Welcome Neighbor!

An unofficial responsibility of living in town is to welcome new tenants to the neighborhood, since I am now retired and have ample time to devote to the task.  The current young couple who live next door to me are great neighbors.  They have neither obnoxious children nor loud pets and never worry about what I’m up to at night. They never complain about neighborhood parties and sometimes sponsor some themselves.  They always mind their own business. Wonderful neighbors.

Renting property is no easy task and I have been always willing to help the landlord by screening dubious tenants before they can become an entrenched pain in the neck.  Before our current neighbors moved in, a young couple was checking out the house when I happened to be home.

He had a slack-jawed appearance and she was loud like Roseanne Barr.  Two obnoxious offspring boiled about at their feet, having a spit fight.  Their huge dog drifted over to my yard and assumed the position most likely to result in a steaming mess for yours truly to clean up.  I grabbed a shovel and dashed outside in time to persuade it to empty itself elsewhere.  The woman called the mutt with a shrieking voice that reminded me of squeaking Styrofoam. This bunch had to go.

I wandered over, noticing that the landlord was not with them.  The man was staring at a spot on the kitchen linoleum and I remembered something about paint being spilled there, leaving a vague, reddish brown perma-stain.

 “That’s where they found the body,” I said through the open door.

“Huh?” He replied.

 “I’m Dave.  I live next door,” I offered, by way of introduction, and stuck my hand out at him.  I’d been replacing an alternator on my car and my mitt was black with grease.  His grip was cold and slimy like a dead fish.

 “I’m Joe,” he said.

“You, Moe and Larry moving in?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“Is this a decent neighborhood?” he asked.

“Oh, sure,” I assured him.  “The police haven’t been here for three… maybe four days now.  Once, they didn’t come for a whole week.”

“Police?…”

 “Oh, nothing serious, you gotta realize.  Domestic squabbles, small-time dope busts, one or two stabbings…”

“Stabbings?…”

“There’s no problem with being outdoors during the daylight, as long as you go inside when the whistle blows.”

“Whistle?…”

“Yeah.  There’s an institution of some kind across this patch of woods behind us. They blow the whistle a couple of times a day.”

“What’s it mean?”

“I’m not sure, but, I think it begins and ends some sort of… exercise period.  This huge, hunch-backed man comes over here every Thursday night with a homemade shovel, dragging… things to bury in your back yard.”

“Buries… things?…”

“Yeah.  Large, cumbersome things.  Sometimes he digs them back up.  That’s when the smells get bad, especially in the summer.”

“Smells?…”

“I think he buries road kill, or maybe fellow… patients.  He doesn’t scream as often when he leaves anymore, since he got run over by that garbage truck last fall.”

“Screams?…”

“He used to pound on his chest and imitate Tarzan.  He wasn’t very good.  When the whistle blows, he takes his shovel and leaves.  He’s not as big a bother as Mike The Winger.”

“Mike The Winger?…”

“Yeah.  Mike.  He pedals a bike over here two or three times a week and wings things at your house.”

“Wings things?…”

“Yeah.  He’s got a big wire basket on his bike and he fills it with rocks, bottles, fruit, and the like and he throws them at the front of your house.  Didn’t you see all the stains when you drove up?”

“Stains?…”

“Ah, the landlord must’ve washed ’em off.  He does that a couple of times a year.  Well, no matter, you’ll get to meet Mike soon enough… unless Curtis scares him off again.”

“Curtis?…”

“Yeah.  Curtis was a demolition expert in Korea.  Now it’s just a hobby, but the old tenant and I have had to dismantle a few of his homemade bombs we found hanging around.”

“Bombs?…”

“See that vacant lot across the street?  Used to be a duplex six weeks ago.”

“Bombs?…”

“And don’t let Old Man Doyle next door scare you none.  He won’t shoot, he’s all mouth.”

“Shoot?…”

“JOE!” a screeching voice called from upstairs.  “This place has got ants.”

“Destroyer ants,” I told Joe, “native to the Sudan.  I don’t know how they got here, but they multiply faster than any other species.  Bit of trivia there.  They don’t eat much cupboard food but they bite like bulldogs.”

“Bulldogs?…”

“No, none real close, but the guy two doors down raises Doberman Pinschers.”

“Pinschers?…”

“Yeah.  Well, it was nice meeting you, Joe.  It’ll be great having you an’ the missus for neighbors.  I make the best chain-saw sculptures in town.  I work the night shift and it’s a great way to unwind when I get home at 6:00 a.m.”

“6:00 a.m.?…”

“See ya around, Joe.  I gotta go and let the timber snakes out for awhile.  My wife’s hobby.  Be great having you next door, neighbor.”

“Neighbor?…”

A few minutes later, I watched them leave from my kitchen window.  Joe managed to lay rubber with his old Pontiac station wagon.  I noticed a clarinet in the back as they bounced out of the driveway.  It’s a good thing they didn’t rent the house.  I hate clarinet music.

by David Aho

I am a retired corrections officer who has written extensively over the years for local papers and magazines. A father of three and grandfather of two, I devote my energies and inabilities to family, writing, golf, exercise and playing percussion. (This causes me to stay up late at night and drink beer, darn it.) My wife, Diane, and I live in Marquette with our German Shepherd, Gunther, who diligently pursues any manner of play that causes me to leave my La-Z-Boy. I am an alumnus of MTU and NMU and a Navy veteran of the Viet Nam era. I’ve been a small business owner, salesman, carpenter, auto body repairman, steeplejack, export company manager, cartoonist, corrections officer and I’ve written a crime-fiction novel called “Good Looking Out” which is based in Michigan and available through www.lulu.com under the pseudonym David Michaels.

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