Legs," tell me that he was a huge Michael Landon fan, that he used to skip school and drink coffee with the bus drivers, that he used to work at a bakery until it moved, but that when he "get[s his] legs back" he'll work their once more.
The guy that periodically pulled his washer and dryer out onto the sidewalk to wash and wax them.
etc.
Needless to say I'm rarely surprised by my neighbors now days. But yesterday...
There's a junkie in the neighborhood that regularly comes down the street carrying some package or another, offering to sell its contents (whatever its contents my be) for ten dollars (always ten dollars). He's come by offering me a fifty pound box of roofing nails. A cell phone "still in the box!" Radios, cordless phones, building supplies, bicycles. The day before last it was a rachet set.
After turning him down every single time, in as few words as possible, and otherwise never speaking to him it seems he decided I wanted to chat with him yesterday. I suppose it helped that I was in a good mood having skipped out of work early. The exchange went something like this:
"Damn. It's cold out here. Ain't it?" he said as I opened my front door.
"Yep."
"Yeah. Real cold. Damn cold." He stopped on the sidewalk behind me as I unlocked the inner door.
"Yep. And it's supposed to get colder tonight. Seven degrees, I think."
"Damn. That's too cold. That's too cold for me. I live in the garage. You know that? I live in the garage and that's gonna be real cold."
"That sucks."
"Yeah, hey, buddy, do you think you can help me out with a dollar or something?"
"No."
That in and of its self is far from surprising. A junkie that lives in a garage. A junkie asking for money. No big deal. The surprise really came today when I took my dogs out in the stinging cold for their morning walk. I made note to check out the junkie I call Petey's garage home. I know where he lives because several of the neighbors have told me to talk to Kenny the bikesmith if I need a bike.
"Kenny the bikesmith?"
"Yeah. Kenny. He's real good with bikes."
"Who is he?"
"He lives in the third house down. You know that little guy. The one always selling shit? Like phones 'n shit? That's Kenny's brother."
I walked past the third house down and peered into the back yard. I didn't recall seeing a garage there before, so I needed to check.
What I saw was less of a garage and more of a 5'x4' corregated metal shed. A tool shed -- if you don't mind your tools blowing away with the shed should any strong breeze come.
It was smaller than the dog house in Daniel's back yard. Sure, the house was a little too big for his Great Dane, but it was in no way big enough for a non-midgetitis afflicted human. Still, Petey, the junkie salesman, calls an even smaller, flimsier version home.
Posted by calculatoronfire at January 28, 2005 12:40 PM
Comments
pardon me if this has already been established, but
WHERE THE HELL DO YOU LIVE?
Posted by: sweetney at January 28, 2005 01:15 PM