Is there ANYONE out there who has a friendly relationship with their neighbors? Identify yourself now so that you can be brought in to the appropriate local investigative body for monitoring. Science must measure important vital statistics such as your IQ, BMI and how many greeting cards you buy per week. Only thusly can they determine why you are such a freak medical anomaly and, more importantly, get to work on a cure.
And I’m not talking about the people who regularly wave at a few others on their block. That pretty much describes everyone. No, I’m referring to the people who are stupidly, blindly, whole-heartedly amiable to everyone on the street, even in the face of persistent resistance; the “hey neighbor!” types who you can always count on to put up garish holiday decorations or be the most agitated around Halloween.
The only reason I ask is because of an ongoing “issue” with the couple that lives in the house behind us.
Before we moved in, back in December of ought seven, I was out here in Maplewood, New Jersey, raking the leaves in the yard of our newly purchased – but still undergoing renovation – home. We have several large deciduous trees in the back that made quite the mess that fall; and the couple from which we bought the house did absolutely zero yard work before they left. But apparently their divorce was messier than the giant pile of wet leaves that fell during their watch, so I guess the broken mower that they left in the garage more than made up for the inconvenience.
Regardless, I was out back, raking away, minding my own business when one of the neighbors came out and approached me. There was a sturdy chain link fence that separated us so I didn’t immediately scream or try to mace him. He introduced himself, and I myself, and we proceeded to make friendly chit chat for about a half hour. We talked about how diverse Maplewood is, and how great the old houses here are and the easy commute to New York and blah blah blah.
Finally, his partner popped out as well and the first guy said (as he motioned to the another house that abuts ours), “oh yeah, you’re surrounded by gay men!” I smiled and replied, “gosh, that’ll be a welcome change from my job in the fashion industry.” Ha ha ha ha HA HA HA!!
When we all finished laughing – and me congratulating myself for being so charming and choosing such a great house in a great town and having not one but TWO gay couples as neighbors (talk about your curb appeal!) – the guy made motions to leave, but not before saying, “we’ll come over with a pan of brownies once you get settled.” I expressed my gratitude for the gesture and assured him that we would indeed look forward to the visit.
Flash forward to this spring, nearly one and a half years later.
Hey, gays… I know you can’t tell by the state of our back yard, but WE’VE MOVED IN! And there’s no way we could have possibly laid out a bigger rainbow striped welcome mat for you, short of performing civil unions on our slightly-better-cared-for front lawn!
So what the fuck? Did I imagine you and the discussion about the baked goods and welcome wagon? Did I somehow offend you in the zero times we have spoken since our initial meeting? Or is part of the great “diversity” of Maplewood its sizeable bipolar and amnesiac populations?
Making this story all the more quizzical is that a few months ago their kid’s basketball landed in our back yard. As I awaited its extraction, I kept watchful tabs on it from our kitchen window, wondering if this was the entrée to discourse that they needed to finally acknowledge a broken social promise; a suburban attempt at an icebreaker; and all they were waiting for was for their famous slow-baked brownies to be done (6 days at 105 degrees). But after a week, I concluded that these people clearly thought that the basketball was an improvement over our “naturalistic” landscape, and had donated rather than misplaced it.
That is when I began to explore options that were designed not only to return the ball to its rightful masters, but that also expressed my deep disappointment in the non-issuance of edible offerings.
Sadly, before I could implement my brilliant diplomatic plan (scrawling “where the FUCK are the brownies?!” in Sharpie on the ball, then drop-kicking it through their dining room window) it was stealthily, wordlessly retrieved.
Not one word of apology for blighting my view with its ugly orange plasticity or for tromping over my dead branch collection or for it even landing there to begin with.
And yet I’m left with the lingering feeling that I’ve done something to repel or annoy these people!
I suppose I could take the advice of one person who suggested that we throw a little get together to introduce ourselves to the neighborhood. Or, we could take comfort in the idea – as another has proposed – that we are better off not knowing anything about these people, beyond their first names. That yes, your neighbors are there to dial 911 if they see your house is on fire, but it’s better not to want or expect much else from them, as you probably have nothing more in common than a street name.
And he’s right. It’s better this way. There’s no pressure, no pop-ins and best of all, no moronic chit chat. Phew!
Meanwhile, I’ve decided that the best way to deal with the brownie-liars is to mess with their heads. So the next time I see them loitering about their driveway, I am going to rush out with a big tape measure and start sizing up the space that borders their fence. Invariably, they will ask, dryly, “finally getting around to the landscaping?”
To which I will earnestly reply, “No, I just want to make sure that the swing-set, trampoline and above-ground pool will all fit back here.”
“Thanks!”
And tune in next week when I discuss the assholes across the street…