Oh to live on the west side, where your neighbor's buddy brings over his car which has a stereo that rattles the upstairs furniture around. This happened several times yesterday afternoon. Classy, like the new overweight patriarch standing on the back patio, talking on his cell, wearing only boxers.
I'm talking bets on when the inflatable pool makes its annual appearance.
Then again, they're not the ones with 3/4 of a crappy Sauder computer desk sitting in the backyard.
There are at least three kids who live there. Last week my wife was doing some gardening and they all came up to the fence to talk to her. She had an audience.
The other day one of the asked me why I locked my car door. Yes, it happened again.
For my wife, and for me as well, it's a bit odd being asked questions by a child. We're not used to it. I'm certainly not. Nine years in and my own son still does not ask questions.
I was reading in the back room a couple of days ago when he came in, stood by the back door, said, "Outside."
I told him he could go out if he put his shoes on. He leaves. A couple of minutes later he shows up, shoes on the right feet, velcro not quite tight enough. He got to go out.
The neighbor's kids keep asking about him. What do we say? They know he's different.
They also keep throwing their balls over our fence, which does not bother me. When I was around their age we had asshole neighbors behind us who were total dicks when we asked to get a ball that went into their yard. I vowed to not be like them.
In other news I'm doing a short feature at 10:30 on Friday night at Kafe Kerouac to benefit the Writers' Block Poetry Slam team. Admission is free.