Good Neighbor
He was pulling the recycle can back up the driveway when a voice called out,
“Hey George, come take a look at this.”
The next door neighbor was motioning to him, a rangy looking man named Bill in his sixties, almost toothless, with long grey hair, a weeks growth of white stubble and frequently very strong body odor.
“Just a minute.”
George finished stowing the recycle in the carport. He wasn't looking forward to another encounter. The Neighborhood Watch lady had taken George aside one day and said, “Back when your parents were alive, I'm sure Bill was responsible for their house being broken into. He used to live down the block a ways. I saw him come out just after your folks drove off, looked to make sure they were gone, made a call on his cell phone, the next thing you know the robbers came.”
Of course George didn't have proof this was true, the lady might have been mistaken, but decided to be careful around Bill. Don't put him off or make him mad, but don't get too friendly either.
“Come around back I want you to see something” said Bill.
George followed into the backyard all the way to the rear fence. There was a large hole in it.
“Do you know anything about this?”
George continued to follow Bill as he climbed through the hole and out the other side. They entered a green-belt passage way between the residential homes and a large apartment complex behind. “See, look what somebody did.” Bill pointed to missing panels in the fence. Beside the hole, there were larger portions gone.
“I think the maintenance guys know something about this,” he said, meaning they were involved in the theft. “I'm going to write a letter to the owners of these apartments, it's their fence. I'll demand they fix it,” he said gesturing with his thumb toward the apartments. “I'll need signatures. How many properties you do think this fence borders? Five at least, huh?” George looked up and down the yards bordering the fence. “Yeah, looks about right, at least five,” he replied.
The fence was old and needed to be replaced thought George, it was falling apart all around the complex. Even without someone stealing the boards it would come tumbling down soon. The property owners were probably well aware of the fence's condition, but didn't want to spend the money replacing it yet.
“Will you sign, if I write it up?” “Sure,” George said. “Yep, looks like I'm the one who's going to have to write it up,” said Bill.
George was used to hearing Bill say things he was going to do. How much of what Bill said he was going to do and actually did, George wondered, but he suspected the letter, with the signatures, would never be written. There was the time he was going to get his all teeth fixed for free with a new dentist doing pro bono work, never happened. The time he was going to set up a series of websites with domain names of well known organizations and businesses he'd purchased before they could get their hands on them, never happened or the time he was going to give the house a new coat of paint to push up the sale value, nada.
Bill talked as though he knew how things really worked and wouldn't get taken advantage of, always with a better story to tell or deal to make than yours. Competitive you could call him. He was in prison 13 years, for what George didn't know and didn't ask. There was an edge on Bill, like he was ready to explode any minute, but kept it hidden under a good-natured facade.
When being interviewed by the local TV news, they'd found out he owned so many sought after domain names, asking him why he didn't sell to the companies, organizations, and municipal authorities who wanted to buy them, he replied, “They can suck my dick! That's what those bastards can do!”
He'd a bone to pick with the world, a world he felt gave him a raw deal. Holding out on those domains was his way of getting even.
They walked to the front driveway. A couple of his buddies, Randy, a young man is his 20s and Albert, a much older rotund fellow, stood there. Each held a can of beer. Randy lit up a joint, toked and passed it to Bill who took a hit.
“George, you want some?”
George replied no thanks and as he was trying to return to his yard, Bill asked, “Did you hear about the skunk?” “Skunk?” “Yeah, just over there.”
He pointed across the street to a walkway between another apartment complex.
“Randy and I were inside my living room. I was on the phone and he was looking out the front window. He kept turning his head like this.” Bill demonstrated, his head at an odd angle, Randy, standing beside him, started to chuckle. “And I said what the fuck are you looking at? And he said come here and see for yourself. I got up and looked across the street. I saw this animal, a small animal that seemed to be stuck in something. So we went outside, crossed the street, and guess what?” George shrugged and shook his head.
“It was a skunk and he'd got his head caught in a rat trap. The maintenance crew have been putting out these traps. They're large plastic boxes with a hole in one end for the rats to crawl in, then there's poison inside they'll eat. But the skunk could only get his head in the hole and he got stuck. Must have been stuck in there all night.” Bill starts laughing and shaking his head.
“This skunk was stuck and trying like the blazes to get out. He'd tried so hard he'd cut his neck on the edge of the hole and it was getting real bloody. I told Randy to use his phone to video it cause I was going to try and get the box off the skunk. So he did and I stepped back a ways and then let loose a good kick and instead of the box coming loose, the skunk and the box go way up in the air. When they land the skunk doesn't move. He knows someone else is out there. So I tell Randy I'm going to try again. This time I step back a little farther and then run at the box and boot it as hard as I can. The box went flying up in the air the the skunk was free!” Bill said. “Was the skunk grateful?” “No way, he was mad as hell and went after me, kept trying to spray me! I ran to the end of the block to get away from him!” His friends were laughing as he told the story. They'd seen the video.
“Hey Bill, what's the latest with your court case?” asked Albert. “Oh, yeah. George, did you know I legally own the rights to all the water in the greater city area? My mom was trying to get the courts to acknowledge our family owned the water rights.” “How did you get the water rights?” said Albert. “My great grandfather claimed them back in 1867. There's paperwork in the city records showing we own them, but the city's water department has been ignoring it all these years,” said Bill. “So I have petitioned to get the records. While I was in prison I studied law and I know all how to do it and I am going to have my day in court and get them to recognize my rights.” Bill continued.
Albert looked at Randy and exchanged a little smile which Bill saw.
“That's okay if you fuckers don't believe me, but it's true,” he turned to George, “You see I'm like a Howard Hughes type. I'm probably worth billions, but they won't admit it. They're afraid to.”
George wished him the best of luck in court and made a break for his yard. Was it really true? Who knows thought George. If it was, Bill would go from being damn near penniless to a rich man. Well stranger things have happened. He knew Bill didn't own or rent the house next door, but acted as a care-taker. It was a good deal for him, free rent, and the property owner didn't have to pay an empty house or landlord tax. He was slowly repairing the place since the last renters made a bit of a mess and left in a hurry when it was found out they were involved in kiddie porn. They'd been receiving death threats and got the hell out of town. At least that's what Bill told George. Again, was it true? Who knew?
George remembers the people next door before Bill came to live there, but he didn't know them very well. It was hard to imagine a married couple with full-time jobs, two kids and a dog, running kiddie porn on the side.
George was not like Bill. Retired, he minded his own business and couldn't understand people who minded others. It seemed as though they'd no life of their own. George kept himself busy with his art hobbies, chores, and yard work, but Bill was never too busy to keep tabs on the neighbors and George in particular.
Every time they crossed paths Bill always seemed to be trying to answer questions about George, why he was such a loner staying home so much of the time, “What do you do in there all day?”, or when he would see him out walking, “Where are you going to or coming from?”, or he'd say, “You don't like people do you?” and his favorite question, “You gonna sell your house? If you do, ask for at least a million dollars.” Every time George was going out somewhere, there would be Bill, watching. George mused, Bill missed his calling, should have been a spy.
Instead, Bill's job, besides care-taking, was repossessions and evictions. Sometimes Bill mentioned being out the night before in a remote location, or another town and hadn't return until early the next morning. He boasted repo work payed really well, because if they didn't cough up what they owed he could sell the confiscated goods, like a new boat or car.
Evictions were different. One time he evicted a group of drug addicts squatting on a large farm just outside of town. The police drove Bill there late at night and in he went to serve notice to these desperate characters. It sounded like dangerous work. George got to thinking about this and the next time he was in his back yard he saw Bill watering his peach tree, so he asked him about it, the danger. For the first time Bill clammed right up, wouldn't say much, even gave him a distrustful look.
George guessed he didn't like someone asking the questions for a change. So he didn't bring it up again. George thought it's funny how you think you have someone figured out, then something you wouldn't expect happens, makes you realize people are way more complicated than you imagined.
George felt a daily exercise regimen was important, so he got out for a good walk or trek to the store for groceries rather than using the car. Lately he was going a different way. When he left, instead of walking past Bill's, he went in the opposite direction, avoiding Bill, and cutting down the alley at the end of the block, then on to a side street connecting him with his usual route. He did this not just to avoid Bill and his friends, who always seemed to be lurking in the driveway every afternoon, but also to vary his routine. Never-the-less Bill noticed and brought it up when he saw George returning by his house.
“Hey, you're going the wrong way,” said Bill. “Wrong way?” “Yeah, your supposed to go down the alley.” Amazing thought George, he senses I'm trying to avoid him and his buddies and he's taking offense. George knew this wouldn't do, so he said, “Just adding a little variety to my walks. This way I can do a loop, don't have to repeat the same way I came.” Bill didn't say anything, sometimes he acted like a little kid whose feelings were hurt. George knew he better not avoid Bill so much. He'd have to come over at least once a week and shoot the breeze or risk bad feelings, which he didn't want.
After all Bill was interesting, different, at least this is how George justified it. Gosh he thought, remember his cat, Buddy? Actually it wasn't his, some friends left it with him while they went on holiday. There was something odd about the cat. It was a Russian Blue, really handsome with a gorgeous dark grey-blue coat, stocky, and powerful looking, but it wore the meanest expression he'd ever seen on an animal. It looked pissed off all the time. As though it too had a bone to pick with the world. Maybe that's why Bill liked the cat so much. He would tell tales about how fearless it was, even chasing a neighbor's dog out of the yard once!
Then Buddy got sick and Bill took him to the pet hospital. The veterinarian said they couldn't treat the cat legally because of its registration number on the collar. The cat was reported stolen sometime back. Bill told him it wasn't his, he was just looking after it for some friends. So he took buddy home, who, after a week, seemed to recover, because it went back to its usual pissed off demeanor ready to tangle with the neighbor's dog should it get any ideas about trespassing.
On a warm August afternoon George was picking blackberries down by the local railroad tracks. He'd almost half of his little blue bucket filled. Not bad for only 40 minutes of picking he thought. Then he remembered Bill offering to let him pick the blackberries in his yard. It was nice of Bill, and come to think of it, wasn't he always offering something to George? Maybe he was being too hard on Bill, too suspicious. After-all he didn't know for sure he was involved with the break-ins to his parent's house, there'd been five. Or what if he was? We all make mistakes. George certainly didn't have a perfect record. Maybe Bill was trying to make up for past indiscretions, trying to be a good neighbor. Still George wondered about Bill's friends. Those guys who'd hang out in his driveway, who didn't seem to work jobs, at least regular jobs. They looked too young to be retired, must be self-employed. One of them, the neighbor next to Bill, said he was in salvage work for which he used a large panel truck parked in his driveway. They all seemed to listen to Bill almost like he was their ringleader, his driveway their roost. Well, thought George, here I go again wondering if Bill's up to something. I've got to stop that.
George was whacking tops off dandelions and weeds in the front yard with a small scythe. The lawn was too dry in the summer to bother mowing, since it wasn't growing without much rainfall and watering restrictions. A voice called out, “Hey George. Is that thing sharp enough to cut anything?” George paused his swing and looked in the direction of Bill's. In the driveway a small pick-up truck was parked facing out to the street. Bill and a friend were inside smoking dope. In hot weather, it was a favorite place. Sometimes you could hear a radio in the truck with the game on. “Not too sharp, but sharp enough. It does the job.” said George. “Did you make that?” Bill asked. “No, it's a tool from my folks gardening shed.” “It's so short.” “Yeah, kinda looks and feels like a golf club,” said George. “I still got those berries if you want to come and pick 'em,” said Bill. “Thanks. I appreciate the offer.” George waved, Bill waved back. George went on whacking and Bill went on watching.