The neighbors.
I find it insane that essentially the same people have lived on my street since I was a kid. While I was growing up, there were a few people that moved away, but even the new neighbors that moved in seemed like they'd been there forever. Which they have, if forever is only about 15 or so years. I live on a caul-de-sac, so it kind of makes everyone on my street part of a little cult, being that we're sort of "out of the way" of the rest of the neighborhood. This cultish feeling used to reign supreme on the 4th of July, where, for about 10 straight years, we had our own block party in which we would rope off the cul-de-sac so that no "intruders" could get in. To accomplish this, we literally tied a rope around my mailbox and the mailbox of the house that lived right across the street from us, blocking any cars from entrance. To be completely honest, I'm not even sure if we had legal permission for such an act. But it happened nonetheless. I'm going to miss all of the quirks that I've picked up on over the years. Over time, all of those little quirks that people have are what give you a sense of security, just because they're familiar. It makes you feel like your world is not rapidly changing, even when it most definitely is. Here are the neighbors and their neighborly quirks that have given me that secure feeling in my 23 years living on this street:
THE A's - The A's have lived right across the street from me ever since I was born. Just a few nights ago, I heard my mother refer to Mrs. A as "Martha Stewart". I asked her what that meant. She said something along the lines of "Oh, everyone calls her that!" I asked why. She said something similar to "Oh, because she has anything you need!" Nevermind the fact that I have no idea what the hell my mom was talking about, she's still somehow spot-on. Mrs. A does seem like Martha Stewart. But if you asked me to explain why, specifically, she seemed that way, I would have no words. I don't know why. It just feels right.
Mr. A, on the contrary, is a NASCAR-loving mountain man. And I use that term endearingly. Mr. A is that kind, jovial, resembles-a-grizzly-bear guy that I think every neighborhood has at least one of. He used to own a giant styrofoam deer statue that he kept in his backyard and, when weather permitted, he would go outside with his bow and shoot arrows at the statue. It was pretty incredible to watch. From my bedroom window. Laughing. But that was just Mr. A. He could seem intimidating, but I'll bet he's just a big ol' softy at heart.
THE S's - The S's are an interesting story. They were cool when they had no kids. And then they had three. It was all downhill from there. The kids are child terrorists. I think everybody knows what a child terrorist is because they exist in every neighborhood. They're the kids that you look out the window and see standing on top of their mother's Chevy Tahoe holding their father's 9 iron. THAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED. They're the kids that you see setting up a ladder in the driveway, attempting to climb up and over the balcony to the front door, neglecting the staircase five feet away. THAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED. When you are harmlessly playing basketball in your driveway, these are the kids that will invite themselves over and inexplicably chase you around, smiling like Chuckie and trying to punch you in the "wiener" until you tell them you have to eat dinner and run inside for safety. And that actually happened FOUR OR FIVE TIMES. The father also inexplicably disappears for months at a time, though I guess that's none of my business. But if one of those kids ever shatters a testicle of mine, I'm going to make it my business.
THE M's - Even though they live directly to the right of my house and are always outside doing yardwork, I've literally spoken maybe five words to these people in my entire life. I remember about a week ago I was outside cutting the grass and I made eye contact with Mrs. M for the first time in about 12 years. She waved at me. I paused, then waved back. After I finished mowing the lawn, I ran inside to tell my brother that Mrs. M and I shared a moment. It's that rare.
Mr. M is also a stereotype that I believe every neighborhood has to have. He's the guy who cares WAY too much about his own lawn. There have been countless times where he's set out a sprinkler to water his lawn, only to coat half of our driveway instead. It has actually irked my father to the point of braving getting wet to simply move the sprinkler five feet in the other direction. There was actually a time when my brother Anthony and his friend Adam were playing basketball in the driveway (where things naturally seem to go wrong), and Mr. M's sprinkler was on. Anthony insists that the sprinkler fell over on its own and began shooting water at the side of the M's house. Apparently Mr. M then came outside, asked the boys if they had "done this", and then proceeded to accuse them of lying when they said no. Yes, Mr. M. Because we live to fuck with your lawn tools. Nothing gives me a greater adrenaline rush then just sprinting underneath that sprinkler and giving that thing a good what-for! I always hated that sprinkler, Mr. M. You always gave it more attention than me. AND NOW IT MUST DIEEEE!!!! Okay, enough about the M's.
THE H's - The H's are the the family that no one ever sees. They live on the very last house on the cul-de-sac, hidden behind some giant evergreens and a wooden fence. They don't interact with anyone. Not even so much as a wave when driving by. And boy, do they EVER drive by. On any given day, I will see the father drive up and down our street about fifteen times. I haven't the faintest clue what anybody's occupation is in that family, but if I had to guess, the father is probably an accountant. Just seems that way. I have literally never made eye contact with any of the members of the H family. None. Zero. Every time one of them drives by, I stop what I'm doing and look at their car, hoping for that to be the time that they FINALLY wave or even give me one of those weird head nods. But nothing. When I move in 8 days, I will miss the H's. And as they silently drive by, offering nary a glance in my direction, I will assume they'll miss me too. After all, that's one less person awkwardly staring at them every time they get in their car. I JUST WANTED A HEAD NOD! Okay.
BOB DOG - I don't know Bob Dog's last name. Nobody does. It could be "dog" for all I know, which would really ruin the novelty of the clever nickname. Bob lives in the house in between the H's and the A's. He has a little dog named "Sparky" that I've had far more (unfortunate) interaction with. The dog is so annoying. It exists in every neighborhood. The dog that barks at nothing. That barks too loud at nothing. That barks too loud at nothing in an impossibly high pitch. This dog's bark is the definition of a "yap". But this is the only companion that Bob has, and thusly, why we call him "Bob Dog".
My favorite Bob Dog memory comes from a game of kickball that took place on the cul-de-sac when I was about 9 or 10 years old. We were kicking the ball in the direction of Bob Dog's house, which seemed stupid to begin with, but hey, we were kids. I can safely say this is one of the few times in my formative years that I could have been referred to as a child terrorist. Our friend Matt, easily the biggest kid among us, kicked the ball so far that it actually struck Bob Dog's front door, sending screws and various other pieces flying in all directions. I don't know if you've ever seen someone literally knock a door off of its hinges with a kickball, but its pretty fucking awesome. Obviously not planning on sticking around to accept any responsibility, we all took off running and dove over the giant hill in my backyard, tumbling to the bottom in a fit of boyhood giggles. I honestly don't remember what happened next. I guess the door got fixed at some point, but I sure as hell didn't do it. Oh well. Sorry, Bob Dog. And sorry for calling you Bob Dog.
THE F's - There isn't much to say about the F's. For some reason, our family isn't too fond of them. I'm pretty sure something happened in my youth that led to this, but my parents have never spoken of it. I guess they're just not very nice people. The most interesting thing about them is that Mr. F used to work for Pepsi, so every halloween you got a can of Pepsi to add an unwanted six ounces to your already sagging bag of candy. It took us a long time to realize we should just go to their house last. Another odd thing about the F's is that you could hear Mrs. F yell at her son from INSIDE your own house. I can't tell you how many times my television show was interrupted by the chastising words of one Mrs. F. I was 100% convinced most times that she was murdering her child. And I am now 100% surprised that he is still alive. Well, you still got 8 days til' I'm gone. Don't let me miss out on anything exciting! Earlier this summer, when I was waiting tables, I spotted Mr. and Mrs. F. They were in my section, but they weren't my table. I walked over to tell them that their server would be right with them. Before I could get the words out, Mrs. F said "Oh, hey! How are you?" Before I could respond, I noticed Mr. F glance at my nametag. He had no fucking clue who I was. I'm going to miss that kind of neighborly camraderie when I move. God love ya, F's. Never change.
Alright, so I'm not really close with any of the neighbors on my street. But isn't that the point of neighbors? You tolerate them. As long as they aren't pissing on your front door, they're okay by you. And as far as I know, none of my neighbors have done that. But its those little neighborhood quirks that make a house a home. I'm damn glad I had a grizzly man living next door to me. And demon spawn. And lawn care enthusiasts. Also, any time you can refer to someone as "Bob Dog", it's never a bad thing. You should try it sometime. Really rolls off the tongue. ANYWAY, I will miss all of these neighbors greatly. And I'm sure they'd all miss me too just as long as they knew who I was. I'm lookin' at you, Mr. F. Get your shit together.
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