My life is really boring. Quick, Robin, to the memory vaults.
Yesterday, I mentioned in passing that members of that family had messed up my couch before the baby was born on it. That’s because they were the Worst Neighbors in the World. (Picture Keith Olbermann saying that.) We lived next door to them when we moved into the trailer at Windy Point. Lovely trailer park, three trailers in a truckyard where they brought cattle trucks at all hours of the day and night. Our other neighbors were OK, but these people. Well you’re not going to get the cream of the crop when you live in a trailer park, real or virtual, as Daisy Fae’s relatives know.
The family consisted of mom, dad, and two boys, one in his twenties, and one that was about 13 when we moved across town. That will be relevant later. A couple of incidents stand out with respect to this family. The first one involved our couch.
Barney was working nights, and had just been home for a cup of coffee. This was in the olden days when even 7-11 closed at eleven, if you had one in town, which we didn’t. So Barney would come home, have coffee, and visit with me, and then I’d go back to bed. He’d just left when the outside door opened again. I thought he had forgotten something and called out to him. No answer. Then I got up and looked down the hall. And I thought I saw him stumbling around. All I could think of was that he’d been shot or something. So I started down the hall. It had looked like him from 50′ away, without my glasses, but as I got closer, I knew it couldn’t be him. Wrong shape entirely.
Obviously, somebody who wasn’t supposed to be was in my house. About that time, whoever it was fell face down over the back of the couch and passed out. And vomited. Damn. So I go back to the bedroom, where the police radio was, and call Barney on the radio, and told him I had an intruder. He comes back home, takes a look at the guy on the couch, and turns him over. It’s the 20-something neighbor boy, drunk out of his skull. I may have mentioned that Barney wasn’t very big. But he was mad. He cuffed the guy, picked him up by the cuffs, and dragged him out to the police car. And that was the last I saw of our intruder. And I called his mother the next morning, and made her scrub my couch cushions. Why the hell should I have to clean up her kids vomit?
The other incident involved the other son. One night I was petting one of my dogs*, and felt something sticky in his fur. And he whined when I touched it. A little more exploring revealed the sticky stuff to be blood. And there was something hard under the skin. I pushed on it, and it came out. It was a BB. There were a couple more on Mikey, and a couple in Princess, too. Now I was mad. Who could have shot the dogs? And why?**
It was around Christmas this happened, and come to find out the younger boy had gotten a BB gun for Christmas. I had seen him with it a couple days earlier, and since he was pointing it at our house, told him to be careful with it. So I went over and told the mother to make sure her kid didn’t shoot my dogs anymore. She, of course, denied that Precious Son could have done such a thing. OK, lets look at the evidence. Kid gets BB gun for Christmas, points it inappropriately. Other couple in trailer park is an older couple with no kids at home. Well, I suppose it could have been one of the truckers. Yeah, right.
Well of course since no one had seen the kid shoot the dogs, and the BB’s didn’t have his name on them, nothing happened to the little
bastard darling. And for one reason or another, shortly after that we upped stakes, and pulled the trailer across town to the other trailer park. Which was a lot quieter, had better neighbors, and didn’t smell like cattle trucks.
* Black dogs are notoriously had to photograph. Princess is the one who’s eyes you can see, and Mikey is licking her head as usual. In other news, Minx was a Manx cat, she didn’t have a tail.
**Gratuitous advice: Don’t put your pictures in those magnetic albums. You will be sorry.