The Flight of Driveway Guy

Driveway Guy's car blew a head gasket some time later (I heard all about it from Megan, who had to walk home five miles in the rain while he tried to finagle a tow), and the truck he'd been working on finally showed up in the driveway.

It was a compact truck, nothing like the jacked-up F-150 from before.  (This was the truck he parked on the back lawn and ran into the house, breaking the siding - on my list of summer projects.)  After a short period of time, he got a cap for it at well, though he was still sleeping in the cab.

He handed me a business card one day, with his cell phone number advertising his services as a "handyman".  "You need anything done, just let me know." 

I had hopes this was a sign for the positive - there was significantly less barf in the driveway, the handyman business seemed to be starting up, so I had hopes that maybe he was getting his life together.

The downside was, with the weather warming up, the usual crew of people hanging out with Driveway Guy was no longer limited to who could fit in his truck.  I started parking on the street after finding a beer can inside my car, which I distinctly remembered locking the night before. 

And then one day, driving home, I was passed by Driveway Guy heading the opposite direction at top speed and driving like his ass was on fire.  I pulled into the driveway, and looked down at the deep gouges in the driveway from where he'd clearly pulled out in a hurry.

He passed by the house slowly, but when he started to pull in, the door to Mary's apartment swung open, and Savannah, the younger daughter (16), came running out.  "I meant it, you goddamn fucking bastard!!!!!!!  I've got my phone RIGHT FUCKING HERE!!!!!"

A squeal of tires, and he was gone.

She looked at me, and I looked at her.  "Holy crap - what did he do?"

She glared at his tailgate as he sped down the road.  "Bastard stole my debit card and took out about 60 bucks.  Told him if I ever saw him here again I was pressing charges of breaking and entering and theft."

"That's serious."

"Yep.  And since he's still on probation...that's some serious jail time.  It's worth the 60 bucks to have him out of my sister's life.  I'm amazed you never called when he was smoking weed in the driveway."

I shrugged.  "If he'd been alone, I would have.  Megan was always with him."

She nodded.  "Well, he won't be coming back."

And he didn't.  Megan started seeing another guy a few months later, and I saw her in the foyer doing laundry.  She looked a lot healthier - no bags under the eyes, smiling - and I told her.

"Yeah, everyone was kinda worried about me.  But thanks."

I keep scanning the local paper to see if he shows up in the court rundown, but nothing so far.  Fingers crossed it stays that way.

Trusting Driveway Guy to Repair My Car

So Driveway Guy's previous occupation (other than meth dealer) was auto mechanic.  He worked at a local shop for a few months prior to actually moving in to the driveway, and he briefly mentioned to me at one point that if I ever needed work done on my Civic, he was a former certified Honda mechanic, and that he'd be more than happy to do what needed to get done.

About a month after that, as I was driving the inner loop to get off at St. Paul, I pressed on the brake, and the pedal went straight to the floor.  I used the emergency brake to get the rest of the way to school, got some brake fluid at a nearby auto shop, and limped the rest of the way home.

I rolled the car in, and tapped on Driveway Guy's window.  "I might have a job for you," I said.  "What do you know about brakes?"

He smiled.  "My specialty."

He had me re-fill the reservoir, and then pump the brakes.  He looked around at the underneath, and came up smiling.  "Yeah, the lines to the back brakes are split.  Easy fix - I can do it for you for about 140 bucks - huge savings on a shop."

I nodded.  "How fast can you do it?  I need my car to drive back and forth to work."

He paused.  "It's Friday.  I should be able to get the parts and have it ready for you by Monday.  I can even fix it right here in the driveway."

"Sounds like a deal," I said.  I was a little short of cash at the time, and a cheap repair sounded ideal. 

My next door neighbor thought I was nuts for entrusting my car to Driveway Guy, and told me so in no uncertain terms.  I told him I was broke, and if he could do it quick and cheap I was all for it.

"It's back brakes anyway," my neighbor said.  "You don't need them.  You want quick and cheap, just tie off the lines and do them right before your inspection."

That idea made me nervous, but so did the complete absence of Driveway Guy for the weekend.  He pulled in on Sunday, and I knocked on the car door.

"Oooooh...dude, right.  Ummmm...the lines are at a friend's house, and I had a really busy kinda day...so I didn't get a chance to get them.  I'll have them for you tomorrow."

I asked him if it would help if I stopped by a parts store and picked up the lines, and he said no, he's got them and it's ok.

In the meantime, however, I still had to get to work.  I quickly made a phone call to my ex/estranged/yeahitscomplicated wife, and asked if I could borrow her car for a few days.

She paused.  "Ummm...you can have it until Wednesday night.  I really really need it back then."

I also promised to run errands, and do whatever she needed done until then, since she'd be without a car.

Driveway guy was watching TV on his laptop when I came back down, and I told him I had a car until Wednesday.  "Can you get it done by then?"

He nodded.  "Sure, sure...absolutely.  Like I said, I can get the parts from my friend tomorrow, and I'll have it done for you most likely tomorrow."

This continued on for the next three days.  I'd get home from school, and Driveway Guy would have various laments, from needing to work on his own truck to the friend with the parts disappearing in a drug haze.  I spoke with a teacher at school about the situation, and he laughed at me for trusting Driveway Guy in the first place with my car.

Finally, I broke down and called a shop to find out what the cost of getting the brake lines replaced would be.

"About 85 bucks a line," the guy said, "assuming we don't find anything else wrong."

I returned the car to my ex, and finally gave Driveway Guy an ultimatum.  "Look," I told him, "You said you could do it quick, and it's been four days.  I had to give my ex her car back, and I'm having to take tomorrow off because I have no way to get to work.  By the end of the day tomorrow, I either need my car fixed or my key back so I can take it to a shop."

He nodded.  "Got it - I'm off to go get the parts now."

Late that night, I hear his car screech in to the driveway, and Driveway Guy and his girlfriend cursing at each other over something he was supposed to do for her, which apparently didn't get done.  There was shouting that continued on into the house, and door slamming.  I finally drifted off to sleep.

The next morning I woke up, and looked out the window to see my car up on jacks, but no sign of Driveway Guy.  I did some reading and catch-up work while waiting to see if Driveway Guy showed up, or thinking how to negotiate getting my car off the jacks with a tow truck driver.

He finally arrived, his car sounding much louder that in had before.  "Yeah, did a little bit of a speed run over dirt roads last night - Megan's not happy with me over it.  But I'll get your car fixed today."

All told, it took him about an hour once he had the parts.  He beamed at me when I came back down after the car was off the jacks.

"Rotated the tires for ya, too."  (Side note - tires needed replacement due to massive misalignment when I finally got rid of the car due to massive failure of, well, just about everything, four months later.)

"Great," I said.  "Will be nice to be able to stop the car again."

"So," he said, "that will be $140 for labor, and another hundred for parts..."

I raised my eyebrow.  "No, you never mentioned $140 being labor only."

He shrugged.  "Price it out at a shop."

"I did.  Yesterday."

We looked at each other for a moment, and then he nodded.  "$140, then."

I handed him the cash, and he handed me my key.  "Thanks," I said.

"Anytime.  You need anything else done on it, just let me know."

I tested out the car, and it seemed to work pretty well.  But when it developed a starter issue a few weeks later, I delicately asked the girlfriend's mother about how to handle Driveway Guy when he saw it on the tow truck.

"Fuck him - don't worry about it.  I was pissed you encouraged him by letting him fix it at all."

I nodded.  "Works for me."

He did give me a questioning look when the car wasn't in the driveway for a week (due more to waiting until payday to pick it up rather than the shop taking forever), but I ignored him.  It seemed the easiest way to handle it.

Though as it worked out, Driveway Guy was having issues of his own at that point, and it would only be a matter of a couple of months before...The Flight of Driveway Guy.

I believe you have my parking space...that is MY parking space...

People do get very possessive about their parking spaces, but here at my building they are all a little nuts about it.

Wendy parks in the front yard - there's no other way to say it.  Since I've been here, she's parked her big, red SUV right in front of the door.  It's one of the many issues I've had with the place, having to dance around the car to get to mine, the pulling in with blaring music that shakes the house...many issues.

(Wendy's placement of her car was also one of the reasons the Feng Shui person I'd talked to originally told me to move.  Apparently a big red SUV blocks the positive chi from entering the apartment space.  Who knew?)

Josh (when he had his car) and Dan (when he was here) would also park in the front yard over the path from the sidewalk, leaving three cars to chew up the front yard (which Wendy would constantly bitch about, but her car was fine).

So I just parked my car in my spot by the public path, which was okay, aside from my objections to having to dance around the big SUV in a regular way.

Today, as I was doing some yard cleaning, I had a revelation.  With Josh's car gone, and Dan's car gone with him to wherever he went to, the only cars regularly in the driveway were mine and the SUV.  Which was driven by Josh more than anything, since Wendy's been a very rare presence here in the past year or so.
So I foot measured Dan's old spot near the front of the driveway, and I found that my car fit without going over the pathway or the end of the driveway.  I then dragged back the markers for the end of the driveway, and waited for Kaitlyn to come back to explain my plan to her first.

I asked her if she'd heard of the concept of "chi" and energy flow, but it made sense to her after I'd explained it.  I told her that the car blocked positive energy into the apartment building, with the suggestion that with Wendy, it had been an intentional act.

Landon, their three year old, then dashed out of the house and into the yard.  I pointed out that it was also a danger to Landon, since Josh wasn't the most careful driver in the world, and Landon had recently become a runner in that crazy way only 3 year olds can be.  "Good point," she said.

Josh was driving down the road, and pulling into the driveway.  "Wait," I said.  "You'll feel the shift as soon as he pulls in."

He pulled in, and she looked at me with wide eyes.  "You felt it, didn't you?"

She nodded.  Josh looked at me from the driver's seat, confused.  "What?"

I pointed.  "Try parking in my spot."

He looked even more confused, but turned the car around and backed into my spot by the path.  He got out of the car, and looked at me.  He started twitching and looking at the bare spot in front of the house.

I could feel an actual shift in the house with his car in the driveway.  Call it crazy hippie stuff if you want, but it made a difference.

Not ten minutes later, I get a text from Wendy.  "That has been my parking spot for 11 years and I am not giving it up."

We chatted by text for a bit, and she told me that the plan is for both the boys to have their own cars in a month or two, and that she would be spending more time at home when that happened.  So it was a massive inconvenience to change the parking situation.

Of course, she also said that in January, and that hasn't happened.  She also told the landlord that she was moving at the end of June, and I have no faith in that either.

So my solution to the issue is going to be stained-glass style window film.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B001MYLEKS/ref=gno_cart_title_2?ie=UTF8&psc=1&smid=ATVPDKIKX0DER

I'm going to completely cover the kitchen window, and the lower parts of the living room windows.  I'm considering just covering the windows entirely.  This way, I don't have to look at the front yard at all (or across the street, which has their own issues), but can simply enjoy the stained-glass effect of the clematis.

Cutting off the outside world with faux-stained glass seems extreme.  On the other hand, the view out the front windows is nothing to write home about, even without discussing the disaster that is the front yard.  And adding to that the cars and the continued digging up of the yard...

So I'm ordering the full window treatments.  It's only been a couple of hours, and the big jeep is already back in the chi-grinding front spot.  Blocking it all out is going to be the only way I'm going to make it through the summer, I think.

Driveway Guy

So I've realized in all of the neighbor posts and Facebook statuses I've written, I've completely neglected the subject of Driveway Guy.  Mostly because it seems that the drama from downstairs is more than enough, and is the more ongoing and episodic, whereas Driveway Guy was more a constant than anything else.

Driveway Guy was Josh, the boyfriend of one of the girls who lives in the back apartment.  One day he just started showing up, and parking his truck in back of the house.  Big guy - about three hundred pounds, and significantly older than she was (she's 23, he's 33).  Scraggely hair and beard, and his smile was missing a few teeth.  Parking the truck in the back was happening because he was sneaking in through the window, since the mom didn't approve of him.

After a time, he started parking in the driveway in his truck, and sleeping in it overnight.  He'd run it for warmth, which was an issue because it was right outside my bedroom window, and he often had company in the truck overnight.  Seemed...very odd.

Especially after he traded the truck for a Honda Accord, and continued sleeping in it, and she started sleeping in it with him.  Both of them stunk, the motor ran all night, people going in and out of it, loud conversations...

I talked with Emily, the next door neighbor about him (lots of ways to describe him, finally settling on Driveway Guy), and discovered he'd been part of the huge meth bust in Leroy a few years back, getting a reduced sentence for turning in others.  (The bust was over 50 kilograms, and the top guy in Leroy refused to turn on members of the Rochester Hell's Angels, and got about 20 years for his trouble.  Probably wise.)

Apparently they'd been dating for a while before he went to jail (and before it was LEGAL for them to date each other, but that's another story...), and his parents had kicked him out of the house for some reason (he claimed over spending money), and he was now living in his car in the driveway doing...nothing.

Well, not nothing.  Wretching horribly, leaving piles of vomit by the door of my car, smoking a lot, and dealing...something.  I never saw what they actually dealt, and I did watch the couple of times they smoked in the car, to see if the pipe was brass (pot) or glass (meth).  As long as it was brass, I really didn't worry too much.

I did have my laptop stolen out of my car when I'd left it there for a half hour or so, and when I called the police about it, they asked if I'd moved there recently, since they'd never heard of me before.  (Big ol' sign that says MOVE NOW in smarter people.  Fortunately for your amusement, I'm not.)  They initially tried to blame it on Josh, the downstairs teenager, but I told them I didn't think he was that stupid (see previous post about being proven wrong), and thought it was either Driveway Guy or one of his customers, and I suggested they check in with him.

I gave a brief thumbnail of Driveway Guy to one of my students, and she told me I needed to move to the 'hood, since I'd at least have a shorter commute. 

So - that's the basic intro to Driveway Guy (also known as Driveway Josh, to differentiate him from Downstairs Josh.)  More stories to come, including Trusting Driveway Guy to Fix my Car, and the Flight of Driveway Guy.

Early crazy neighbor stories from another life

This is one of those stories I can’t believe I haven’t written down yet, but I’ve told several times to friends, always to some good laughs.  I have a long history of interesting neighbors, tracing back to my first Vermont apartment in Fair Haven.

(To sum up Fair Haven - I visited Middlebury, and ran into my old advisor, the legendary environmental writer John Elder.  On learning I was working at Castleton, he waxed on about the beauty of the area, and asked where I was living.  On hearing the response of "Downtown Fair Haven", he paused, bit his lower lip, and said, "Ummm...interesting choice...")

The apartment was the back “L” of an old house on Main Street – a two bedroom I’d rented in anticipation of my girlfriend moving out to Vermont when I got settled.  She, however, elected to stay in San Francisco for another year, so I had a big drafty apartment with cranky heaters (the one in the second bedroom I never turned on – had a nasty habit of going BANGBANGBANG rather than lighting, and I didn’t trust gas that much), and not much to decorate the place with.

I had two sets of neighbors.  The downstairs neighbors, Jim and Lucy(I think – don’t really remember), were a lovely couple I knew from the college where I worked.  He worked in IT, and she was a student.  Both of them were about 6’2”, and both of them probably weighed about 300 pounds each.  Very warm-hearted, good friends with a lot of the music and theatre people I worked with, and a joy.

The upstairs neighbor was the landlord’s kid.  He was in his early 20’s like the rest of us, but hadn’t been quite right since he fell off a ladder and hit his head a few years prior.  He’d been a decent sort prior, I’d been told, but became a raging asshole as a result of the brain rattle.  He still worked occasionally as a house painter, but mostly did nothing besides drink and throw loud parties at odd weekdays.

Parties included loud country music and line-dancing.  Billy Ray Cyrus’s “Achy Breaky Heart” was a wild favorite at the time, and they would blast it at 2 am while doing the “Achy Breaky” dance.  In boots.  Over and over and over, as I stared at the ceiling, willing them to stop in my mind.

Complaining to the landlord did no good.  He shook his head, lamented the issue of his poor injured son, and reminded both myself and the other neighbors we had signed year-long leases.  (I have never signed a long-term lease since.)

Occasionally the front neighbors would go up and bang on the door if it got really loud (the one time I complained it only resulted in the dancing getting louder), but mostly it was counting the months left on the lease. 

One May night, he threw an especially loud party, with the sounds of probably 30 people dancing and singing the “Achy Breaky” at the top of their lungs, or at least as best they could drunk out of their minds.  I’d drifted off briefly, the party noise being mostly background at this point I’d gotten used to, but this woke me up.  “Goddammit,” I muttered, looking at the clock.  Just after 2am.  Dammit.

Then suddenly – complete silence upstairs.  Total.  No music, no dancing, no voices.  Nothing.

Now I snapped awake, and sat up.  I could hear the refrigerator in the kitchen.  The hiss of the pilot light in the gas heater in the living room.  I had never heard this quiet before.

A slow, thumping walk down the outside stairs.  Then a pounding knock at my front door.

I stayed in my bed, and pulled the sheets up.  Nothing good can come of this, I thought.

The knock pounded again. 

I got up slowly, walked to the door, and opened it.

Standing there backlit in the moonlight, was Lucy – all 6’2”, 300 pounds of her – dressed in an open flannel bathrobe with nothing on underneath, flapping in the light breeze, holding a shotgun across her chest.

“Ummmm…..”

She smiled.  “Just wanted to let you know we won’t be hearing that crap for a while.”

My mind raced.  Shots?  No, I hadn’t heard…at least I don’t think… “Oh?”

She nodded, and showed me the shotgun, split and now clearly unloaded.  “Told them I was only bringing this up unloaded once.  And maybe they should just pipe the fuck down during Finals Week.”

 She smiled, and kissed my cheek.  “You have a good night.”  And with that, she walked down the path and back to her own apartment.

I sat at the kitchen table, trying a couple of shots of vodka first, then finally making coffee and staring at the clock until I knew the convenience store on the way to work opened.  I drove there, picked up the paper, continued on to work, and went over the classifieds for Apartments as soon as I walked into my office.

By the end of the day I’d called three apartments that seemed promising, and by the end of the week I’d signed on to an apartment on Lake St. Catherine (another two bedroom).  Oddly enough, my landlord had no issues with my breaking the lease at this point, and overpaid my security deposit by $100 without even an inspection of the place before I left.

“Thank you for all your…patience,” he said.  And with a handshake, that was it.

End of the calm

So this happened:

I went to Maine for four days over the weekend to help my grandmother celebrate her 90th birthday and visit family I hadn't seen for a while.  I brought Sam and Dante with me (Jess was possibly heading out of town and couldn't watch Dante), and we had a blast visiting family and hanging out with the cousins.

On Sunday afternoon at my brother's house doing the family Christmas, my phone rang with a Rochester number I didn't recognize.  I ignored it, as Sam was in the middle of opening presents at the time.

Checking the phone later, I realized it was Josh, the older teenager from downstairs.  He's been a lot squirrelly lately - his mom has been making noise about wanting to move out and buy a house and that Josh and his kids are the only reason she hasn't yet, maybe he should get off his lazy ass and get a goddamn JOB already since he didn't finish the GED, and no, she is NOT buying him a replacement for his car that broke down in Maryland and he sold for bus money to get back to NY.

Based on this, I could figure out whatever he wanted wasn't something I could fix in Maine.  But I texted him anyway, in case it was actually something urgent.

"I just wanted to know if I could use your firepit to burn a bunch of cardboard in the back yard."

Long-time readers of the blog will understand that the whole burning-in-the-backyard is a bit of a sore spot between us.  Or rather, a major sore spot that caused me to give the landlord notice not that long ago (go read my previous post if you want that background).  So I hesitated.

In that hesitation, I remembered my resolve to let go...remember it is a rental...yet not give explicit permission should he actually burn down the back yard.  So I gave what I felt was a good answer.

"I'm in Maine right now."

"O" was the text back.

Perfect, I thought.  He can do with that info what he will.  And I will check The Batavian for news about fire calls in the meantime.

I told my sister about the text exchange, and she raised an eyebrow at me.  "Ummmm...these are the crazy neighbors you tell stories about, right?  Do you REALLY want him to know you're out of state right now?"

I hadn't really thought about that.  "What's he going to do?"  Though I did have images in my mind of the door forced open for the rest of my time in Maine, racking my mind to see what could possibly hawked or sold, and wondering if the cat would get out if it happened.

Upon arriving home on Monday night at 10pm, I was so relieved to see the door closed and locked that I just brought in the stuff that immediately needed to be brought in, and passed out.  It was only the following morning (okay, afternoon - I felt a cold/flu coming on the whole trip back) that I looked at the door and saw the attempt.

Clearly, he hadn't gotten in.  My laptop was still on the table in plain sight, the school laptop still in the bag by the chair, and my power drill still in the hallway where I've been tripping over it for a week before I left.  (Really do need to move that...)  The screwdriver marks only go part-way up the latch, so clearly a fail.

I texted the landlord about the break-in attempt, and he called me right back.  Seems someone jiggled his side door handle Sunday night, and his girlfriend's son had been sitting on the stairs and happened to hear it. No one was there when the kid went to check.  He also wasn't going to call the police over it, but with my story as well he was now calling a friend of his on the force and most likely the friend would be over to look at my door as well.

The officer did come by and look at the door.  He was shocked someone would have come up my staircase to break in, and said that he'd look at the downstairs apartment door to see if there were any signs of a break-in attempt.  (There weren't.)  Asked if anyone knew I was gone for the weekend, and I told him the downstairs neighbor - a name not unfamiliar to the police in town.  He told me to keep an eye out for suspicious people, and that was about it.

At the suggestion of a friend, I went out this morning and bought a door guard to prevent another such attempt.  So now my door looks like this:

A great improvement, I think.  Actually even looks nice.  :)

It occurred to me later on what the connection was between my break-in attempt and the door rattle at my landlord's - that door leads to where my landlord keeps the keys to all the apartments.  So the little bastard was trying to sneak in and get the keys to my apartment, and went away when he found the door locked.  No idea if this was before or after trying to pry my door open with the screwdriver, but it really doesn't matter.

A part of me thinks I should be really worried about this - break-in attempt is pretty ballsy, and he's pretty desperate.  But I'm not that worried - this was low-hanging fruit, and I should never have told him about being out of state.  He's not going to put any actual effort into something like this, and I'm pretty sure he knows I know - I asked him if he'd seen anyone near my apartment and I got a quick denial of his having been here AT ALL this weekend...well, except when he texted me about the fire pit thing, but EVEN THEN he wasn't really here...

So I'm going to work on trying to catch up the neighbor stories here on the blog - I realize there are TONS I haven't written yet, and I have a suspicion things are going to get interesting around here again.  We'll see.

The end of the downstairs drama...for now.

I realize I haven't done a "neighbor update" in quite a while, so one is long overdue, especially since things are now quiet, and probably will be for a good long time.  So I figured I'd update how things have worked out.  Events may be moderately compressed and out of alignment, but this is pretty much how it all happened.

As I've mentioned before, I've spent a lot of time on the backyard, clearing out the brush, planting flowers and trees, and generally trying to make the place look good.  So over the July 4th weekend, I was a bit distressed when Josh (downstairs teenager) knocked on my door with a request to build a fire pit in the backyard.

"Ummm....no."  I paused, still trying to take it in.  "There's nowhere you can dig a good pit, it's against every single fire code in the village...it's a bad idea."

"Well...just come down and I'll show you where I want to build it."

Dan (downstairs father/husband) was standing at the spot, where Josh had already started digging with MY shovel.  A gas grill abandoned behind the house was now in pieces, with the grill part seated oddly in the beginnings of the hole.  Dan made the case that it was Oatka Fest, and Josh couldn't drink, and he REALLY wanted to have a fire.

I pointed out that the spot they'd picked was directly under a tree, and would spark the roots.  It was a bad idea, I said, on every level I could think of.

Dan stared at me.  "Boy wants to build a fire, though."

I sighed, knowing that logic and reason had no place in these discussions, only damage control.  I had been thinking about buying a fire pit and various other furniture, and I had just gotten my PD bonus that weekend.  "Tell you what - I'm going to go buy a fire pit.  Above ground.  I'll be back.  Don't...dig anything else."

So I drove to Batavia, going first to Home Depot, then to Target.  I got a fire pit, and an offset umbrella that was on clearance (in July - whatever, not questioning), and brought them back.  So Josh had his fire in the firepit, and I went out to the Oatka Fest with Dan (looooooong story on that one).

The following day, I bought a table set at Target I'd seen, but didn't have trunk space for the previous day.  Also picked up some tiki torches, and cleared out a nice little sitting area.

A truce of sorts was declared - Wendy didn't feel comfortable going into the back yard, so Dan and I would hang out in the backyard, playing guitar.  Josh would occasionally join us, and on one memorable occasion, Savannah (back neighbor) came down and joined us on saxophone. 

In the meantime, I was also working on clearing out some of the neighbor's back yard as well.  Barb, the next door matriarch, had a vision of creek access, and spurred on by the other neighbor clearing her yard down to the creek, there was a boom of activity.

Josh, I must add, also had his girlfriend move in, along with her THREE kids.  So he was spending a lot of time in the backyard with the fire.  And wanting to cut and split and otherwise break stuff, as is natural for an unemployed teenage boy who desperately wants an outlet.

Part of that outlet came from helping me with the bathroom renovation - another complete story unto itself.  But he helped me a lot with up and down stuff, other than what was (in hindsight) a major issue where I'd asked him to measure for a SharkBite connector and he'd instead just shoved it on there.  I cursed a lot, and Wendy was VERY upset I'd cursed in front of his children.  Knowing she'd dropped worse in front of the kids, I chose to ignore it.

After the bathroom was finished, I directed him as best I could with a good friend coming in to visit.  But he was antsy.  He wanted to chop and break stuff. 

Finally, I was heading off for a day to help with Sam's birthday party, and on my way out the door, Josh announced he was going to clear backyard stuff.

Knowing he wanted to use an ax rather than any of the useful other clearing that needed to be done, I told him to PLEASE check with Barb before doing anything, since she and I had talked and knew what needed to be done.  And with that, I went off to help set up for Sam's birthday party.

I came back from the party, and Josh announced he'd chopped up "that junk stump out back".  I raised an eyebrow, not coming up with any "junk stump" that was out back at all.  I went out back to check, and found that he was referring to the ornamental stump that Barb was specifically saving aside as a decorative centerpiece of her backyard.

Walking back up to the house, he was standing in the back yard with the axe.  "What?" he said, looking at my face.

"I asked you to do ONE thing.  ONE.  What was it?"

"You know, you can't talk to me like this.  I'm not a fucking child, man."

"I asked you to check with Barb.  And you didn't.  The one thing I asked you to do."

"YOU CANNOT TALK TO ME LIKE I'M A FUCKING CHILD!!!!!"

At this point it suddenly occurred to me I was having this conversation with a pissed-off teenager holding a double-edged ax.  Fast retreat seemed MORE than reasonable, and I abruptly retreated to my apartment.

Later that evening, the ax goes up into my apartment.  Dan agrees to take it away in his car somewhere the next morning.

A day later, I get a text from Josh.  "I'm building the fire pit.  Big-ass fire in the backyard, and you can't fucking say nothin' about it.  My backyard too."

I look out back, and see Josh dragging the grill to backyard.  I quickly text the landlord.  "Josh is building a huge fire pit in the backyard underneath the large maple tree.  I'm assuming you have an opinion about this."

Thirty seconds later Dan comes flying out of the apartment and down towards the back yard.  Lots of bad noise,and the grill is hauled back up in front of the basement door.  I had a text conversation with my friend Jenn (also known as the Voice of Reason) about all the drama going on, and asked me why I cared so much about a rental.  And that Josh had a point - his back yard as much as mine.

"But I've done so much work!" I said.

"Rental."

"But they're just pissing on what I've done."

"You want to buy the place?"

I laughed.  "Hell no."

"Then it's a rental.  And if it's pissing you off this much, walk away.  Cheap rent isn't worth the stress.  Move.  You should have done it years ago."

The following evening I'm walking Dante and I see the grill base, now painted bright red, parked in the backyard with a stack of wood next to it, and I feel a blind rage welling inside me.  I marched Dante toward the house, Dan sitting in the front yard half-crocked already.

"How's it going?"

I don't answer.  Slammed the door behind me.

Dante goes in the apartment and I march directly past Dan to head for the backyard.  "Dude, talk to me, what's going on?"

I hauled the grill up to the edge of the driveway, and dropped it by the curb.  Dan rushed up.  "Nick, he's just gonna haul it back down."

I shook my head.  "Tomorrow's trash day.  Scrappers will get it within an hour."

"Nick, come on.  You need to be reasonable about this."

And at that moment, I think back to everything that led up to this, most of what's happened in the past few years, and Jenn's words of wisdom.

"You're right.  I do.  I'm done."

Dan stepped back.  "What does that mean?"

"It means I'm done.  I've had it.  I'm finished."

I headed down the path, and pulled out my phone to send two texts.  First one to Josh.  "Go ahead.  Have your bonfire.  I don't care."

Second text to my landlord.  "I'm done.  I'll put it in writing later, but consider this 30 days notice.  I'll be out of the apartment by the end of September."

And with that, I directed myself toward the Smokin' Eagle to wait out the rest of the evening.  And a third text to Jenn filling her in on the situation.

My first Scotch arrived when I got a text from Josh.  "Don't talk to me."

I looked out the window, and saw him walking down the other sidewalk.  Did he know I was here?  Then I laughed - not like the boy can come in, right?

I texted back.  "I'm serious.  Have your bonfire.  Big and bright.  I really don't care."

Next text from Jenn.  "Not sure I approve of the Eagle, but tell me you're not texting the teen."

Damn, she's good, I thought.  "Not anymore."

"Good."

The next couple of Scotches go by with conversations with the landlord, (who I tell not to cut short his errands in Rochester to deal with the situation - I'm really just done with the situation entirely, and it's not a panic situation) and Jess (to let her know the situation and tell her to keep her ear out for cheap rent in the area).

Scotch Four arrives with the end of the conversation with Jess, and I realize this is the first text conversation I've had with her at the Eagle that hasn't involved me saying something stupid while drunk.  I consider this another victory (as Scotch Four definitely qualifies as drunk) and a sign I've made the right decision.

Another text from Josh.  "We need to talk."

I text back.  "Nothing to talk about.  I'm gone by the end of September.  Do whatever you want - I don't care."

I believe I may have had Scotch Six before going home.  It would certainly explain why the streets were tipping back and forth on my walk home.  (Note - one of the main reasons I patronize the Eagle: walking distance.)

The apartment house was remarkably quiet when I got home, with only Wendi standing outside the door smoking.  She said something to me as I staggered toward the door.  I believe it may have been "hi".  My response may have involved the words "go", "fuck", and "yourself", especially given the look on her face.

"What did I do?"

"What HAVEN'T you done?" I shouted back, staggering into my apartment and locking the door.  I turned on the stereo, called up The Heavy's "Big Bad Wolf", played it at top volume a couple of times, and headed toward the bedroom.

There was a knock on the door.  I stopped at the door, checked to make sure it was locked, and continued on to the bedroom to pass out.

The next morning (if 11:52 counts as "morning") I woke up with a ringing hangover, and found a letter from Wendi taped to my door.  It was a very sweet and touching letter about how she was frustrated with Josh's behavior, told me several things I didn't know, and also how she appreciated everything I'd done around the apartment and how she'd enjoyed having me as a neighbor.

Very sweet, I thought.  But I'm still out of here.

Tensions downstairs continued to mount.  I had a friend over for dinner, determined to enjoy the backyard oasis before I moved, and when I brought her over, Dan was hauling stuff out to his car.

I was determined not to get into a long conversation due to having a dinner guest, but he told me he needed a break from it all and was moving out for "a little while" to sort things out and see how that goes.  I nodded, wished him luck, and went upstairs.

My friend said she noticed a definite reaction to his statement of moving out for a short time, and asked me about it.  I didn't want too share my own memories of moving out "for a short time" three years ago, and wasn't sure I could put it into words.  "Ignore it," I said.

Turns out that was the case, as the day after Dan moved out for "a short time", his stuff started accumulating in the hallway as Wendi, her boyfriend (who I'd known about for years), and the kids started cleaning house.  Dan came to pick it all up a couple of days later, and we chatted on the porch of the neighbor's house.

"You got the crap end of the stick on this one," I told him.

He said he was better off out, and that he'd be back to hang out and play guitar.  That was months ago, and the only time I've seen him since was briefly as he dropped off divorce paperwork.

I told my landlord I was staying.  His quick response was "Thank God."

In the time since, Wendi and Larry (the bf) have done massive renovations to the apartment over the rest of August, but have been noticeably absent for most of the last month or so.  Neither her Jeep nor Josh's car have regularly been in the driveway for the last month, and Josh told me the last time I saw him that he was thinking of moving to West Virginia to live with his girlfriend's father.

The calm is...odd.  I'm enjoying it for the time being, and I've left out a lot.  (I realize my neighbor posts have not even TOUCHED the topic of Driveway Guy.)  I need to consolidate and truly write up the stories in the quiet.  Heaven only knows what happens next.