We live in a neighborhood full of lushes. What is a lush? Slang for person who drinks alcoholic beverages to excess. For some reason in our sleepy little townhouse subdivision we have more than a few. In fact, we are starting to realize we could very well be the only sober people on the street.
It was a few weeks ago. Enter crazy neighbor man with large white fluffy dog that shall remain unnamed. Note that Boss nor myself like this neighbor nor this dog. Boss has a thing against fluffy white dogs. They enrage him into a fury of repetitive barks and growls. And I have a thing about crazy men that live within 30 yards of my house. Anyways, this early evening the crazy neighbor man comes tearing into our neighborhood in his car. He then takes the turn into his driveway a bit too fast and ends up taking out a large portion of the shrubbery that separates this driveway from the next one.
Chris actually bears witness to this because he is standing on the driveway. Poor Chris. Wrong place at the wrong time because then the neighbor man goes inside to get his dog and walks up to Chris demanding to see Boss. Demanding. Chris comes inside looking for Boss and I tell him that Boss does not like the white fluffer dog.
But neighbor man is out there.
But Boss doesn’t like him.
But neighbor man is out there with his dog and lit up with about 1000 king-sized cocktails.
Let me get Boss. Because honestly we can’t afford to lose the shrubbery, it is the only protection we have from the alien child next door.
Another example. Friday night. What do most normal people do? If they are training for Ironman they clean the shoes, helmets, gel wrappers, bags, goggles, wetsuits and wheels out of their car. So Chris is outside. I am inside and hear a ruckus on our front porch. Once again, enter neighbor man. Boss runs to the front door and explodes in angry barks and growls. I walk over there to see the large white fluffer dog at my screen door with the neighbor man on the porch accusing me of feeding my dog crystal meth. Yes, yes that is clearly what is going on here. We feed it to him in his kibble. Want some? Chris then walks up to the porch I guess roused deep from the bowels of the van that has vomited Ironman training inside of it. Meanwhile I am holding Boss to calm him while neighbor man begins pointing at our neighbor’s door and shouting “CUJO. BRING OUT CUJO.”
Cujo is our neighbor’s St. Bernard. Actually that is not its name but it is not a nice dog so he calls it Cujo. And tonight after 10929823848 cocktails it sounds more like Ssssssssssssscujo.
At this point, I close the front door. It seems the safest thing to do. Chris comes back inside a short while later and we just laugh.
They were doing an economic study on our village. Our village is – in a few words – mostly deficient in anything that economically thrives. The main street contains the more important things in life like a tailor, a barber and a palm reader. As far as economic assets in our village there were two noted – a certain large park and a shady drinking establishment called the Squirrel Cage. Repeat – in an entire village the only things bringing in money are a large park and a bar. Now having worked at that large park I may know that a good number of the employees frequent that bar. I guess it’s a symbiotic relationship. You cannot have one without the other. But it just goes to show that our little village has a thing with trees and a thing with the sauce.
Thursday afternoon around 3:30 pm. The neighbor across the street – his garage goes up. A few minutes later I see him and another man sitting in their garage in lawn chairs with a case of Bud Light. Does anyone around here work? And am I the only one without a drink in hand? Few weeks ago this neighbor had a late night party – saw him that next morning at 6 am hosing his driveway off. There was a keg in his garage.
I officially live on Bourbon Street.
Last weekend JB was at our house. When we got home he said “the cops dropped your neighbor off.” Totally normal. The neighbor with the big bottles of gin in his recycling bin every week. Like the giant bottles of gin. Someone did the tango with tanqueray and ended up with a DUI. Crazy neighbor man was telling Chris the entire story tonight after Chris convinced him to exit our porch and stop shouting Ssssssssssssscujo. Apparently this DUI man had to be separated from his wife by DCFS. That makes no sense because that is the department of children and family services and unless this man married a child bride (at this point, very possible) then it doesn’t add up.
But then again the story was told by a lush.
Looking at our neighborhood you would not guess this. The majority of the population is in their late 50’s. They look normal enough. They drive (if they still can) normal cars. But apparently all of this is a cover for hitting the sauce. Big time.
I’m thinking with all this time on my hands now that I should join in. Sit in a lawn chair. Water my driveway with a hose. Take out a few shrubs. Walk my small Chihuahua up and down the street demanding to see people’s children. Send out Sssssssssssssssssssjohnny while pointing at their door. Start all of this around 7:30 am. Just to get a head start. Hang out at the squirrel cage until later in the day. Do my part to be a good neighbor for awhile.
By the way, do you know what a squirrel cage is?
I ask Chris this on Friday night. He answers in the most practical way, “I don’t know, a cage to keep in squirrels?”
Not quite. It’s actually a circular fan blade attached to a blower motor in an air circulation system.
The things you learn living on Bourbon Street.