Ned's mom will be here soon, so tomorrow I will write you about what we did all weekend, but I did wanna tell you about the creepy guy next door.
This neighborhood is pretty nice, and the houses are all from the 1920s and well-kept, except, of course, for the place next door. My gaylord, who of course likes things pretty, told us the people who own the house are in old folks' homes currently, and probably it isn't politically correct to say "old folks' home" and next thing you know I'll be whipping out the N word or saying "Eskimo pie" or something.
Indigenous person pie. Yes, ice cream man, I'd like an indigenous person pie. Say, why are you 47 and selling ice cream bars, anyway? You feeble-minded?
Okay, I am done saying terrible things. I like how I'm fine calling my landlord gaylord, however.
ANYWAY, the kids of the people next door can't bring themselves to sell the place, so instead it sits there with an overgrown yard and chipped paint and it's like we live next to The Munsters or something. "At least it'll be quiet," I said, because I always look for the silver lining. You don't? What are you, a psychopath?
The very first night we were there, this van parked there and the house had one tiny quiet light in it. Tiny and quiet, like a Chinaman's penis. Oh my god, NO ONE is going to read me after today.
The van parked there the next night, and the next, and we were struck by how he came in late, left early and turned on almost no lights. We wondered if he was some kind of squatter, and while we felt bad about turning him in and putting him on the street like a hobo, we also were kind of scared of him.
One night we were in our back yard and we heard him pull up. Like two old busybody hens, kind of like every woman who's stopped menstruating, we got up and crept to the wooden fence.
Okay, here's the creepy part: We couldn't SEE him. He got out of his van and opened the back door, we heared it, but we physically could not see him.
That's when we started calling the guy Boo Radley. "Boo's home!" I'd yell to Ned when I'd hear his car. Twice I crept to the window like a sneaky Injun, trying to see Boo, and twice more I'd hear the back door open and see nothing.
Yesterday morning we were putting things away, for a change, when Ned jumped up and ran to the front door. Boo was just leaving, and in the light of day there he was. He looked completely normal. "He looks like middle America," Ned said, dejected. He was a little older than us, gray hair, neat beard, regular clothes. He didn't look squatty at all.
And that's when we started calling him Bob Radley. I'd love to close with one more offensive reference but I can't think of one. My mind is blank. It must be the Polish in me.