Quick Neighbor Story

When I was pregnant with my first, we lived on the second floor in an ancient apartment building on the corner of Briarcliff and Briarcliff Place in Atlanta. Across the street lived a crazy old woman and her--that's right--middle-aged son, who looked like a cross between Charles Manson and Goober Pyle.

We were a one-klunker family, so I worked at Stone Soup, a little health food/bakery/deli on Virginia, a short walk from home. My duties there kept me in the kitchen, baking zucchini muffins and stirring the bottomless kettle of black bean soup. Despite the fact that the kitchen was way in back and the powerful aromas of cinnamon and cilantro filled the air, we always knew as soon as Chuckie Pyle entered the store. The smell of moth balls signaled his arrival long before we actually saw him.

He'd study the large sandwich menu that hung on the wall behind the deli case and count his nickels and pennies. I'd hold my breath for as long as I could, then I'd shove a complimentary cookie at him and "run check the pot on the stove," disappearing behind the swinging door. When that sublime naphthalene vapor dissipated, I knew it was safe to come out.

Eventually, Chuckie figured out I was his neighbor. He seemed pleased by this. He'd stand for hours at the edge of his mother's yard, poking a stick into the sewer grate, staring at my window. Eventually he added to this repertoire: pants unzipped. I had to time my comings and goings to coincide with his breaks from this activity. Naturally, this meant I looked out the window frequently, which surely encouraged him.

But because of my habit of checking the street, I didn't miss it the day the police stormed his house, letting loose a naked young woman who ran out the front door, screaming and crying and tearing at her matted hair. She was collected quickly and Chuck was taken off in handcuffs. The girl turned out to be a prostitute he'd kidnapped and kept in the basement.

True story. True, I tell ya.

Another Tale from the Classic City

In the summer of 1984, I was 21. I had been in the yellow house for a year and was suddenly abandoned by my housemates. They''d decided that living with an OCD bulimic with a violent stalker ex-boyfriend wasn't all it was cracked up to be. It had been a hell of a year, full of restraining orders and court dates and the psychic bruising that lingers long after bodily harm, and it made matters worse that the two girls, friends of mine since middle school, had decided that my putting their dirty dishes in the back yard while they were out of town was the last straw. I mean, I'd warned them not to leave their mess for me to clean up!

I was as low as I'd ever been, physically and mentally exhausted, existing on pounds of raw cookie batter and Franzia. I was waiting tables at the Gyro Wrap and Wildwood Cafe and teaching aerobics. One day, my on-again/off-again father came to visit, bearing the usual Honey-Baked ham (I was a vegetarian). He was in the mood to be a hero, and he made me an offer I couldn't refuse: "You need a break from all this. Come live with me this summer. You won't have to work at all. You can just relax, get your bearings."

Now, this was the man who always kept an Ace comb in his pocket and a bottle of Royal Copenhagen cologne in his console; this was the John Birch Society member who had cheated on the woman he cheated on my mother with; it was the same man who, when I'd explained to him that my boyfriend had dragged me through his apartment, beating me from one end to the other, asked me what I'd done to make him do that. So, granted, I should have known better.

But it sounded so nice--rest, a change of scenery, so I agreed. I would hang out with him at the hip swinging singles complex Tahoe North in Roswell. I'd take him to work in the mornings and use his car during the day. I sublet my part of the house for half the rent to a grouchy hippie chick in the Ag school. My father would cover the other half.

The moment I entered his apartment, I knew I'd made an epic mistake: The walls were white and bare, no framed photos or art of any kind--not even the Annie Mueller montages he was so fond of, where the Fox melds into Tara and such. The beds were made with hospital corners and there was nary a drop of water in or around the kitchen sink. Even I was not this compulsive.

Day one, he refused to let me take him to work. He thought I should just walk around, get acclimated, meet some of the neighbors. Oddly enough, the place was deserted. The guys who lived there had to work to pay their child support. I called my friend Ann. She came over with a six-pack, and we sat in the driveway and drank. That night, my father took me over to Cheers, a local bar he frequented enough to have become friends with the owner. He wanted to introduce me; he thought it would be a good place for me to work. And it was in walking distance too!

For the next two weeks, the white walls squeezed in on me. There was always some reason I couldn't use the car, and the job applications were collecting on the counter. I couldn't do anything without getting busted for it. He'd come home from work and ask if I'd sat on his bed while I talked on the phone. There was a wrinkle in the spread. Had I used his razor to cut a thread? (How could he know?!!) I hadn't put it back in exactly the same spot. Did I leave the downstairs bathroom door open? It was unsightly to see a bathroom so close to the kitchen. After he took the inventory of offenses, he'd leave again to charm some woman out of her pants.

Bored and desperate, I agreed to go out with an obvious Lothario I'd met while jogging on the grounds. He was twice my age and wore Jordache jeans. When he came to pick me up in his candy-apple red Mazda, he brought me a half-empty bottle of white zinfandel. At the first stop sign, he informed me that he had a rule: a kiss at every stop sign or red light. The date was downhill from there. I was lucky to get out alive. No doubt, he is registered in every state. I called Hossain in Athens: "Please come take me home."

The next day was Sunday, the third one in June. My father left early to drive a cart around on the golf course and get wasted. I left him a note: 'Happy Father's Day. Don't contact me.'

Back in Athens, I had to find a cheap short-term place to live. I'd be paying for half that sublet as well as my temporary residence. I could move back in the house September 1st.

As it turned out, a guy I knew from the gym, Jay, was renting a sublet for the summer. It was a two-bedroom, and he was only paying half the rent (He had the same arrangement hippie girl had). All I'd have to pay, then, was half his half, about $80. It was great, too, a sweet apartment over the old Hodgeson's Pharmacy--hardwood floors and lots of windows. I could see my house from the screened-in porch.

Jay was only 19, but he was the ideal roommate. Our bedrooms were adjoined by the one bathroom in-between. At night, we'd sleep with the doors open and talk through the bathroom. His mother was dead and he didn't know his father. He'd been on his own since he was 16. He had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. He never bothered me or came on to me, except to say one time in the darkness, "You know if you ever want to come over here, you're more than welcome." When I passed out drunk on the couch more nights than not, he'd cover me with a blanket and leave me unmolested. That is a courtesy I never forget.

He was a good basketball player and a wealthy woman in town had hired him to privately coach her 14-year-old daughter. The woman, Pat, who was married to some big-shot attorney, was specially nice to Jay. Not only did she pay him extremely well, but sometimes she came over and cooked fried chicken for dinner.

Eventually, I'd find her in the kitchen on weekend mornings, making blueberry pancakes. I started to get a little suspicious, but I believed Jay when he laughed off my inquisition. Seriously, why would she risk it? And what would he want with some broad in her late 30's? Anyway, the pancakes were awesome, and I could throw them up with no problem, so I stopped asking.

Imagine my surprise, though, when I got cut early from a shift one afternoon and came home unexpected. I could hear the shower running and assumed Jay was in it. He hadn't shut the doors, so I could see his bed from my room. Pat was lying at the end of it, feet on the floor, skirt over her head, nothing under her skirt.

Next thing I knew, Pat and her husband had talked Jay into joining the Army. I don't know if they did it with threats or money or how. I'm sure her husband had found them out; he wanted Jay far away.

I tried every argument I could think of to stop Jay from leaving, but he was too contrite, accepting it as his fate.. He sent me a letter from basic training. He said he kept a picture of me and told the guys I was his girlfriend. He hoped I didn't mind. That was the last I ever heard from him.

F'd Up Neighbors I Have Had: A Story in Infinite Parts

I've already written about some of them--Bob, of course, and Sam, and R. Oh, and we can't forget Alan (all these stories tagged, cleverly enough, 'neighbors.'). But my Memory Lane crosses many courts, roads, and circles, so I thought I'd add a couple more:

1. From the time I was 10 until I graduated from high school, my family lived on Forest Hill Road in Powder Springs. Kitty-cornered to the right, across the street, lived an older couple and their middle-aged son, Tommy. He must have been in his early thirties. Tommy liked to do things to get the EMT's to come--overdose on baby aspirin or cut the grass in August while wearing wool pants, three flannel shirts, and a parka. But the very best thing about Tommy was that he'd tape his parents' nasty fights, set the stereo speakers against the open windows, and blast the recordings for everyone to hear. Once you got over the initial panic and realized it wasn't live, it was quite entertaining.

2. When I was 18 or 19, I moved into the yellow house in Athens. I would always hear the most beautiful, haunting piano music coming from the attic window in the house across the street. Eventually I met the virtuoso behind the melodies, Clark, another thirtyish fellow who lived with his mother, or so he said; I never actually saw the lady. Clark's hair was the color of cornsilk and he was as soft-spoken as a funeral usher. He seemed to have stepped right out of a VC Andrews novel. As it happened, he was always leaving the house at the same time I did, so often he'd walk beside me, making small talk. During these conversations I might have mentioned a writing class I was taking or that I was training for a marathon. Then one day, just as I hit the sidewalk for a run, he stepped into formation beside me, in brand new nylon shorts and singlet. Who knew he'd taken up jogging?!


Clark: Mind if I run with you?

TR: Well, I'm doing a long one today, Clark--ten miles...

Clark: That's fine.

TR: I'm really slow, too. I'm sure you'd rather go at your own pace.

(Clark ignores that suggestion and stays in lock-step. We canter along in silence until we're a couple of miles out.)

Clark: I've been working on a novel, you know.

TR: Oh, you're a writer now?

Clark: It's based on my real life.

TR: Fascinating, I'm sure.

Clark: I'm calling it Lucifer.

(By this point, because my intended destination was the botanical gardens, we're in an area where the houses are fewer and farther between. I begin to weigh my route-change options.)

TR: That's pretty funny, Clark.

Clark: There's nothing funny about it.

TR: Holy crap! I forgot I promised Hossain I'd work his shift tonight. I need to turn back.

Clark: I saw who brought you home this morning, and it wasn't your boyfriend.

TR: I don't have a boyfriend, Clark. We broke up. It's none of your business, anyway.

And this was the first in a long line of stalkers...

Neighborhood Menace

It's no secret that in general I'm not big on kids. I'm not one of those women who thinks children are innocent and adorable and should be handled with infinite tolerance and good humor. It might be different if I had a surplus of tolerance and good humor, but I have barely enough to ration on the adults I am required to be nice to. Medication has helped. Things that caused me to dissociate in the past no longer phase me: a baby crying at Publix, a toddler throwing a tantrum at Target, a third-grader picking his nose at PTA...My nerves adequately lubricated with seratonin, I am able to abide these events with a sort of detached fascination.

In any event, those close to me will not be shocked that I'm about to rag on a neighborhood kid.

R has had the run of Hershey Woods since he was about three years old. He was riding his bike in traffic when he should have been napping in a playpen. One summer, Georgia's friend Anna babysat him during the weeks of break, and since George was watching Lo that summer, they got the two together to play. Georgia and Lo reported daily on R's antics--the whirling dervishness of him...his habit of disappearing, along with all the snacks in the house and change from the piggybanks.

When I met him myself for the first time, I was struck by how beautiful and charming he was. He seemed wiser than his years and as buttery as Eddie Haskell. I knew he was trouble. He'd come over to play when I was home, and I'd find him in my bedroom closet, taking inventory.

One morning, a little before 8:00, he came knocking at the front step. I tried to ignore him because I didn't feel like putting on pants, but after about half an hour of his relentless pounding and the dogs barking, I finally surrendered and got dressed. He showed me a collection of drawings he'd done--self-portraits it looked like he'd sketched with his foot and then slept on. He was peddling them door-to-door for 20 bucks each.

I told him I'd spent every cent I had restocking my pantry after his last visit. I offered to call his mother to pick him up at the other end of the street. He lives a good mile away, after all. No minor distance for a seven-year-old. And how he'd managed to evade the neighborhood mutts (I swear there's a doggie bounty on his head) was luck beyond my fathoming. Even I didn't want him to push it.

That happened a few years ago. Now he's in middle school, just finished sixth grade. He still rides his bike like a demon. He looks hopped up on steroids. He has the golden hair, fixed smile and plastic dazzle of a child model. He hasn't lost his talent for appearing out of thin air. I'll be getting the mail and suddenly he's right behind me. 'No one's home,' I tell him, and I was just leaving.'

So Jack told us this story during dinner tonight: Around 2:00 this afternoon, R came a'knockin.' Jack, who was home alone, figured it was one of Lo's friends and saw no need to answer the door. He continued to watch House or whatever marathon he'd gotten sucked into until, like me, he realized that stalkers cannot be deterred. Better my son learn this early, I guess. Jack answered the door:

R: Hey, do you still have your go-kart?

Jack: Yep.

R: Can I see it?

Jack: Not right now. I was taking a nap. I'm going back to sleep.

R: Well, I think we have a new motor you can have for it.

Jack: That's ok. We're fine with the one we've got.

R: Can I just see it, anyway?

Jack: No, you need to go on home.

R: Gosh! I rode all the way up here--just to see the go-kart!

Jack: Oh my god, R, fine! You can look at it.

(R follows Jack down the driveway to the storage shed. R notices spider webs all over the doors.)

R: Can you get those spider webs off?

Jack: You want to see it; you get 'em off.

R: I'm not gonna touch them!

Jack: Stop being a little vagina and open the door.

(Jack finally opens the door. R beholds the go-kart.)

R: Can I have it?

Jack: NO, YOU CAN'T HAVE IT!!!

R: Why not?

Jack: For one thing, it's not mine to give away!

R: I thought it was yours.

Jack: It belongs to the family....Besides, who would even ask something like that?!!! GO HOME!

(R is royally PO'd and huffs his way back up the driveway.)

R: Can I at LEAST have something to drink?!

(My son, ever the humanitarian, actually goes inside and gets him a Coke Zero.)

Where the F*** Is Bob?

We haven't had an installment of this particular feature since October, so I know you've been wondering...

After months with little-to-no activity, save the boat's reappearance and disappearance at odd intervals, Bob has now listed the house for sale. Below, you will find an excerpt from the ad and the photo group he posted on the Internets, and below that, some shots that "a friend" took this afternoon.

Interesting, really, the disparity in perceptions between Bob and, well, the rest of the universe.

***
AD:

Charming split level on quiet cul-de-sac. This established neighborhood of approximately 100+ homes is surrounded by new homes ranging from $700K to over $2.4 million. Property values are increasing rapidly.

Nestled on a half acre fenced lot this wonderful property is in close walking distance to shopping and the YMCA.

Currently under renovation but ready for move in if you so desire. I have lost the time and passion needed to finish a complete renovation so I am offering this home at well below market price for a fast sale. This home would make a great personal home, rental or for little effort you can finish the upgrades and flip it for a tremendous profit.

I have recently added an 8’x28’ covered rocking chair front porch, new front windows, new siding on front left section and new front door. The roof has been replaced on the front left section as well as new siding on top part of chimney. Home is recently being painted on the exterior and entire interior. The living room has been totally renovated with 6’ arched windows; new flooring and vaulted ceiling (replaced the old stipple ceiling with smooth). Kitchen cabinets freshly painted. New flooring in the kitchen, LR, and DR and updated electrical sockets and switches throughout the house. Upstairs has been totally painted including cabinets in bathrooms. Hall closet and pull down attic stairs added. Two new insulated garage doors.
***


Now, for your viewing pleasure, more recent through-the-windows pics of the "charming...ready for move in..." home.

Get your crack house!


Rocking chair porch


Wonderful property


Totally renovated living room



Freshly painted kitchen cabinets


Ready to move in


Property values are increasing rapidly

Peyton Place

While jogging yesterday, I was musing over the Wisteria Lane that is our neighborhood. Maybe other subdivisions are like this—I don’t know. I’ve lived in this one for about 15 years, the longest I’ve ever lived on one cul-de-sac. So if this is commonplace, do correct me.

Side note: Biggy says my map is off--that the EFG row is actually one road over. But big deal. I couldn’t get it all in the screen shot, so consider the visual an approximation for the purpose of dramatization. I’ve also changed most of the names.

Just for context, I’ll point out that House A is where I lived with my Imaginary Husband, and where I continued to live after my divorce and until Biggy and I were married and added Lo. Then we moved into House B, where we still reside.

House C is where Diane used to live. Diane had a daughter, Sherry, who was about 17 when we moved into B. Diane was a single mom and apparently met lots of men on online. At one point, a huge charter bus started parking in the street in front of her house. It was a real pain in the ass to get around and an eyesore, needless to say.

About three weeks after the bus appeared, driven by her latest cyber-paramour, white balloons tied to the mailbox announced their marriage, The marriage was over before the balloons lost their air, and the daughter, Sherry, had to take out a restraining order against the bus driver because he was stalking her at college.

After that, Diane put House C up for sale and moved into House I, where her mother lived. House C stayed vacant for over a year, because the house directly across from it was House J, Bob’s City Dump. Then Lyle and his wife Carolyn, in House F, divorced and Lyle bought House C so he could live near their son. (For which he got big T-Brownie bonus points.)

The Testas owned House E until about three years ago. Right before they moved, they had a Memorial Day cookout, and that’s where I met Alan, one of their guests. He was there with a woman named Wanda. I was introduced to Wanda’s ex-husband, Dave, when he stopped by the gathering to drop off his two sons with their mother. A few months later, Alan bought House D, and Wanda seemed to be living with him. Not long after that, the Testa’s put House E on the market and Dave purchased it.

A year or so later, Wanda was no longer hanging out at House D, which might or might not be because she found out Alan is skeevy.

Now Carolyn, in F, who used to be married to Lyle in C, which used to be owned by Diane, across the street in I, is dating Dave in E.

So what about House H? Its story is incidental, really, and maybe doesn’t count at all, since none of it actually occurred inside the house itself. Mary, who lives there, once had a brief affair with Hiram, who lived in House G. The coupling always took place at dusk, in her truck--which was parked behind the bus.

You learn a lot when you jog.

Where the F*** Is Bob?

I do believe the neighbors should thank me and my sign. It looks like Bob might have been "inspired" to try a little harder. He probably broke a sweat. If you'll notice, between last week and this, the trashpile of old siding and shingles on the left has been removed. So has the garbage heap of dead toys and trampy bikes on the right. Chairs are gone as well.

Now, that's progress.



Oh, and did I mention that the wooden fence you see in these pics was built specifically to block the view of Bob's house? The couple and their son built it themselves--in the time it took Bob to add another piece of siding.

Where the F*** Is Bob?

Marietta experienced a terrible storm Saturday night. The Neighbors Down the Street reported that Bob's tarp blew askew, exposing the living room to the elements. So Bob came over on Saturday, and I happened to catch him drying off a tv to put in the trailer he hauls about one item a week in (nothing much heavier than a twelve-pack).

If you look closely, you'll notice that between the first photo, taken Saturday (and showing things pretty much the same as last we spoke about it), and the second, shot Sunday, Bob made some remarkable progress while he was there: He straightened the tarp on the roof, moved the ladder to the porch, and removed the headboard.

As you will notice, he was awarded for his fine efforts.

Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

So these are the neighbors I wrote about before, the ones with the boat in the drive, the ones who looked like they were having a garage sale for a year, the ones who pressure wash the concrete AROUND the trash. The ones I called the county on.

They're the very same neighbors who have the breeding bicycles and the hot tub sitting in the yard. For a while, the dad appeared to be building a shed out back, which was actually attached to the house. He'd framed it, and it sat there, unfinished, for months, until he started this new project (weeks ago), and the shed just up and disappeared. We're not sure what he's doing here; he filled in the big picture window that was in the front...removing some peripheral siding...What's going on in there that they'd want no window?

And why do THIS when, obviously, they're in need of a porch to sit on?

Meanwhile, someone bought the house across the street from them--finally!--and has already gutted and rebuilt it, painted, added a deck, and landscaped. Do these people have no shame? They don't even technically qualify as white trash. She's a girl scout leader, room mother, seamstress. He is a consultant who works from home. Could this be a bad case of ADD? Are they hoarders? Can anyone diagnose this?



Here's a view of the back (taken from my car, too far away, in the rain). The pic is dark, but you can see the jacuzzi on the right:

I'm Right I'm Right I'm Always Right

One morning, before nine (this was a couple of years ago), I was coming back from a jog--sweat pooling in my pits, yesterday's mascara smeared under my eyes, wearing my son's old East Side Tigers gymshorts and a Taco Bell t-shirt--and my neighbor on the corner, where our little court meets the road, pulled beside me in his minivan and introduced himself as though we hadn't met at the Testa's Memorial Day cookout some months prior and hadn't occasionally waved and exchanged small talk.

I found myself reminding him, pointing out my house--"you know, down there at the end...with the pop-up camper...husband Greg....hundreds of kids..." before it occurred to me he was actually hitting on me. It was an odd thought, and I checked myself: Why would a man try to pick up a middle-aged woman in the street while the school buses were still running? Why would I even THINK such a thing? But it was just a feeling.

Now, if it had been, say, 8 p.m. and me in hot pants drinking MaiTais at the Bamboo Lounge, it wouldn't have freaked me out. But as it was, this disturbed me greatly, and I reported as much to Biggy. He, as usual, thought I was nuts.

Since then, I've always referred to this neighbor as Skeevy Alan, to which Biggy responds by rolling his eyes, because his wife is delusional and thinks all men are scumwads who want to molest her.

So--yesterday morning, on the way to work, the Q100 morning show was talking about this website, dontdatehimgirl.com, and I made a little mental note to check it out when I got home from work (As it happens, I was too busy to do it while I was AT work).

Once home, I pulled up the site, did a search for Georgia, expecting to find my ex-husband's profile, which oddly enough didn't pan out. But what I did discover made me squeal so loudly with glee that Biggy came running downstairs to see what I was right about this time.

That's him. My neighbor. Skeevy.

While the Cat's Away, The Mice Will...Uh...Work

Earlier, over at minus-five, I read Sarah's story of the handy-man hand-out and so decided to tell part two of Sam the Wife. It's an embarrassing tale, especially considering my effusive praise before and considering, as well, how regularly I find myself thusly screwed. It's never exactly the same way; I mean, I vary the ways I allow myself to take it up the--

Anyway, a bit of background/clarification:

About five or six weeks before our Fripp trip (free work retreat), I arranged for Sam to take care of the house. I told her, too, that I was going to try to save a little money out of my allowance (Yes, another blog for another day) and get her to clean some for me. I hoped to save a couple of hundred dollars. As it turned out, I managed to squirrel away only half that amount (thanks to Father's Day!), and I let her know. Before we left, then, I reiterated, "Just do $100 worth of work--ten hours, because that's all the money I have." To which she responded, "What needs to be done most?"

Together we decided that she could clean the three bathrooms. All I do is disinfect the sink and the areas our tender parts touch. I tend not to mop floors, clean baseboards, or wipe down blinds, and I hardly ever scrub the shower walls or doors. We both knew that between the five years of grime I'd allowed to build up and her tendency to clean with toothpicks, it would probably require three hours per bath.

Sam charges $10 an hour for whatever she does, whether she's digging a cellar or polishing a doorknob (in addition to her base rate for house/pet-sitting, which is $30 per day). Always thinking of others, I reminded her, "Please don't do ANYTHING outside. Greg's not paying for this; I am."

As indicated in my last post, when our family arrived home, it looked like Hazel, Alice, and Edward Scissorhands had joined forces under the supervision of Nurse Ratched. Inside and out was spic-n-span. High from the 409 fumes, I discovered a note on the counter from Sam, telling me she'd done a lot of extra work and how I could pay her for it later. No rush.

I walked up the street to her house with a check for the $320 we'd agreed on (dogs/cleaning). It was about 10 p.m by then, and my emotions were all ajumble: exhaustion from the long drive, with its several rounds of The Quiet Game, which always ends with Lo kicking and sobbing and JackMan taunting the "cheating freakwad"; elation from coming home to the new house Summer Santa had brought us; and confusion about money owed.

What was she thinking? Did she not GET the part where I had only been able to save twenty dollars a week and what that says about my financial situation? When she came to the door, I asked her straight out: "How much extra, exactly?" No answer. She kept mumbling stuff like..."a LOT of work...let your conscience be your guide..."

But she didn't have much confidence in my conscience. The next day, after I got home from work, I went to the mailbox and found a four-page itemized list of all the chores she'd taken it upon herself to do, which included cleaning the toilet brushes and their holders, bleaching the bird shit off the bench by the walkway outside, and sanitizing the two large Waste Management trash cans. She even cleaned the pimento cheese and peanut butter out of the buttons on the remote (OK, that I'd pay for). At the bottom of the list was a bill for the balance: $400. For a grand total of $720. ( I know you can add; I'll keep repeating the total, though, until I believe it.)

I thought I was going to throw up. I still might.

I'm thinking about going over there tonight while she's asleep--pruning her shrubs, washing her car, and planting some squash and tomatoes in her backyard.

How much do you think I could charge?