I’m sleeping in my underwear. As I get up to answer the door, I consider how embarrassing/fun it would have been to answer the door buck naked. My groggy head can’t be bothered with too many calculations, tired as I am, so I open the door in my boxer briefs. On my porch is a man, about 50, but looks closer to 65. He has scraggly, shoulder-length graying hair and a matching beard surrounding a mouth that houses gray, broken teeth. He is wearing a dirty t-shirt over his rotund torso and shorts that proudly display the cellulitis infection in his lower legs.
I briefly remember the “a
“How long do you w
“For as long as I need it,” he answers.
I envision his boat, currently on a trailer behind his pickup truck in the street, parked in my driveway forever. “Um, no, I’m sorry, I can’t let you park it there,” I respond in my just-woke-up voice.
He is prepared for just
I briefly consider his line of reasoning as best I can while my bed is calling me to co
“But it’s a public alley, so I can park it there.”
I have not the logic nor the will to continue too much farther in this circle, so I change tacks. “Well, then why did you bother asking me about it?”
“Out of courtesy,” he responds.
I courteously answer “Still, I’d really rather not have you park it there.”
“I am going to park it there.”
10:00 am. I’m just about fully back to sleep.
Back out of bed, back to the door in my boxer briefs. “Now what?” I wonder, hoping it’s just the postman or Mormons.
“Hi, I’m Mrs (whatthefuckever). You were just talking to my husband about parking our boat in the public alley [she makes sure to refer to it as the “public alley” rather than “your yard”] and I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. That was his mother’s house; we renovated it and we’re moving in.
“Oh, you mean Mrs. Newman?” I ask.
“Yes!” she says, her smile revealing her own set of urine-colored teeth that match her urine-colored hair. She glances at me up and down, no doubt appreciating in the panorama of virility that is me, standing on the porch in my underwear. I return the favor and take in the view of her white shorts that reveal varicose-veined legs and the “Señor Frogs” tie-dyed t-shirt covering up her wizened, leathery 96-pound torso.
“That boat is my one source of serenity in this world. And Lord knows I don’t get to be serene very often. We certainly don’t use it as much as I’d like to...” she goes off on a tangent.
“I heard,” I answer. “I understand that the alley is technically public land, but it’s pretty much part of my yard, and I’d really rather not have you park it there.”
“Well, I understand, but it IS a PUBLIC alley and I don’t want something bad to happen to the boat or have it stolen,” she says.
“What difference will that make?”I try to reason. “How do you know it won’t get stolen or whatever from right there?”
“Well, there’s that phone pole right there.”
I consider the security functions inherent in a phone pole. I see few.
“Look, isn’t there some sort of compromise we can come to?” she offers.
She is unimpressed with my suggestion. “No, I don’t really want to do that. I don’t know who owns that property.”
I almost yelled “But you DO know that I own THIS property, and you don’t have a problem taking up MY yard.” But I didn’t. The husband was watching our exchange from his yard, muttering psychotically to himself. I had no doubt that I was already making myself look like an idiot simply talking to Mrs. Whatthefuckever, who looked like she had spent too many summers turning tricks at the beach while I stood on my front porch in my undies. A shouting match under the circumstances wouldn’t be... seemly.
Instead I calmly repeated my statement, “I’d really rather you not park your boat in my yard.”
She took up the circular argument that her husband had. “But it’s a public alley, so we CA
I chose not to continue a fruitless line of reasoning. “It seems that no matter what I say, you’re going to do what you want. So why did you bother asking me about parking it there?” I inquired for the second time this morning.
“I asked you out of courtesy. So we don’t get off on the wrong foot,” she repeated.
“Courtesy implies that my thoughts would be taken into consideration, but you haven’t done that. You seem prepared to do whatever you want to do regardless of what I say, so I don’t really see the courtesy in that,” I explain quite honestly.
“I see. Okay,” I sigh as I go back into my house and close the door.
Ah, having white trash neighbors is going to be so interesting! I'll have so much to write about! Let the games begin!