I've been inspired by Y's amusing anecdotes about her crazy neighbor, Judy. My tale of suburban woe isn't nearly as funny as hers, but it bears retelling.
I had rented a small house after my ex-husband and I sold our marital home. I was ecstatic that for the first time in my life, I had a place of my own-not with my parents, not with a husband-mine, all mine. I could put floral sheets on my bed, and decorate without regard to gender differences. The place was mine. The house was in a neighborhood with plenty of parks for the kids and they could ride their bikes in the street without me agonizing about their safety. It was idyllic. At first...
I moved in right after the last snowfall, so lawn mowing wasn't an immediate issue. I had a mower, but my ex informed me that it didn't work and according to a repairman couldn't be repaired for less than the cost of replacement. I told him I would get a second opinion, took the Lawn Boy with me and stowed it in the shed located in my new backyard. Soon enough, the grass became long, and then embarrassingly shaggy. It stood out among all the other perfectly manicured lawns in the neighborhood. I returned home from work one day to find that someone had taken the time to mow both the front and back yards. I was grateful and more than a little embarrassed, but had no idea who to thank. There was no note, and the couple who lived next door insisted it wasn't them.
A few nights later, I was preparing dinner for my coworker who was on her way over to eat and watch a chick flick with me. The front door was open, and a nice cross breeze was blowing through the storm door and the slider in the back of the house. Someone tapped at the front door, and assuming it was Kristin, I shouted, "Come on in!"
It wasn't Kristin. It was Wayne-the guy from across the street. Widower, early sixties, perpetual drunk and front porch dweller. I came around the corner from the kitchen and saw him standing at the front door. I jumped a little, since I was expecting a twenty year old girl, not an old man who reeked of cigarette smoke and scotch. "Oh! Wayne! I thought you were someone else...I...was...expecting..."
"I'm jusht trying to help. I wash jusht trying to help," he slurred while pointing to the yard, apparently claiming credit for the lawn mowing generosity.
"Oh! That was you who mowed the lawn! Thank you so much, that was so kind. I really appreciate that. Do you have a favorite pie? I'll bake you a pie. I'm so grateful. I've got a lawnmower but it needs fixed, and you know with the kids, it's hard, I'm a single mom..." I couldn't stop talking because he was so drunk he was swaying, and yet trying to focus on me. I guess I thought if I kept talking he'd stay upright?
"I only want to help. You know what I mean?" The alcohol on his breath was so potent I was getting a buzz.
"Oh, thank youuuu."
At this point, he lit up a cigarette and started walking toward my kitchen table.
"Oh! I don't have an ashtray, um, could you not smoke in here?"
"Fuck it. I don't need an ashtray..."
Sooo, what? You're going to grind out your butt on my table? WTF?
"Aaaaahhh, mmmm, uuuuhhhh, let me see what I've got here..." I started rummaging through my cupboards looking for a makeshift ashtray, realizing that I'm not getting this drunk out of my house easily. Thank God Kristin was on her way over...I wondered if I should call one of my guy friends to come over. My boyfriend was out of town, so he was not an option. I even contemplated calling my ex husband, I was so rattled. I located a saucer from an espresso set and rushed it under his glowing ash.
"Wheresh your kidsh?"
"Ohhh, they're with their dad tonight. Not here. You know. Divorce. Ha ha." This was all being said in my dumbass singsong voice.
"You shtill having shex with him?"
My jaw dropped as I realized I was dealing with not just a drunk, but a special kind of crazy. Right then, Kristin showed up at the screen door. She looked befuddled between me and the other guest, and I shot her an expression that was a mixture of "Thank GOD you're here," and "Help me get this drunk bastard out of my house."
"Kristin, this is Wayne, my neighbor. He lives across the street. He mowed the lawn for me!"
She got the hint. She looked at him, and said, "Oh, that's nice. Yeahhhh...you're smoking...would you mind not doing that in here, I have severe asthma."
"Fuck it, itsh no big deal. What are you two girlsh doing tonight?" He leered provocatively and my skin began to crawl even more than I thought possible.
I chirp, "Well, it's GIRL'S night, you know, GIRLS only. We're going to eat and then watch a movie. FOR GIRLS."
He started to say something, but his dentures began to FALL OUT OF HIS MOUTH. But, even drunk, he had come prepared. He whipped out a giant tube of Polygrip from his back pocket, pulled out his upper bridge, squirted the adhesive on it and jammed it back in his mouth. Kristin and I stared at him, then each other with slack jaws and wide eyes. He adjusted his bite and asked salaciously, "Are you two leshbiansh?"
"OHMYGOD, NO!" We both answered in perfect unison.
"Wheresh your bathroom?" he asked, getting up from the table unsteadily.
"Why? Oh God, are you going to be sick?"
"No, I gotta take a pissh."
"Oh, well, you should probably get going then. We're going to eat now, and there's not enough for all of us...so we'll see you later."
"Ahhh, fuck it, I know where it ish."
He headed right for the bathroom, which was four stairs up from the kitchen. He went in, left the door OPEN, slammed the seat up (thank God for small miracles) and began to pee. LOUDLY. As if he was standing on a ladder.
Kristin and I exchanged panicked looks, and asked each other in hushed tones what we were going to do to get rid of this lout. She wanted me to call the police, I didn't want to since I just moved in and I didn't want to be known as THAT neighbor.
Wayne staggered noisily down the hardwood stairs and headed for the living room. He made a beeline (a slow, unsteady beeline) for an antique rocking chair my mom gave me. An antique that had no seat, only two very thin pieces of wood that acted as a seat until I could repair it. Everyone in my inner circle knew the chair was for looks only.
"Wayne, NO, stop, you can't sit in that chair...it's not...sturdy...it's just for decoration..."
Again, he dismisses me with his standard phrase "Ahhh, fuck it, it'sh no big deal."
In slow motion, we watched as he sat on the chair. The thin plywood supports broke instantly from his dead, drunk weight, and he was subsequently trapped in the frame of the chair. His ass was on the floor, his legs were pinned to his chest and his arms were helplessly waving around. The look on his face was absolute and total incomprehension of where he was and what had just happened. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have been able to control the laughter and would have run to grab my digital camera. At the time, all I could think was if he's hurt, I'm never getting RID OF HIM.
I grabbed his arm and motioned for Kristin to get hold of the other. She didn't want to touch him, but I told her with gritted teeth that the only way we were getting him out of my house was if we got him out of the chair first. We no longer cared if he heard what we said about him. She gripped his arm, and we both pulled, leaning back with all of our weight. I was amazed that someone who didn't look more than 5' 9" and 175 pounds could be so leaden. He lurched to his feet, and looked behind him at the devastation. "What jusht happened? "
At this point, we were literally pushing him to the door. I kept thanking him for mowing the lawn, but shoved him outside as soon as we reached the threshold. I closed the door, locked it, yanked the blinds shut, slammed the sliding patio door, locked and braced it, and at Kristin's insistence, shut and locked all the basement windows. I told her there was no way his drunk ass could shimmy in through there, but she was taking no chances. Before she left for the evening, she made me look under her car with a flashlight.
I began to do a "Wayne Check" each and every time I left the house or arrived. If he was perched on his stoop when I left, I'd avoid his glances and act distracted as if I was looking for something in my car. If he was outside when I arrived home, I'd quickly pull into the garage and shut the door behind me. I eventually solved the problem inadvertently when I made friends with some officers from the local police force. Their uniformed presence (and a few perfectly timed glares) dissuaded him from ever bothering me again.
Ironically, the lawn mower wasn't even broken. I took it out of the shed a few days later to see what would happen if I attempted to start it. I couldn't pull the cord all the way, so I flipped the machine over and saw there was a clump of grass lodged between the mower and the case. I turned the blade, the grass fell out and the motor turned over perfectly. I flung the offending turf as far as I could.
