A Quiet Riot in My Head at the Old Sanitarium

Neighbors.  You really can’t beat them for entertainment.  I don’t want to be a voyeur, but frankly, these people are making it near impossible for that to happen.  I spent last week at home trying to relax.  It was strange weather all week.  In the 80s.  Yes, it’s March.  Yes, the ENTIRE week was warm and summer weather.  So all the windows were open and people were coming out of their winter cocoons.  And because I was home, I was a witness to all these things.

First there was the old guy in the house directly behind mine.  First thing in the morning—okay, I’d like to have slept in, but there is this 100 pound Rottweiler to think of.  Not that she would let me forget.  Nothing like waking up to see a big wet, cold nose inches from your own and behind it a wiggling butt (there is the cropped tail which has only let her to wag her entire body); groaning at the early hour only brings on whining and more violent body wagging.

So on Monday morning it started.  I got up, crawled out of bed, rubbed sleep out of my eyes and followed 100 pounds of wiggling exuberance down the hall to the sunroom.  From the sunroom, I opened the door to the back yard and was pelted by heat.  On Monday, it was probably 20 degrees warmer outside than it was inside my house.  I heard yelling.  Squinting against the horrible sun on that early morning, I leaned out to look.

The 85 year old neighbor guy behind me was running (well, old guy running) with a broom up in the air. Every once in a while, he’d bat at his gutters with the broom.  He moved back and forth along the back of his house with the “WHAP” of the broom against the gutters echoing through the quiet neighborhood.  My dog ran to the fence and watched, fascinated, ears perked.  Sometimes I wish I could be so guileless in my fascination; but, instead I slunk back in the house, moved to the living room and cracked open the window so I could peak through the slits in the blind and listen.  As he’d whap, he’d shout:  “Damn Japs!  Damn you! I had friends at Pearl Harbor.”  WHAP.  Then the dog decided to add in her two cents with a half-bark, half-yip…kind of the WTF of the dog world.  I think the dog and I saw the squirrel at the same time; it peeked its head up out of the gutter and squeaked at the old man, then ran to the other side of the house.  The man followed it.  This time the dog followed them both along the fence line.  WHAP!  “Damn Japanese!” Yip!  Squeaking laughter.  Back to the other end.  How long it went on, I can’t tell you.  Long enough for me to get bored and get a bowl of cereal.  After breakfast, I went out and found the dog laying in the sun chewing on her Nylabone.  She got up and came inside when I called, got some water and sighed as if to say “Wow, wasn’t expecting a morning run.”

I opened up all the windows in the house and the sunroom.  There are 23 in all.  I know because I’ve counted them when sudden freak rainstorms hit, hurling rain from every direction.  It felt good to have fresh air in the house.  Everyone was happy and relaxed.  The birds were chirping, the dog was snoring in a patch of sun, and the cat was stretched out in another patch.  I decided to paint the ceiling in the sunroom, the replaced wall and ceiling from when there was water damage…and I also had two doors to paint, the one from the garage to outside and the one from the laundry room to the sunroom.

In the quiet warmth as I move furniture to the center of the room and cover the floor and the furniture with tarps, it’s almost like I’m the only person on the planet along with Mother Nature.  It’s everything I needed in a vacation—more like one of those old time trips to a sanitarium for me because I really needed a break from humanity.  I got on my painting clothes, which are an essential part of any painting job, because I normally end up with a 1:1 ratio of paint on me vs. paint on wall; and, this was going to be a ceiling which meant total coverage of both the ceiling and possibly myself, maybe make the Rottweiler into a Dalmatian.

So I get the stuff all set up and I’m about to put my first coat of primer on the wall when I hear a voice.  Not a soft, quiet voice.  Frankly if it had been soft and quiet, I still would have heard it because the day was just that quiet.  The voice is loud, sharp, grizzled from years of cigarette smoke and it’s yelling.  Not “WOW, what a great morning!”  It’s yelling at its grandkids.  “You goddamned piece of shit, motherfucker, dumbass, I told you not to let the dog into that fucking mud.  Dammit!  You stupid asshole.”  There’s a kid’s response, but it was softer and I couldn’t make out the words; apparently they weren’t the words the habitual smoker woman who sounded like she’d been “ridden hard and put away wet” as they say.  “Goddammit, now look at that fucking dog!  We’re going to have to give him fucking back.  I fucking told you not to let the fucking dog out.  Mother fucker!”

By this time my dog is standing at one of the sunroom windows looking out cocking her head to one side and my peaceful moment of communing with primer has been destroyed.  However, let’s not leave it at that, because from the other side of my house, also a person far enough away to be hidden from my view comes a guy’s voice:  “Why don’t you shut the fuck up, Bitch.”

“Mind your own fucking business, jackass!”  screamed the woman on the other side of the neighborhood.

“You’re making this shit my fucking business,” the guy on the opposite side of the neighborhood yelled back.

“You better hope I never find out which bastard you are!”

Ahh…the peaceful midday bliss of a workday in a working class neighborhood.  You’d think I lived in the projects or something.    Anyway, Black Sabbath serves well to drown them out…if you can’t have quiet and birds chirping for your meditative activity, then do it with Ozzie.

So, that was Monday.

Tuesday I woke up, let the dog out, still had all the windows open.  Took in a deep breath of the fresh air and went into the kitchen in mind of making a good breakfast.  I’m standing there at my sink looking outside and I see him.  The Poodle Man.  With his two little poodles on their extendable leashes.  Who were both squatting on my grass.  It’s been all winter, my nemesis and I see you haven’t learned your lesson.

I go running outside.  “HEY!” I yell at him.  “What the hell?  What are you doing?”

“Well, I’m walking my dogs,” he says.

“You’re letting them poop in my yard.  Do I have to haul out the Rottweiler poop again?”

“I didn’t know you were home.”

I believe I started seeing red at this point.  “WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING?!!”  I told him to scoop it up with his hands, I didn’t care.  But he was going to scoop it up or he’d be calling the cops on me ALL summer long until he stopped.   Plus I would be sending him bills for my shoes.  Will he learn?  No.  Can I do anything about it?  Apparently not.  I’ve talked to the police.  Rudeness is not a crime.

So, on my second day of vacation, the passive aggressive dog poop war games of 2012 were opened.  I played “Who Let the Dogs Out?”  by the Baja Men on my stereo over and over again.

On Wednesday, the neighbors all decided to mow their lawns without picking up the sticks in the yard…so lawn mowing was loud and filled with strange metallic clangs and bangs that echoed off the houses.  And off the walls of my house.  My dog ran back and forth from window to window trying to figure out what to bark at.  The cat hid under the bed.  I made homemade enchiladas and played salsa music loudly.

On Thursday morning, it was peaceful once again.  The birds were chirping, there was a warm breeze that smelled like the open lake.  Those of you who live around Lake Erie know the smell of the lake in early spring it still smells kind of cold, like a late March snow…oh wait, it IS late March.  Nevermind, for a minute I thought it was July.  I sit down at my computer, deciding that today is the day I’m going to spend writing.  I have a big glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

While I was sipping that orange juice, I heard it.  A woodpecker.  Fascinating creatures, the woodpeckers.  They hang on to the side of trees and pound their heads against the bark making loud continuous banging noises, similar to the relationship between mortgage loan officers and walls and/or computer screens.

People walking down the sidewalk would stop and look around and be fascinated by the damn bird.  I asked them to take the damn thing with them.  Oh sure, cute, but you know you get to understand why people in the cartoons really hated Woody Woodpecker.  He was an annoying, crappy bird and it would have served everyone well if one of those bad guys had gotten ole’ Woody and thrown him in crockpot with some potatoes, carrots and onions. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJChh7ghGnE

Friday, I had errands.  I found a compendium for The Walking Dead comics.  I found a pocket English to Thai phrase book.  It got colder.  I didn’t feel so bad closing the windows.  It was quiet inside.  And the Walking Dead brought a nice change of pace to my sanitarium.