Meatheads III: the Second Battle of Ypres

Well, they finally got it out. On the second night, aided by pizza boxes, cinder blocks, plywood, and some dude with a flashlight who seemed to understand the procedure of "rocking" a stuck car, the meatheads next door have finally gotten their car out of the mud. Hopefully they have learned their lesson and there will not be a THIRD battle of Ypres next door.

Fig. 1:

Soldiers of the Royal West Surrey Regiment evacuate wounded following the extrication of a mired Toyota Matrix from a rented backyard.

Meatheads in the mud, Part II

New neighbors... same inept handling of a motor vehicle.

I'm not even sure why they felt the need to park in the backyard. There was only one car, and plenty of nice asphalt driveway. Maybe this was the same guy Emjay heard scraping the house next door trying to back out? Was he trying to turn the car around so he could nose out instead? We may never know. Perhaps future archaologists who uncover this Toyota Matrix from a fossilized mudhole will be able to put together the forensic evidence, and tell us.

I actually spoke to the guy this morning in the midst of his attempts to free himself.

"Welcome to the mudhole," I said.

"Yeah. Fuckin' ridiculous."

Meaning, 'it is ridiculous that I cannot drive my tiny front-wheel drive car through a mudhole with impunity, for both God and Nature entitle me to do so.'

I let it go at that.

Meatheads in the Mud

It's been a while since I had a good post on the neighbors. Emjay and I planted a line of trees between our house and theirs over the summer and the problems seemed to disappear. Last week before Thanksgiving we could hear a car running hard next door around dinnertime. Someone was trying to park a VW on the backyard lawn. We could tell from the sound that in the rain the lawn had become the consistency of pumpkin bisque, and only a complete moron would continue spinning the wheels.

The engine revved for another hour as we finished dinner and put the kids to bed.

I decided the right thing to do would be to go over and offer help. Maybe I could show them how to properly "rock" a car out of a hole. I might even offer to help push.

But I got there and saw that it was hopeless. The left front wheel was a quarter in, the right sunk to the centerline.

"You have to stop," I said, "You're just digging further in."

"Yeah, I know," Ted said, "My brother's coming after he finishes working out. He has a truck."

I spent a moment to imagine what sort of workout the brother was finishing. Probably a few sets of bench presses at low weight, and then about a dozen sets of bicep curls. Steryotyping? maybe. Then the mook got back in the car with his cocked ballcap, cellphone to his ear in one hand, and spun his wheels some more.

We saw the aftermath the next morning. Their backyard looks like Ypres the morning after, minus the mustard-gas. Remnants of a broken garden hose, apparently used as a tow cable. A line of cars, for once actually parked in the driveway.

At least, that's what I think I saw. It's hard to tell with a line of trees in the way.

Hey you kids, get off my lawn!

"Sir, do you have to raise your voice?"

"Yes, I do," I said, because I'm sick of this!"

He stood in his driveway in the open door of his car, an old black SUV. I assumed it had been the family car until Little Meathead went off to college. Two of the car's tires rested on my lawn.

"Look, I know you like to park on the back lawn instead of the street. And it's hard to make the turn without driving on my lawn. But that's not my problem!"

"Well, Sir, it is my backyard, and..."

"No, it's not your backyard," I interrupted, "it belongs to the people who acually own this house."

A low blow? Maybe. But I had had enough. It's moving-in weekend for this autumn's prize crop of meatheads. They had parked three-across in the backyard the day before, and I'd yelled something nearly pleasant out the back window when one of them swerved onto my grass trying to make the turn. One of the kid's dads had even clipped the rental house. And today, Sunday dinner, a lovely Asian-spiced pork chop by Emjay, interrupted by me rushing out the front door in socks to confront the latest tresspasser.

He was trying to "manage" me. Calling me Sir, playing the calm one, trying to act innocent and accomodating. Oh, no, son. I manage managers. I'm mad and I'm going to stay that way.

"Look, Sir, I'm willing to talk about this..."

"Good. You need to understand that normal people do NOT park in their backyards. The driveway isn't designed for that. If you can't get back there without hitting the house or driving on my property, then park on the street like everybody else."

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way, Sir."

Oh, the non-apology. Is this guy preparing for a career in politics?

"Good. Are you also sorry you drove on my lawn?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"Thanks. I appreciate that. I'm Richard."

"Ted.*"

"Sorry we had to meet under these circumstances," I said, and went inside.

Let the Games Begin!

This post is Completely True, except,

*all idiot college-age neighbors in this blog will be assigned the pseudonym 'Ted'. Why? Imagine one of them introducing himself to Tarzan.

I Miss Enos- Part Two

Enos was not the ideal neighbor. He was a putterer. This in itself is not a sin. You'd expect a man of a certain age, one who enjoys his power equipment, to putter.

Every puttering episode took a full day. It started with the radio. He'd being it outside and tune it to the light jazz channel. I like jazz. I'm a great fan of J.J. Johnson, Diz, early Miles, the Desmond/Brubeck quartet, Sonny Rollins... but Enos's music was jazz in the same way Pat Boone's was rock and roll. That is to say, it wasn't.

Once Enos had forcibly changed the neighborhood ambiance into something like the cereal aisle at Hannaford, the serious work could begin. No matter how small the project, Enos began by taking everything out of his garage and lining it up neatly on the driveway. Everything. Boxes, toys for Keenan, lawnmowers- yes, plural- snowblower, EVERYTHING. Then he found the object he needed, like a paint can or a bottle of weed killer, did the job, and put everything back in again.

I'm quite sure that he thought ahead to his next project, and put the things he'd need at the back of the garage so he'd be able to perform the same ritual next time.

Since he was home on disability, the puttering wasn't confined to the weekends. Emjay would call me up at work sometimes.

"He's doing it again!"

"What is it this time?"

"I think he's waxing his van."

"Everything out of the garage?"

"Everything. Why does HE get to pick the soundtrack for the neighborhood?", she'd complain.

"Play some opera."

"Oh, sure, if that wouldn't be the perfect crazy white lady response. And you're the one who likes opera."

"Play your music then."

"I'd still be able to hear Kenny G. That might ruin the Cowboy Junkies forever," she'd sigh.

All day, every day sometimes when the weather was nice. Puttering. Shuffling along at middle-aged disability speed. With happy sunny major key dreck that some apostates call jazz.

But of course, he was keeping the house up. And Enos was a lot of things, but he was no meathead.

One day his lawsuit for the disability was settled. I found out when I saw him and Jill on their porch, having a meeting with a financial planner. In a week, he'd bought a place in Florida. In a month, he'd sold out to a couple who live in California, and the place was rented.

It went to a group of women graduate students first. We had a noise problem exactly once, on someone's birthday. After that school year, the first meatheads came. Then more, then meathead subletters, then still more meatheads.

I miss puttering. I miss Kenny G. I miss Enos.

This post is Mostly True.

I Miss Enos - Part One

There's a spot in the kitchen that we tell people is the exact place we were standing when we decided to buy the house. It's true, the realtor was leading us through, and when we saw the inlay in the floor and the stained glass on the kitchen pass-through, Emjay and I turned to each other with the look that says, "we're buying this house!"

But I had already decided I wanted it, weeks before. I had driven around the city taking pictures of all the houses for sale, to go over later with Emjay and narrow down the choices. It had snowed recently.

I saw Enos, who owned the house next door, using his snowblower. Of course I didn't know his name yet. His winter clothes meant business. I bet he had matches and a candy bar in his pockets, in case he was trapped in the snow in front of his house and had to spend the night.

You could tell he was the sort of guy who liked power equipment. He proudly wrestled the handles of his 12-horse snowblower against about 2 inches of snow. He clenched a fat, unlit cigar in his wide grin. His young son played in the snowbank near him.

I took one look at Enos and thought, "I want to live next to that guy."

We bought the house. Enos's wife Jill was a great neighbor too, and their 7 year old Keenan was a nice kid. I learned that Enos was really on his second life. He'd been disabled at work and was on disability pension. Some time before he'd also been a drunk, on the streets. I found this out when a man came by begging money, and Enos hustled him away before I could say a word.

"Ain't nobody has to go hungry in this city," he told me, "That's just his excuse."

Enos knew. He'd been there, he'd pulled himself out of the hole, and he had nothing but contempt for the ones who were to weak to do so themselves. I think he felt the same way about his old self.

This post is Completely True.

I didn't know Meatheads were in season already

Last Friday I saw Hellboy2 with a friend. The street was unusually noisy on the walk home. At least 3 of the lovely Adirondack style porches on my block had been usurped by beer pong tables. I noticed, to my horror, that one of the parties was at the house next door.

It was late, so the kids were in bed. Emjay had left a cheerful note for me on the computer. I went upstairs to find her.

She was on the balcony porch attached to our bedroom, smoking a cigarette.

"Where did you get that?" I asked.

"I had one left over from the Christmas party."

"It's still summer. I didn't know meatheads were in season already."

"If they wake up the kids," she said, pausing to take a drag, "I will kill them."

I went to get some cigarillos for me, a glass, and the bottle of Maker's Mark. I came back just in time, as Emjay's glass was empty.

I poured the bourbon and lit my cigar. We were on a second floor porch in the back of the house, and they at ground level in the front, so we had some good distance from the noise. Still, it was loud.

I looked up from my drink to see a meathead in the driveway next door. I guess he thought he was in a secluded spot. He unzipped and started pissing in the middle of the driveway.

"Dude, you are a fucking pig!" I shouted down. He looked up, surprised, and ran back to the front porch.

We smoked and drank for a while, cigars and bourbon looking down on Keystone Light.

Another meathead went behind the house to piss. Dick in one hand, cell phone in the other.

"Excuse me! I can see you!" Emjay shouted, "You're going to have to clean all this up in the morning, you know!"

"Chill," he said.

"Did you just tell my wife to chill? Do NOT make me come down there and go all Benjamin Linus on your ass!"

That confused him. He retreated to the front porch, muttering on the phone.

"You can't sound like the crazy old lady next door," I told Emjay, "You need more edge. Belittle them. Question their manhood."

"I can do that," she said.

A shirtless meathead staggered into the driveway, turned and puked into a gabage can. Emjay stood and leaned over the porch rail.

"Learn to hold your liquor, you pussy!"

The meathead looked up. There was Emjay in all her beautiful fury, cigarillo in one hand and bourbon in the other. Shame, eternal shame. Totally owned.

When we'd had enough, I got the mag lite out and put new batteries in it. I got the tactical baton out of the drawer and put it in my pocket, in case I did have to go all Benjamin Linus on someone. Then I thought better of it, and handed the weapon to Emjay.

"Who do you think I am, Locke?" she said.

"I'll be right back."

I went down to my front porch and walked to the edge. I turned the light on them, holding it up above my shoulder the way cops do.

"We're not going to have a problem, are we?"

"Huh? Whaddid he say?" a girl asked.

"Let's go inside," one of the meatheads said.

"What did he say to you?" the girl asked- the tone that means, 'are you going to take that?'

Apparently, he was going to take that from me and my big scary flashlight. They went inside, and as far as I know they were quiet the rest of the night.

This post is Mostly True.

So Went the Neighborhood

I live in a great old house, in a neighborhood successful people used to aspire to live in. It's in an uptown district of my city, built in 1912 for a Dr. Eames. I know all about this, because I found the blueprints to the house in a cubby and I stumbled upon the mortal remains of Dr. Fred Eames while on an afternoon picnic in the cemetary. That's another story.

My house is the kind with inlaid wood and stained glass, the kind people built before they moved to "homes" in "communities" and rode in "vehicles".

My family is one of the last on the block. Most of the other houses have been chopped into 4 or 5 unit apartments capable of holding dozens of shirtless meatheads and their skanky girl-gone-wild wannabes. They play beer pong and shout "whooooo!" And urinate on the gorgeous stucco.

They have made me, at 38, the old guy from all the movies: the "hey you kids get off my lawn" guy and the "clean that up you punk" guy and sometimes even the "run, bitch, before I put a bullet in you" guy.

For this, I despise them.

This post is Completely True.