How To Be A Perfect Neighbor

My wife and I have never particularly liked other people.

When we were poor, it wasn’t much of a problem. We rented shitty apartments in ghetto neighborhoods (bohemian districts if we were feeling racy), put 5 deadbolts on the door, barred the window, and kept a Beretta shotgun by the door. In five years, we only had one break-in.

I came home late from the firm I paralegaled at, unlocked the door, knocked three times, and then opened the door. Phoenyx was sitting at the kitchen table, absently drumming her fingers against the cheap IKEA linoleum and reading the funnies. A young man was softly bleeding to death on the floor from a knife-wound in his sternum. I remember thinking “Goddamn, I hope none of it got on the carpet.”

I hit a pay-cap and had to move to the suburbs. If you don’t live in the suburbs, people don’t want to come to your house. If people don’t want to come to your house, they don’t accept your dinner party invites. If you don’t throw dinner parties, you don’t make partner. Simple.

First came the neighbors. Offering to help us move heavy boxes (no thanks, that’s what the dolly’s for), invitations to golf games (ruination of a good walk), and awkward sports small talk. Then, the endless parade. Luncheons, neighborhood committees, neighborhood watch committees, gardening clubs, racketeering clubs, poker games, fire poker games, Christmas cards, Hanukkah menorahs, ethnic children selling candy, security services, lemonade stands, raising money for soccer team baseball team rehab money etc etc. At first we played along. Happy smiling young couple, all American dream-team batting it out of the park. We accepted every invitation, signed every petition, casted ballots in local politicking elections for ‘how many daffodils constitutes a reasonable landscaping arrangement.’ As I explained to Phoenyx as she threw a colander at my head after the “July Jamboree,” it was important that we fit in.

That didn’t last.

So we tried stonewalling. Disappearing off the face of the earth. Running inside, dashing from my Lexus to the front door, furiously beeping the ‘lock’ button on my keys before ‘Jogging Wesleigh” could pounce on me for another inane discussion of his son’s latest hockey triumph. It became ‘obvious’ that Phoenyx was addicted to painkillers, and interventions were staged. She cried theatrically and thanked the little biddies when they encouraged her to find Jesus (under a rock? Behind the bookshelf? Where!? Where!? Oooh this is fun!) but behind the scenes, more colanders were thrown.

So we adopted the oldest strategy in the book.

Fear.

Fear means respect. Respect means people leave you the fuck alone.

We went to the butchers and bought a few gallons of pigs blood. We rented a dummy from the firm’s medical office. We got a duffel bag and had some fun. One night, as Jogging Wesleigh entered the homestretch, he saw little old lawyer me, cursing loudly and dragging a duffel bag to my Lexus’s trunk.

Hey buddy, need a hand? Wary stare, then quick acceptance, too quick. Grab that end. GRAB THAT END. One, two, three, lift. Whatcha got in here? Books. Uh, looks like your books are leaking. Books and lemonade. L-leaking something…. Red. …Pink lemonade. No more questions. Just Jogging Wesleigh jogging home smelling the blood on his hands and scrubbing furiously in the night because it Just. Wouldn’t. Come. Off.

One old favorite was the ticking biological clock. You know bud, you should think about some kids. Getting to be about that time. Oh, they’re a joy, they’re a gas (and only 19.95 at K-Mart! Blue-light special). So one day he brings it up in front of the wife, and she just starts sobbing, hysterically. She runs back into the house, apologizing profusely as she knocks over a pitcher of (store-bought) lemonade all over the patio. When he asks ‘what was that, bud?” I reply with a single word. Miscarriage. He stares into his Miller Lite for five minutes before getting up and excusing himself for lieu of a lawn needing mowing. The shame and awkwardness stayed with him for months.

Loud crashes at night in our house. Screams. Me fixing a broken window the next day (ever throw a baseball through a window? It’s a fun time). More screams. Then one night, Phoenyx messily packs a suitcase, and we put on a Shakespearean drama in the front lawn the next morning. Her, storming out with suitcases awry, their sorry seams and half-buckles dripping jewelry and couture dresses. Mascara running down her face, haphazardly applied to cover the bluish eye blush that makes for some rather suspicious bruises. Me screaming at her at the top of my lungs, her yelling back about ‘Asian prostitutes’ and ‘raping teenage runaway boys.’ Her slamming the door to the car in my face and me promising violent murder.

She checked into the Hilton, honeymoon suite. I took a weekend off from work and we did nothing but fuck and drink expensive booze for three days straight.

And no one bothered us again.