That Time My Arch Nemesis Was a Seven -Year -Old Boy
He turned me into a curmudgeon who doesn’t want neighbors
His name was Lawson, and I felt a little bad for hating him. After all, it isn’t nice — or socially acceptable — to hate a child. You can get away with hating children in general, but one child in particular? That crosses a line.
But I had good reason. Hear me out, and I think you’ll agree.
The enmity between us began with little acts of mischief at first— him throwing trash in my yard, ringing my doorbell and running away — that sort of thing. Low-level hooliganism.
But then, one bright day, I saw that little fingers had written on my siding. Not with sharpie or paint or anything like that. My house was old, and the aluminum siding needed to be repainted or replaced. You could literally wipe away the paint, which was mostly a loose powder clinging to the house, with just your finger. Or, as Lawson discovered, you could write “shet” and “beatch.” He seemed to struggle with short “i” sounds. But he knew how to spell “mother” and seemed to have mastered the short “u” sound.
Oh, and he also wrote, “Lawson.” Brilliant boy.
His mother was mortified. She yelled at him, but that was really his only punishment. She wiped the words off my house, leaving smudges through which the aluminum was visible. I sighed.
I never did fix the siding. I was waiting for Lawson to grow up and move to college or some crappy apartment with a group of reprobate friends.
Life went on and time went by — as it tends to do. Then, one summer, the sky decided to withhold rain for a good, long time. The city government issued a “no burn” order because everything was so dry. The grass turned yellow and brittle. The shrubs at the corners of my lot just begged for a stray spark to set them on fire.
And somebody in Lawson’s young life decided to buy him some fireworks. Not the big, impressive, pretty kind. The little stuff you can buy legally in any Illinois Wal-Mart — sparklers and smoke bombs, that sort of thing.
I had just woken from a nap when I heard a strange crackling sound. Peeking through my front windows, I noticed neighbors in my yard.
And then I saw why — my shrub was on fire, the flames climbing high, trying to touch the branches of the tree that stood front and center in my yard. Someone had already called the fire department.
I felt like Moses, standing helpless and barefoot before the burning bush — except this bush was being consumed by the fire.
Lawson had thrown a smoke bomb in the air, and it had landed in my shrub. At least he had had enough decency to call for help. Help came quickly, and the fire didn’t spread.
The fire department put out the blaze. A police officer had a stern chat with Lawson’s mother — but he didn’t write her a ticket. Lawson was forced to apologize to me.
His mother paid to have the dead shrub removed.
Perhaps you think my hatred should have been aimed at the mother instead of the boy? Don’t worry, some of it was — after all, she had raised the little monster. But I also felt sorry for her. She was a single woman raising two boys on her own. She worked two jobs to support them, which was probably part of Lawson’s problem. His mother was rarely home. He was mostly left to the care of his older brother or his grandmother. One time, he was left in the care of a babysitter who looked like she couldn’t be older than 14. That was the day I witnessed him trying to burn down his own house. He was unsuccessful.
They were a loud family — and they liked to have their arguments outside for some reason. Maybe there was more room for a really good yell if they stood in their driveway and did it? For instance, the day Lawson’s mom caught him stealing money from her wallet — I got to hear the whole shouting match. It was both awkward and entertaining.
I sold my house and moved away during the summer that Lawson was 15. By now, he’s in his early 20s. Maybe he grew out of his delinquency? Maybe he matured into a decent person? It’s possible, I suppose. I’ll probably never know. In my mind, he’ll always be that awful child who used to vandalize my property from time to time.
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