Saturday, March 15, 2008

Neighborgeddon IV: Son of Neighborgeddon

By the fourth or fifth installment, it's nigh time in the traditional chronology of events for a sequel to birth an offspring, and it seems the series of narratives I've dubbed "Neighborgeddon" is no exception. Maybe someday I'll move and get a new set of annoying neighbors so I can eventually create a post titled "Neighborgeddon: The Next Generation" or "The New Neighborgeddon," but I'd still much rather live someplace where my next-door neighbors are at least a couple acres removed because I'm thoroughly convinced that the general laws of civility are continually breaking down.

This edition is going to once again focus on the neighbor with the dogs, as opposed to the neighbor on the other side with the four-wheelers, because whereas the neighbor with the four-wheelers are annoying and some small part of me does secretly yearn for their obnoxious passion to somehow bring about their inevitable demise, the neighbor with the dogs seems to be far more stupid and therefore easier to ridicule. However, this post will not be intended to ridicule. This is going to be a solemn post, reflecting on the man's life as I knew it, which pretty much means that, yes, I probably will be making fun of him after all.

I found out this past Monday that over the weekend, The Barber underwent an occupational transition to The Cadaver. The news came as sort of a shock to me because he wasn't actually that old, only in his mid-fifties, and as much as I loathed his existence, I didn't really want him to die either. I'd rather he just packed up his idiot yapping dogs and moved somewhere where that sort of thing was tolerated, like nowhere that there are other people. Still, the shock passed fairly quickly because I barely knew him, and what I did know of him wasn't highly flattering anyway.

Have you ever been talking to someone and you find yourself beginning to think that, okay, maybe this cat has his shit figured outl he has it together; he knows what's going on; he's a pretty smart dude, and then he starts going "Nigger, nigger this and nigger, nigger that" and you just lose any respect you might have built up for the person? That's pretty much what happened with this guy. One day, I started having a pleasant conversation with him and discovered that he didn't seem to be too ignorant for a guy who looked like his mother constantly drowned out her fear of child birth by drinking fifths of Everclear every single day throughout his gestation, and then he revealed himself to be an unapologetic, flagrant racist, and not only had I lost all the respect I'd started to build up for him, but I also lost all the respect that he could have gained. He was actually lingering in negative respect from me. He owed me respect.

So he's dead. One less stumbling block on the path to civil rights, and the dogs were vacated by animal control. Victory, in whatever form, comes to those who wait. The cause of death was listed as "natural causes," but given the fact that during the conversation I had with him, he drank three beers in under a half an hour, I can't help but question just how natural those natural causes might have been, unless they've started listing abject alcoholism as a natural cause. "This guy has more alcohol in his blood than he does blood, but according to his medical history that's pretty normal, so I guess we can chalk this one up to natural causes."

The following day, Tuesday for those of you who are keeping count, I came home from work and heard a dog barking that sounded suspiciously like the dead neighbor's dog, and it sounded suspiciously like it was coming from the dead neighbor's house. I was pretty certain I recognized the bark and the location; having put up with it for two years now, one might say I'm sort of familiar with the sound. My immediate thought was that he had more dogs tucked away in the house, like in cupboards or cubbyholes or crawlspaces where animal control wouldn't think to look, and one got out and was now running around the house wondering where the fuck anything to eat was. However before calling animal control back out to the house, I decided to verify that the barking was coming from the house and also see if anyone was in the house. The guy just died, so it wouldn't be unusual for a family member to be going through his belongings, and maybe the love of small, annoying dogs runs in the family like an inbred genetic disorder such as their face.

It turns out that the man's son and nephew and their families were going through the house. His son got the dogs from the pound and brought them back to the house to continue to annoy me, which is just what I always wanted. They seemed pretty proud that they got the dogs back, as if that was my primary concern, as if I didn't want the most annoying creatures God ever created evicted from my life. They failed to understand that finally having the dogs removed from his house was probably about the only good thing that could have resulted from his death. If they bring the dogs back to the house, then he essentially died for nothing.

The nephew further revealed that The Barber didn't have a will in place because he was still pretty young and not expecting to die from drinking upwards of two gallons of beer every day, but the son was fighting to get the house, and he was set to take over the barber shop as well. Last night, I heard some yelling outside, so I went out to investigate. The yelling was coming from The Former Barber's back yard. Either the empty house was being ravaged by druggies or the Son of Barber had a few of his frat boy friends over for a drunken bereavement party or something that involved a lot of yelling and laughing and fellowship. The former I could really not care less about, but the latter does not bode well because it appears that the son is one of those people who have a thickheaded frat boy mentality and throws a lot of loud, obnoxious parties with his loud, obnoxious, thickheaded frat boy buddies. Let's just say I know the type. I know a lot of types from my former job, and if there's one thing people are consistently good at, it's living up to the stereotypes they purport.

Maybe I'm too suspicious and untrusting, but I'm starting to piece together a slightly, stupidly sinister plot. During my conversation with The Barber, he mentioned that he and his son already weren't exactly on the best of terms. His son is somewhere around the age and mentality that points to his getting through with college. Once leaving college he would need a house and a job. His father recently passed away and already he's ready to move into the house and take over the barber shop. On the same night as the burial, the son and his friends all get drunk and yell and laugh all over his house and yard. His son has been seen driving his truck around, and probably most suspiciously, the friend of The Barber who initially made the 9-1-1 call Monday was at the house last night with the son and his friends. The police said that there were no signs of a struggle or forced entry, but if you forgive my mind a dalliance, I imagine the following scenario.

What if the friend of The Barber made a deal with The Barber's son and visited him at his house over the weekend and either got him too drunk or slipped some mildly undetectable chemical into his drink or food then locked up and left the house? No sign of struggle, no sign of forced entry, and there are any number of chemicals that can make a death seem natural and would be undetected unless there was reason to test for them. I call the person "the friend of The Barber" because I don't know who it is and have no other way of identifying him, but I don't really get the impression that The Barber had too many real friends. I called this guy "the friend of The Barber," but what was his only comment when the body was being removed from the house? "Man, I really needed a haircut, too." I suppose the son could have done it just as easily, but when you see the guy who discovered the body partying the guy who stands to gain everything from the death, it just looks suspicious. That's all I'm saying.

So now I finally got a job where I can sleep at night and work during the day, and the man dies, yet somehow the dogs are still in the house and barking when I'm trying to sleep. Essentially, his death was wasted because nothing has changed as a result of it, except that now, on top of the barking dogs, I might have loud, wild parties to look forward to keeping me awake at night. What Son of Barber may not realize is that a police officer recently bought the house two doors down from him, so my driving hope now is that when he inevitably does decide to throw a loud, obnoxious house party, any number of hard narotics will be passed around to any number of underaged girls.


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