There Goes the Neighborhood!
The Bible says to love thy neighbor. Really! It’s batshit crazy to think that some neighbors could live in harmony, and just as there are dissonant chords, there are dissonant neighbors. Jimmy Bledsoe loves his dog, and his neighbor, Mark Orion, loves his lawn. What could go wrong with neighborly love?
Bandit was a ‘Coton de Tulear,’ a fluff glob of a dog — a shitting hairball. But Jimmy’s love for the mutt was beyond normal — perhaps bizarre. Every evening, Jimmy set a seat for Bandit at the dinner table with the proper placement of a napkin, fork, spoon, and wine glass. And after supper, a bath was set with lavender suds. Jimmy would sit in the tub with Bandit, scrubbing sebaceous oil off the dog’s fur.
“Daddy’s gonna make you shine, my boy.” but Bandit would only yap, which Jimmy mistook for acknowledgment. Yes, Daddy, the massage feels so good!
Jimmy, at sixty-five, had the image of Bandit tattooed on his chest from neckline to buttonhole. That was two years ago, but that act of art was the ultimate fait-accompli for his wife. She saw the tattoo for the first time when Jimmy jumped into bed naked. He had been looking forward to a night of love-making, but instead, his wife bolted from bed, flailing her arms.
“Shit, I’m not going to make love to your dog!” she said. She packed a suitcase that night. And as she was leaving, Jimmy pointed at his abdomen.
“At least he’s loyal.”
Mark Orion tended his lawn with the skill of a perfectionist. His goal was to make his backyard the most viridescent of all the backyards in the neighborhood. He was no naturalist; he wanted no ecosystem. He wanted the well-manicured, well-trimmed, portrait-perfect turf, not the naturalistic, scruffy sprawl. His lawn was all about vanity and not nature. A pristine property was a reflection of a spotless mind. One can only be the best when one looks the best.
Mark kept journals and farmer’s almanacs. He knew the growing seasons of every type of vegetation. He knew of the various pesticides and composting materials that would make the greenest even greener. He kept every piece of clutter away from his masterpiece. The shed was on the porch. His Harley, which he named Quinn, was at the far end of the driveway. Segregation was all matter of vanity, but the greatest betrayal to Mark’s turf obsession was his neighbor’s dog — that arch-nemesis, Bandit. A tunnel under the fence near the maple tree confirmed Bandit’s culpability. Patches had been appearing on Mark’s lawn like mysterious crop circles.
Why do dogs bury their shit? Or look for bones that aren’t there? And if they don’t complete the funerary task, I’d better pick the turd up before it burns like an ulcer. That nutcase, Jimmy, should train his dog not to shit on my turf.
Mark wanted to send a bullet into Bandit’s brain the next time he saw the dog clawing the ground, but he didn’t want to raise the ire of his neighbor. That dog was Jimmy’s life, and the loss would bring a psychotic response. Mark was sure of it.
But it’s my property — my valuable art form. And that dog is negligent along with its co-defendant owner.
One morning, while Mark sat at the kitchen table, the open window above the sink brought in the fragrance of freshly cut grass. That odor was a reminiscence of perfect lawn care, but what of the fragrance of freshly torn grass? Mark glanced out the kitchen window.
For fuck’s sake! That shithead!
Green blades cut the air like propellers. Clumps of sod shot up like surface-to-air missiles. Bandit just started the war.
Mark stumbled out onto the back patio with a broomstick. Bandit stopped digging, looked up, and sniffed the air. It stood motionless until its eyes met Mark’s. Then Bandit’s tail swayed back and forth as Mark rushed forward.
“I’m not playing with you, shithead!” Mark said. “Get the fuck off my lawn!”
Hunched over on forelegs, Bandit let out a series of yaps and playful growls! It darted left and right like a boxer avoiding the swings of the broomstick.
“You wanna play? Well, play with this!” Mark swung again, but missed.
Bandit’s barking alerted its owner. And Mark heard Jimmy’s screen door whack the siding.
He’ll get the stick, too, coming here!
Sandals flip-flopped amongst grumbles. Jimmy emerged from behind the fence, stomping the ground and hammering the air with a middle finger. His bathrobe was open, displaying the beloved tattoo.
Shit! Now I got two dogs destroying my lawn.
“Who you calling shithead, Mark?” Jimmy said.
“Shitheads, plural! Shithead numero uno, your dog for destroying my grass, and shithead numero dos, you, for not controlling your shithead dog.”
“And what about your Maple? Eh, Mark! You know how hard it is to get those maple seeds off my lawn? So Bandit gives you a little compost in exchange, and you complain? Tit-for-tat, eye-for-eye, we’re equal.”
Jimmy pointed toward his lawn covered in a carpet of helicopter seeds. It looked like an invasion force had entered a foreign land. The seeds were floating in his pool, and the cool breeze was taunting the whirligigs to invade the air conditioning, vents, and eaves. “If my pipes get clogged, and I get carbon monoxide poisoning, you will pay!”
“Then I say, good riddance, old man!” Mark said. “We won’t have to breathe the same air. And you can control your dog better than I can control the wind! Now, I want you and your trespassing shithead dog off my grass.”
Bandit pranced around, taking alternating nips and sniffs of Jimmy’s ankles. “You think you’re so tough, calling my dog shithead? Do you want to escalate it? I can escalate, but you’ll be the one, bruisin’ bad! Don’t push me, Mark! ’cause Bandit might just come back and nip your ass!” Jimmy picked up Bandit and held it against its clone. He stomped away, disappearing behind the property line fence.
The sun had been up for an hour when groggy-eyed Jimmy stepped onto his back porch wearing a housecoat wide open in the front. Even Jimmy’s boxers had an image of Bandit adorning them, with Jimmy’s protruding penis giving the appearance of an exaggerated snout. Jimmy unfurled the Sunday Times and lowered his sunglasses halfway with a cigar between his fingers. He took a long sip of coffee and remembered that he had let Bandit out to do his business a few hours earlier, but Bandit hadn’t returned yet.
“Bandit! Bandit!” — No answer. — “Come to daddy, Bandit!” Jimmy blew a dog whistle, and still, there was no prancing of paws nor the jingling of name tags.
Jimmy stepped off the stoop, trudging through a field of dew-soaked samara that conjoined with his bare feet, and clogged the spaces between his toes. He approached the pool with apprehension — and sighed with the relief that Bandit wasn’t swimming with the fishes. As Jimmy made the cursory walkthrough of his backyard, helicopter seeds from Mark’s maple tree spiraled down on his head, matting his hair. Jimmy swatted at the fruit as if they were winged insects. There was a swarm of them — No, an invasion force!–Jimmy thought about a battle his grandfather once fought in World War II, where the enemy littered the field with the momentum of invasion. But how do you defeat an attack of maple seeds when you clear the area one week to watch the hoard return the next?
Jimmy leaned over and peered into the opening of Bandit’s doghouse. No Bandit here! Only a bowl of kibble and a pan of water which hosted a pool party for some of the samaras.
As Jimmy rose, he slipped on the dew-laden ground and fell forward, landing on his chest. Jimmy felt a stabbing shoot up his leg. At that moment, he thought he had crushed Bandit. But it was only a clone — a copy that got destroyed.
“Bandit!, Where are you?”
Jimmy crawled through the field of helicopter seeds to the edge of the back porch. He rubbed ligaments in his ankle, which he was sure were stretched.
Fuck you, Mark! If you’ve done anything to my Bandit, I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!
Mark was up early that morning attempting to discover why his Harley, Quinn, wasn’t running as smoothly as before. He lay supine beside the kickstand working a bolt free when a rock smashed into and knocked off Quinn’s mirror.
“Wuh!” Mark sat up, eyes darting around for the chink of brevity that broke his calmness. He gazed down the lane toward the joining backyards; Jimmy was limping toward him, another rock in tow.
Beware the man with the blank stare, dilated pupils, flushed jowl, and biting tongue. It is a sign of murderous intent.
“Where’s Bandit? You bastard!” Jimmy heaved the rock toward Mark, who rolled from the trajectory. The rock smashed into Quinn’s air filter and ricocheted past Mark’s Skull.
Mark stood up, shaking his head. “Hey, old man! What’s the meaning?”
“You’ve got my dog, and I want him back!”
“I don’t have your dog, and I don’t know what you are talking about!”
“You’ve had it in for my dog, Ever since I got him.” Jimmy got so close to Mark that it looked like two Eskimos kissing.
“I never stole your precious Bandit. You have no proof, so don’t assume it’s me.”
“I don’t need proof. You’ve been bitchin’ about my dog forever! Didn’t you come after Bandit with a broomstick the other day?”
Mark chuckled. “Well, Jimmy,” he said, “if you ever get lonely, you can admire your chest in the mirror. Put some kibble in your belly button, so Bandit eats while he’s missing!”
“You, fucker! You makin’ fun of my tattoo? You wanna escalate? You want war.” Jimmy lunged at Mark; his face contorted with rage.
“Get Back, old man! Don’t mess with a man while he’s got a wrench in his hand!”
As Jimmy was about to nail Mark with a left hook, he stopped midway in the motion. Bandit was staggering down the road. But Bandit appeared smaller. It was the fur! It was shaved, spare for the head and tail. Jimmy knelt as Bandit leaped into his arms, writhing, tail beating, and yipping. And in its writhing, the dog exposed its underbelly. Jimmy gasped. A tattoo of a man was splattered from the nape to the gut of the dog. Bandit, in its excitement, was unfazed by the disfigurement, but Jimmy swelled up. He turned his head away from Mark, chest heaving in short jerky breaths. He was crying.
“What did you do, Mark?” he whispered. “What did you do to my Bandit?”
“I can’t explain. I…I don’t know. I didn’t do it.” Mark dropped the wrench. A knot formed in his midsection as he had never seen a man touched by emotional connection; Jimmy wasn’t an asshole after all — assholes don’t cry unless in secret, but Jimmy was crying in the open, now!”
Jimmy turned to face Mark. “As soon as I return from vacation, you will get a call from my lawyer. I’m suing you for the damages.”
“I don’t know what happened, Jimmy, and I am sorry, but I cannot explain this.”
“Be prepared!” Jimmy said. He limped away with Bandit’s wretched body squirming in his arms.
Two weeks later, Jimmy emerged from the taxi cab with his suitcase. A new tan obscured the tattoo of Bandit. And regrown fur covered Bandit’s ink. A unique and unexpected reveal struck Jimmy as the cab drove off. He glanced down his property line and wondered what had happened to Mark’s maple tree; It was gone. Did he cut it down? For me or vanity? Jimmy approached his backyard. Holy shit! Not a whirligig in sight! And his lawn was as pristine and clean-cut and shaven as Mark’s. And just as green. Oh, what, a Beauty! Jimmy thought. The invasion force retreated. Democracy won over the occupiers. Even Bandit concurred as he wandered the new field sniffing various spots in curiosity and lifting a leg occasionally.
Mark gazed out the window at his lawn, waiting for a call from Jimmy’s lawyer. It had been a month since Jimmy’s return from vacation. Still no call. Mark knew that he never stole Bandit. And he never tattooed him. But he knew the courts only needed a fraction of circumstantial evidence in civil matters.
Didn’t I chase Bandit with a broomstick? Didn’t I call the dog ‘shithead’? Didn’t I nearly come to blows with Jimmy? That could prove guilt even when I know I’m innocent.
If connecting dots always leads to a ninety percent likelihood, you can throw the other ten percent out the window. And who did take Bandit? Mark had no friends who were tattoo artists.
Now, only the ‘what-ifs’ exhausted Mark’s mind. What if Jimmy owed his tattoo artist money? What if his ex-wife was pulling a stunt on him? What if other neighbors in Jimmy’s past have had issues with the dog shitting on their lawns? Mark couldn’t answer any of the ‘what-ifs.’
Mark eyed Bandit coming from Jimmy’s screen door. It came trotting out to a corner spot on Jimmy’s side of the fence. There was a boarded enclosure filled with sand.
A dog’s kitty litter? My god! He’s trained his dog. Good!
And other questions came to Mark: Who cut down my maple tree? And who made Jimmy’s lawn look so much better than mine? Jealous, are we? Oh! Leave it alone, Mark. After all, aren’t we all neighbors?
