Neighbors.
I’ve got ‘em, and chances are,
so do you. If they’re
anything like what I’ve got on
my block, they come in all
shapes and sizes, makes and
models. One might tickle your
funny bone, another one might
help fix your truck---again,
and yet another one might just
totally ignore your
existence. This is about that
fateful night one month ago
when the actions of one of my
neighbors forever changed how
I view my block on the
neighborhood.
Let’s start
with The Guy With The Boxers,
so christened because he has 2
purebred Boxer dogs. We
sometimes take our Boxer over
to play with his Boxers, like
a play date for dogs. He’s in
his 60’s, really friendly,
always waving and saying
hello, and almost every year
on October 31st, him and his
wife throw a Halloween party.
We’ve always been invited, but
with having two children to
take trick-or-treating that
night, we have yet to make it
there.
Next to him,
we’ve got The Old Lady Across
The Street. She was like 110
when we moved into the
neighborhood, and by God,
she’s STILL 110. She very
rarely leaves her house. She
has her groceries delivered,
the public library bookmobile
stops in front of her house,
she has a beautician that
comes to her house to cut her
hair, and her 70 year old
daughter runs errands for
her. She’s really stuck-up,
hates kids, and generally
ignores and/or hates everyone
on the block. I have this
mental image of her watching
everyone through her front
window, flipping the bird to
all of us, and saying, “Fuck
you, fuck you, and fuck you
too!”
Then we have
the Jehovahs On The Corner,
who reside in the corner lot
diagonally from us. I’ve only
meet Mrs. Jehovah, but she’s
really nice, and though she
keeps an eye on the
neighborhood shenanigans, she
usually just keeps it to
herself.. She also has the
BEST gardens in the entire
neighborhood, with well-tended
flowers of every shape, size,
and color imaginable. They
COULD be that mythical
“Perfect Neighbor”, except
that one evening a week, they
hold some sort of meeting
there, for their religion,
and, judging by the massive
amount of automobiles that
park up and down the street on
that night, apparently NONE of
them have any regard for the
words “car pool”. On those
nights, if my car isn’t parked
in my driveway by 6:30, it
WON’T be parked there until
after 10:00 p.m., when the
person who has blocked or
parked THEIR car in MY
driveway finally says his/her
last Yahweh and drives home.
Note to all: Just because
someone’s driveway appears
unoccupied that does NOT make
it fair game. Parking YOUR
car in MY driveway is not a
right, nor is it a
privilege. Neither is
blocking it off. Go the hell
around the block a few more
times until one of the OTHER
neighbors leave so you can
block THEIR driveway. Or
better yet, YOU park 3 blocks
up the street and huff’n’puff
it on your own two feet, and
leave my damn driveway ALONE.
Bitter much? You bet.
In the other
corner lot, across the street
from the Jehovahs On The
Corner, is Jolene On The
Corner. Jolene is in her
early 50’s and is very
friendly. She drinks enough
to keep herself in that
constant state of being just a
teensy bit pickled, but never
hammered. Her two
grandchildren come every year
to spend the summer with her,
which my children absolutely
adore since they get kinda
lonesome sometimes being the
only kids on the block.
Between Jolene
On The Corner and us, is Merle
and Iris, who have earned the
dubious honor of being The
Crabby Neighbors. They’re
old, and I suppose, at their
age, they have earned the
right to be crabby. But
there’s age-earned crabby, and
then there’s
I-hate-everyone-and-everything-younger-than-me
crabby, and unfortunately,
they fall into the second
category. Most of you might
recognize a couple of the same
type in your own
neighborhood. Any of these
sound familiar:
?
They hate our
kids because “children should
be seen, not heard” and when
they’re playing outside at 4
in the afternoon, they make
NOISE! Can you believe the
AUDACITY of my 4- and 9-year
old? LAUGHING and PLAYING in
the middle of the afternoon?!
PREPOSTEROUS!! What’s next---shootin’
H and wild orgies??…PUH-LEEZE…
?
They hate our
cats because during the warmer
months, they make it a point
to piss in one of her backyard
flower beds---along with the
100 OTHER neighborhood cats.
Mrs. Crabby even put down rat
poison a couple years ago,
thinking it would keep the
cats out of there. Pfft!!
Not my boy. Ozzy just kept on
jumping that fence and going
back to it, like it was some
kind of high-quality kitty
crank. So what if he lost
weight, his hair came out in
chunks, he peed orange, and he
was twitchy all the time?
Merely a small price to pay
for the luxury of peeing on
forbidden ground.
?
They REALLY
hate our dog, because -*gasp*-
she barks! I ask you all:
What is this world coming
to?? Dogs barking, cats
jumping fences, children
laughing…why it’s enough to
make someone sick…eyes
rolling. You know, I
fully admit: Our dog does
bark--when someone
unfamiliar walks by or if
she senses a threat. But
that’s what dogs are SUPPOSED
to do---SERVE and PROTECT. In
his latest attempts at getting
her to stop barking, Mr.
Crabby has taken to throwing
golf and tennis balls at her.
What a dumbass. First off,
like throwing something at a
dog is going to make them shut
up?? That makes about as much
sense as hitting a newborn to
get it to stop crying!! DERR!!
Secondly, my dog just thinks
it’s GO time…“OH, BOY!!
Time to play!! OH, BOY!! Do
it again!!! OH, BOY!!”…
All Mr. Crabby accomplishes is
getting Chessie excited and
happy, leaping all over the
yard like she’s on puppy
uppers, trying to catch all
the balls. Our back yard is
an unofficial graveyard of
slobbered-on Wilsons and
Pinnacles, and yet, WE get
shit because my cat took a
whiz on some pansies??
?
They hate Ruben
because he smokes, and during
the summer, he does it
outside. The smoke drifts
into their yard and apparently
causes Mrs. Crabby---who is
INSIDE her house, mind
you---to have “the vapors”.
?
They hate me
because I haven’t duck taped
my children’s’ mouths or
locked them inside the house
24/7, I haven’t chained my
cats to a tree or put up an
electrical fence to prevent
soggy flowers, I haven’t
sliced my dog’s throat open
and removed her bark, and I
haven’t nagged Ruben into
giving up those 4 cigarettes a
day. Damn me. Damn me to
hell.
ANYHOO…moving
on…Next, we’ve got the
neighbor on the other side of
us, The Nice Lady Next To Us.
She’s almost the
antithesis of The Old Lady
Across The Street; polar
opposites in
everything---except that
they’re both really old. The
Nice Lady Next To Us is
forever talking to us over the
fence, complimenting us on how
well-behaved our kids are,
talking about what a great dog
Chessie is, feeding our cats
scraps, and in general, is
just such a nice person.
She’s always saying how she
likes that we moved in because
“it’s nice having a young
family in the neighborhood
again.” When I grow up, I
don’t want to be a Mrs.
Crabby; I want to be a The
Nice Lady Next To Us.
Finally, we
come to the house directly
across the street from us.
It’s an older house, a rental,
slightly dilapidated, but
livable. SSince we moved in,
we’ve seen 6 different
occupants come and go, and
each of them had their own
monikers: The Nice, But Odd
Lady, Britny and Eric’s Dad,
The Psycho Neighbor, The
College Kiddies, The Chink
Neighbors With All Those Yappy
Dogs, and the last occupants,
The Hippie Neighbors, who
lived there about a year and a
half.
The Hippie
Neighbors, Mike and Deb, were
so named because they smoked a
lot of weed and drove a very
hippied-out VW wagon. They
were friendly, always very
respectful of all the
neighbors, glad to lend a hand
or do you a favor, but at the
same time weren’t exactly what
you might call Orthodox
Americana. Their physical
appearance never gave them a
fighting chance with The
Crabby Neighbors, and tended
to mislead most who wouldn’t
see past it---she sported some
pretty serious dreds to her
mid-back, and he had a huge
band tattooed around his neck
AND his left ear was gauged
out to a massive 1 Ľ inches.
They were girlfriend/boyfriend
living together, both in their
mid-twenties, and they had 5
dogs, which were their
babies. She worked various
“hair net and name tag” jobs,
and he worked as a laborer for
a roofing company that was
continually promising to pay
him, but very rarely ever
did. But, as long as they had
money for weed, rent, food,
food for their dogs, and
whatever else caught their
fancy, in that order, they
were happy. When the weather
was warm at nights, and they
saw Rube and/or I outside
sitting or smoking, they
sometimes came over and shot
the bull with us, lit some
bottle rockets off, etc… We
knew them well enough to know
first names, pets they had,
what kind of work they did,
where they were from, but not
so well that we knew their
last names.
When I heard
The Hippie Neighbors fighting
off and on for about a week, I
was concerned, but not
particularly worried, since
I’d heard them argue before,
and it never got really ugly
or anything. Rube was out
smoking a cig one of those
nights (you know, for the sole
purpose of giving Mrs. Crabby
“the vapors”) and Mike came
over. He told us that he had
quit his job a few days ago,
because his boss hadn’t been
paying him again, and he had
gotten tired of it. He said
that he and Deb had been
arguing a little lately
because they were worried
about paying for weed, rent,
food, etc… Rube and I figured
that it would all blow over in
a couple days, as they usually
had a way of “landing on their
feet” and finding some money
somewhere.
A couple days
passed by after that night,
with not much activity going
on over at Casa de Hippies, no
one going to work or coming
home. We saw Mike outside
once, tooling around with his
bike as he was apt to do,
messing with his chain for the
23rd time, and that
was about it. Then came THE
night.
I’ve lived here
for almost 7 years now. That
continuity of time in this one
place had afforded me the
luxury of knowing the things
that I could trust to happen,
like clockwork, in my
neighborhood. I know that The
Guy With The Boxers ALWAYS
opens the car door for his
wife. I know that when the
daytime temperature drops
under 50, I can expect to
smell wood burning from Mr.
Crabby’s woodstove that
evening. I know that right
before Easter, The Nice Lady
Next To Us gives both my kids
their own packages of Peeps.
And I know that on Halloween
night, The Old Lady Across the
Street will have every light
on in her house, but will
ignore all the hopeful ghosts
and goblins that ring her
doorbell. I know a lot about
what the normal sights,
sounds, and smells are in my
neighborhood. But what
happened that night broke the
norm for me. Because nothing
I’d experienced, nothing I’d
“felt”, and nothing I knew
about my neighborhood and
neighbors prepared me for what
happened. It all STILL feels
so out-of-place..
It was a
Wednesday. Rube had to work
that night. Like clockwork,
Rube pulled out of our
driveway at 7:30 to get to
work. I straightened up the
living room a little, and
thought I’d check my email
real quick. A couple minutes
after 8, I went into the
living room to tell Kaelan it
was time for her bath, and
there was a knock on my screen
door. I had my front door
open, and saw that it was Deb
standing there, and she looked
kinda upset. I asked her what
was up, and she said, “Can you
come outside? I need to talk
to you. I don’t know what to
do.” I agreed, turned the TV
on to Cartoon Network to keep
my kids occupied, and went
outside.
I stepped
outside, and could see Deb
clearer then. Her face looked
really pale and waxen, and she
smelled strongly of beer. But
it was the look in her eyes
that got my attention. She
looked so lost. She repeated
to me, “What do I do? I don’t
know what to do.”
At this point,
I remembered how I had heard
her and Mike arguing
throughout the week, and I
thought that maybe things had
gotten worse, maybe he’d
actually gotten to the point
where he slapped her or
something, maybe he’d up and
left her, maybe she wanted to
leave him, etc… So, I said,
“What’s wrong, Deb?”
“My boyfriend
hung himself. He’s hanging on
a tree in the back.”
Out of all the
stuff I thought might come
tumbling out of her mouth,
THAT, most definitely, wasn’t
one of them. After I found my
voice again, I said, “What?”
, and she repeated it, then
added, “What am I going to
do? I don’t know what to do.
I did it to him. I have
depression, and he couldn’t
handle it. It’s my fault.”
I tried to
assure her that it wasn’t her
fault, that she wasn’t the one
who put his head through that
noose and killed himself.
Then, I tried to reply to her
that we had to call the
police, but she grabbed my arm
and said, “Come with me,
please? You’ve got to come
with me and help me get him
down..” And I said, “Deb, is
he dead?”, and she said, “He’s
hanging on the tree, we have
to get him down.” Now, as far
as I know, disturbing a crime
scene is bad news, and I
didn’t want any part of the
cops asking me my motives
behind disturbing a body.
Also, truthfully, I did not
want to see it. I’d heard
stories of people who had hung
themselves, what they looked
like, and I plain out did not
want to see it first hand, and
then relive the sight of it
for the rest of my life. If
that makes me a weenie, than
baby, throw on some
sauerkraut.
So, I told her
no, that I couldn’t go over
there because I didn’t want to
leave my kids alone in the
house, and then I told her
that she had to call the
police. She seemed to be
nervous about it, but then
finally asked if I could call
the police, because they
didn’t have a phone. I told
her I would, and she left,
saying that she’d be right
back; she just wanted to
“check something”. At the
time, I wasn’t quite sure what
her comment meant, but she was
pretty distraught, and I
thought maybe she was going
back to verify again, to her
own mind, that Mike was dead?
But, looking back later on, I
strongly suspect that she left
to flush her stash down the
toilet before the cops got
there and busted her…and I
can’t say I blame her.
Finding her boyfriend hung off
a tree in the backyard is
rough enough on a person
without having to get busted
for possession, you know?
So, I called
911 and found myself reporting
the suicide of Mr. Hippie
Neighbor, something that I’m
sure none of us ever imagine
that we’ll find ourselves
doing.. I know that I had
never once thought about it.
With having so many older
people in our neighborhood, I
had thought that if I ever had
to call 911 for something, it
would be because we hadn’t
seen any activity from The Old
Lady Across The Street for a
couple weeks and there was an
icky, funny smell coming from
her house…or because The Nice
Lady Next To Us fell and broke
a hip…or because Mrs. Crabby
got in the way of one of those
golf balls and got a
concussion or something. The
idea that I was calling 911 to
report that my 26 year old
Hippie Neighbor was dead
because he had hung himself,
had never once entertained a
notion in my head.
I know this is
going to sound so gaggingly,
eye-rollingly cliché, but Mike
just never “seemed the type”,
you know? He always seemed so
at peace with himself, who he
was, and appeared pretty
content with his life, for the
most part.. Sure, he and Deb
argued once in a while, but
even then, it never turned
into anything violent. He was
always willing to lend a hand
to anyone, and quick to joke
and laugh with you. I don’t
ever recall seeing him
depressed or down, and I just
STILL cannot believe that this
vibrant young man, who
incidentally had the MOST
gorgeous, brightest blue eyes
I’ve ever seen on a man, took
the time to hang a noose for
himself off a tree in his
backyard, and killed
himself.. Un-fucking-real.
Halfway through
the 911 call, Deb stumbled
back over, taking desperate
swigs off a cheap beer she was
holding. She was shaking,
very obviously upset and in
shock, and I think she
mistakenly thought that
drinking a beer was going to
calm her nerves. The 911 guy
wanted to know last names, and
what happened, etc… so I
handed the phone over to Deb,
so she could fill in some of
those vitals.
After I did so,
I realized that in my own
shock over the news, I had
never yet asked her exactly
what happened---if she knew
why he did it, when he did it,
or what she had been doing
when it happened. So then, I
thought to myself, exactly how
long had he been hanging
there? There’s a pretty high
wooden fence around the
backyard, and I considered it
possible that he might have
been there for some time
without anyone noticing.
Their van hadn’t been gone at
any point that day, I hadn’t
seen anyone come or go, so
they’d both been home all
day..
At that point,
Deb started throwing up, and I
grabbed the phone from her
before it got covered with
beer-flavored vomit. I rubbed
her back, and had talked with
the 911 guy maybe 15 seconds
more, when the first cop car
pulled up--lights flashing,
siren going.. Deb saw it, and
said, “I gotta go.” and she
went. I told the 911 guy that
a cop was here, just as a
second, and then third, cop
car pulled up, and the call
was over.
When I had went
inside the house to grab my
phone to call 911, I had sent
the kids into my room to play
my playstation, hoping that
they wouldn’t hear anything,
and even made the phone call
from outside. But, as they
say, little pitchers have big
ears…but not necessarily
perfect hearing, which I was
thankful for that night. As I
was closing the curtains in
the living room to give Deb
the privacy and respect of one
less neighbor gawking out
their window, Joe came out of
my room, and asked me, “What’s
wrong at The Hippy Neighbors?
I heard you say something was
hanging from a tree. I hope it
wasn’t Ozzy or Jinkies..” I
told him no and not to worry
about it, that it was time for
bed, and not to ask any more
questions tonight. I then
went and got Kaelan to put on
her pajamas, while Joe got
ready for bed, too.
On his way to
dump his shoes in our shoe
place, he looked outside the
front door, saw all the cop
cars (at this point, there was
probably 5 cop cars there,
plus a couple unmarked cars,
plus we could hear the
ambulance coming), and
remarked, “COOL! They got the
WHOLE police force here and
everything!!” …pause… “Are
you SURE Ozzy and Jinkies are
okay?” I again reassured him
that they were okay, and sent
both the kids to bed.
I went back
into the living room, sat down
on the couch, looked at the
clock, and couldn’t believe
that just one little hour ago
things had been so completely
routine and normal. Rube had
been pulling out of the
driveway to go to work, the
kids had been trying to cram
in as much playing and TV
watching as possible before
bedtime, and I had been
blissfully ignorant to even
the idea of one of my
neighbors killing themselves.
I just could NOT wrap my mind
around it, at all. Could not
conceptualize it. If someone
had told me that one of MY
neighbors was going to do
something like that,
especially Mike, I would have
laughed in their face because
even the idea of a suicide on
my block would have been
absolutely absurd to me.
I called Rube.
I didn’t have to worry anymore
about the boss ragging him for
being on the phone, because he
had just gotten promoted to
head supervisor for his crew
and he WAS the boss now. Or,
as Rube puts it, he’s the
“King of the Nighttime
World”…yes, my wonderfully
egotistical husband is a KISS
freak…
Rube said
hello, and I blurted out,
“Mike’s dead. He hung
himself.” I heard silence for
about 5 whole seconds before
Rube said, “Mike…Hippy
Neighbor Mike?!?” He couldn’t
believe it either..
Every once in a
while, I’d check outside, just
to see how it was going. A
24-hour tree service truck was
out front at one point. I
assume that it was there to
cut off the limb that Mike was
hanging from, in order to
preserve the state of the body
and any potential evidence
that might get ruined if they
physically took him down with
their hands? Then, about an
hour or so later, a Metro
Animal Control truck came and
took away the 5 dogs, which
didn’t surprise me. Neither
Deb nor Mike had any family at
all living in this state that
could have took the dogs in
until Deb was able to take
care of them again.
Right before
11:00, I looked out, and all
that remained were one cop car
and one unmarked. A few
minutes after that came the
knock I had been expecting all
night.
She was blonde,
in her mid-40’s I’d say, and
introduced herself as being
the one in charge of the
investigation. Yep, it was a
chick, which struck me as very
cool, because as a general
rule, there doesn’t seem like
there’s a whole lot of female
police investigators. She
told me that because Deb was
really distraught, they were
going to take her somewhere
that night to keep an eye on
her. Then, she asked me
simply, “So, what can you tell
me?”
So, I told what
I knew. When I got to the
part about how I had been
reluctant to help Deb take
down the body, she assured me
that that it was normal to not
want to see somebody like that
and added, “There was nothing
you could have done, anyway.
He’d been hanging there for
quite some time.”
After I
answered any questions she
had, she left, and I
immediately started pondering
over that one statement. And
I still cannot get it out of
my head. Exactly how long is
“quite some time”? 15
minutes? 30 minutes? An hour
or two maybe? Or had he been
hanging there for hours? Was
he hanging there when Rube
left for work at 7:30? Was he
there earlier, at around 6:00,
when Mr. Jehovah gets home
from work? Could he have been
hanging there when I pulled
into my driveway at 3:40 that
afternoon, after picking up
Joe from school? Maybe he had
been hanging there all day,
while people were passing up
and down our street delivering
the mail or thinking about
what they were going to fix
for dinner that night or
reminding themselves that they
needed to do a load of laundry
so Jr. had clean socks to wear
to school tomorrow? Or
perhaps even while my kids
were outside riding their
bikes, or later when they
helped The Nice Lady Next To
Us pick up some of the
pinecones that had fallen from
the massive pine in her front
yard?
Did his
lifeless body sway and twirl
in the wind, while his
sightless eyes and protruding
tongue bore witness to the
fact that life in our
neighborhood didn’t stop for
his death?
The lady
investigator told me that his
neck had not broken, and that
he’d died from asphyxiation.
Did he die with the sound of
cars passing carelessly by, or
perhaps with Kaelan and Joe’s
argument, over whose turn it
was to ride in the wagon
instead of push, ringing in
his ears? I wonder if the last
thing he saw before the
vessels in his eyes burst from
the pressure was one of us,
one of his neighbors, going
about life as usual, while he
ended his.
The morning
after, I took my kids to
school, and Rube and I went
out for some coffee at Perkins
and talked about things, about
Mike, and about how we hoped
someone was taking care of
Deb. On the way out, Rube
stopped at a crane machine to
try his hand at a Wish Bear
for Kaelan. Suddenly a voice
comes from behind us saying,
“I never have luck at those
things.” It’s Mrs. Crabby,
standing there, SMILING at us
(WTF??), along with a couple
other ladies. Now, we’d run
into Mrs. Crabby around town
plenty of times BEFORE, and
she’d never once even
acknowledged our existence,
much less talked to us. She
asked how we were doing, but
we all know that she didn’t
give a flying flip how we were
doing; she just wanted to know
why the entire available
police force had descended
upon The Hippy Neighbors’
house last night, so she could
have the honor of telling
everyone she knew that she
“…KNEW they were trouble from
the get-go…” I’m sure you all
know me well enough by now to
know how I feel about THAT
shit. We smiled back,
politely said, “We’re doing
well. Well, talk to you
later!” and we left her
hanging there, with the
questions burning a hole
through her lips.
Later that
evening, Mrs. Jehovah came by
my house. She had always been
on good terms with Mike and
Deb, calling them “good kids”,
and Mike had helped her out a
few times in her garden with
some heavy stuff. I knew her
concern for them was genuine.
Plus, she didn’t try to beat
around the bush half-assedly
like Mrs. Crabby, and instead,
just asked me what was up with
“the kids”, and if they were
okay. We talked about it
outside, and when she was
leaving she mentioned that she
was going to go and let The
Crabby Neighbors know..
Apparently, they had been
calling her and Jolene On The
Corner all day, worried that
The Hippy Neighbors had gotten
busted for making “methane”
(I kid you not, they actually
said METHANE, lol),
complaining that the
neighborhood was going to have
a bad stigma attached to it
now, and should they be
concerned with drug runners,
prostitutes, and drive-by
shootings?
Concerning my
own self and the impact that
it made on me, my life, and
the way I “feel” things, the
first week afterwards was
absolutely horrible. I was
trying desperately to stay
unconnected to it, but
couldn’t very well ignore it.
The house, and the area
directly surrounding it, came
to exist only in my peripheral
vision. I would NOT look
directly over there. I was so
afraid that I’d see or feel
something that I didn’t want
to know. I remember one time,
accidentally leaving something
in the car, and here it was,
10:30 at night, and I had to
FORCE myself to unlock my
front door, and go get it. I
ran like I had the Hounds of
Hell-ena running after me. I
was so afraid that if I stayed
outside too long, that my
“feelers” were going to really
connect with those bad vibes,
and I didn’t want to.
But, aside from
that, I did feel that
something was lingering, and
was afraid that maybe Mike was
“caught”. I told Mike he was
dead, and to go to the light,
but it didn’t help. I
couldn’t sleep worth a crap
because even if I was
consciously trying to think
good thoughts, when I would
start to drift off, those
negative feelings of what had
happened would sneak in, and
like a fog, obscure the good
stuff. Lack of adequate
sleep, of course, was leading
to me having an even harder
time in keeping my “feelers”
at bay.
Then, someone
wise told me that the energy
left behind by such an event
is like burnt popcorn---you
can throw it away, but the
smell of it lingers for
weeks. Finally, I understood
that Mike WAS gone, but what
he did, the energy it left,
the way it negatively impacted
ALL the neighbors and their
thoughts, was NOT. I got a
couple of good suggestions,
and they did take the edge off
what I was feeling. I was
able to fill some of the holes
and cracks that lack of sleep
had put into that mental wall
I had up to protect me from
“feeling” Mike’s death until
that energy could dissipate.
Deb came back
twice. Once, a few days
afterwards to grab some
clothes, and again, a couple
weeks later before she left to
move back in with her family
in Texas. That last time, she
was in and out of the house in
about 10 minutes, taking only
a few things with her that she
had wanted to keep. She was
still pretty upset, and didn’t
want to talk to anyone about
it.
I had had a
dream about Mike; he saw Deb
in pain and said he was sorry
for “not giving tomorrow a
chance.” So, while I accepted
the fact that Mike was truly
gone, I still had a hard time
dealing with all the negative
vibes I felt coming from
across the street. I really
wondered if I would ever again
be able to sit alone, in my
porch chair at night, watch
the stars, and listen to the
crickets? Would I ever feel
safe enough again to find that
comfort I’d always had,
before, in my own
neighborhood?
The big break
for me came when Mike’s family
was here a couple weeks ago.
Whatever Deb had left in the
house, they were hauling off
back to their home in Colorado
with them. As they loaded
that big Budget van over the
weekend, I kept imagining that
with every piece they packed
in there, a bit more of Mike,
and that negative energy, went
with it. All that weekend, I
felt a strange feeling of
anticipation, of looking
forward to something. I felt
giddy…almost excited, even.
When I pulled
out of my driveway to go pick
up Joe from school Monday, it
had to have been fate that
that’s when the van pulled out
too. I kept an eye on it in
my rearview mirror. We
traveled the same path for a
bit, but when the time came
for me to turn on the road to
Joe’s school, it went straight
on, towards the interstate,
and I said to it’s reflection,
out loud, “Good-bye, Mike.”
I’ve never been
a great proponent of that
philosophy called Mind Over
Matter. It’s never helped me
say no to that Snickers bar or
that extra tamale, and it sure
as hell didn’t do anything to
lessen those labor pains.
But after I
said goodbye, and when that
van---carrying all of Mike’s
stuff in it ALONG with the
negative, black, burnt energy
that I had mentally packed in
it with---finally disappeared
from my view, how else do I
explain the feeling that ten
tons of bricks just got lifted
off me? That swirling blanket
of fog finally lifted and I
could breath easy again. Mind
over matter. I think I might
have to look into that a
little more.
Later that day,
I sat outside and really
looked at the little house
across the street, for the
first time since it all went
down. There wasn’t dark
clouds swirling above it with
lightning bolts aimed to kill,
and I didn’t see a scary
vision of Mike hanging off the
tree, as I half-jokingly
expected. Instead, the first
thing I noticed about it was
how empty it looked. Mike’s
family had taken all the
different kind of wind chimes
that had hung out front,
including the Chinese lantern
from the fireworks that we had
lit off together on the 4th
of July. The Beware of Dogs
sign was gone from the front
screen door window, as were
all the blinds and curtains.
Missing, too, were the 4 small
tires stacked one on top of
another that they used as a
chair while they were
outside. Another glaring
omission was the lack of
bicycle frames and parts lying
against the fence.. Mike was
continually collecting parts
for his bike, from garage
sales and what-not, to change
out the parts on his own bike
that were falling apart. He
also had a couple of kid bikes
he’d made from different
pieces and parts that used to
lean up against that fence,
for when his younger brother
and sister would visit. The
house looked so empty and
forlorn, lobotomized almost.
There were no discernible
signs left that The Hippy
Neighbors had lived there,
been a part of my
neighborhood, for almost 2
years. Not one visible
reminder had been left
behind.
Except one..
On one of the trees in the
very back, a tree that’s
almost hidden from sight
behind the old, wooden garage
that has been slowly rotting
since 1910 (or so The Nice But
Odd Lady told us once), there
is a thick limb, that had once
rose out and up towards the
great blue sky in all it’s
vivid glory, but was now,
recently, cut short.
I still feel
some of that energy that
Mike’s traumatic suicide
caused him, but not as
strongly as it had been, and
for that, I am truly
thankful. Mike was a very
cool, nice guy, and even if it
was self-inflicted, I hated
knowing that he had suffered
in his death. I think of
what’s going to happen to the
house now, and wonder if the
owners will sell it or rent it
again. I wonder who will be
the next people to reside
there, and become a part of my
neighborhood, my block, my
little world, as it were. But
most of all, even when the
newbies move in, I wonder if
I’ll ever be able to call that
house anything other than The
Hippy Neighbors’ house.
Somehow, I
don’t think so.
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