I Miss Enos- Part Two

Enos was not the ideal neighbor. He was a putterer. This in itself is not a sin. You'd expect a man of a certain age, one who enjoys his power equipment, to putter.

Every puttering episode took a full day. It started with the radio. He'd being it outside and tune it to the light jazz channel. I like jazz. I'm a great fan of J.J. Johnson, Diz, early Miles, the Desmond/Brubeck quartet, Sonny Rollins... but Enos's music was jazz in the same way Pat Boone's was rock and roll. That is to say, it wasn't.

Once Enos had forcibly changed the neighborhood ambiance into something like the cereal aisle at Hannaford, the serious work could begin. No matter how small the project, Enos began by taking everything out of his garage and lining it up neatly on the driveway. Everything. Boxes, toys for Keenan, lawnmowers- yes, plural- snowblower, EVERYTHING. Then he found the object he needed, like a paint can or a bottle of weed killer, did the job, and put everything back in again.

I'm quite sure that he thought ahead to his next project, and put the things he'd need at the back of the garage so he'd be able to perform the same ritual next time.

Since he was home on disability, the puttering wasn't confined to the weekends. Emjay would call me up at work sometimes.

"He's doing it again!"

"What is it this time?"

"I think he's waxing his van."

"Everything out of the garage?"

"Everything. Why does HE get to pick the soundtrack for the neighborhood?", she'd complain.

"Play some opera."

"Oh, sure, if that wouldn't be the perfect crazy white lady response. And you're the one who likes opera."

"Play your music then."

"I'd still be able to hear Kenny G. That might ruin the Cowboy Junkies forever," she'd sigh.

All day, every day sometimes when the weather was nice. Puttering. Shuffling along at middle-aged disability speed. With happy sunny major key dreck that some apostates call jazz.

But of course, he was keeping the house up. And Enos was a lot of things, but he was no meathead.

One day his lawsuit for the disability was settled. I found out when I saw him and Jill on their porch, having a meeting with a financial planner. In a week, he'd bought a place in Florida. In a month, he'd sold out to a couple who live in California, and the place was rented.

It went to a group of women graduate students first. We had a noise problem exactly once, on someone's birthday. After that school year, the first meatheads came. Then more, then meathead subletters, then still more meatheads.

I miss puttering. I miss Kenny G. I miss Enos.

This post is Mostly True.

I didn't know Meatheads were in season already

Last Friday I saw Hellboy2 with a friend. The street was unusually noisy on the walk home. At least 3 of the lovely Adirondack style porches on my block had been usurped by beer pong tables. I noticed, to my horror, that one of the parties was at the house next door.

It was late, so the kids were in bed. Emjay had left a cheerful note for me on the computer. I went upstairs to find her.

She was on the balcony porch attached to our bedroom, smoking a cigarette.

"Where did you get that?" I asked.

"I had one left over from the Christmas party."

"It's still summer. I didn't know meatheads were in season already."

"If they wake up the kids," she said, pausing to take a drag, "I will kill them."

I went to get some cigarillos for me, a glass, and the bottle of Maker's Mark. I came back just in time, as Emjay's glass was empty.

I poured the bourbon and lit my cigar. We were on a second floor porch in the back of the house, and they at ground level in the front, so we had some good distance from the noise. Still, it was loud.

I looked up from my drink to see a meathead in the driveway next door. I guess he thought he was in a secluded spot. He unzipped and started pissing in the middle of the driveway.

"Dude, you are a fucking pig!" I shouted down. He looked up, surprised, and ran back to the front porch.

We smoked and drank for a while, cigars and bourbon looking down on Keystone Light.

Another meathead went behind the house to piss. Dick in one hand, cell phone in the other.

"Excuse me! I can see you!" Emjay shouted, "You're going to have to clean all this up in the morning, you know!"

"Chill," he said.

"Did you just tell my wife to chill? Do NOT make me come down there and go all Benjamin Linus on your ass!"

That confused him. He retreated to the front porch, muttering on the phone.

"You can't sound like the crazy old lady next door," I told Emjay, "You need more edge. Belittle them. Question their manhood."

"I can do that," she said.

A shirtless meathead staggered into the driveway, turned and puked into a gabage can. Emjay stood and leaned over the porch rail.

"Learn to hold your liquor, you pussy!"

The meathead looked up. There was Emjay in all her beautiful fury, cigarillo in one hand and bourbon in the other. Shame, eternal shame. Totally owned.

When we'd had enough, I got the mag lite out and put new batteries in it. I got the tactical baton out of the drawer and put it in my pocket, in case I did have to go all Benjamin Linus on someone. Then I thought better of it, and handed the weapon to Emjay.

"Who do you think I am, Locke?" she said.

"I'll be right back."

I went down to my front porch and walked to the edge. I turned the light on them, holding it up above my shoulder the way cops do.

"We're not going to have a problem, are we?"

"Huh? Whaddid he say?" a girl asked.

"Let's go inside," one of the meatheads said.

"What did he say to you?" the girl asked- the tone that means, 'are you going to take that?'

Apparently, he was going to take that from me and my big scary flashlight. They went inside, and as far as I know they were quiet the rest of the night.

This post is Mostly True.