FRESH YARN PRESENTS:

Have You Hugged Your Considerate Neighbor Today?
by Barbara Weber

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We went through this charade almost weekly at one point.

And the police show up just as often, but on different business. Judging from the traffic over there, we hypothesized that if you taped that family's rap sheets together, you could wrap an island and give Christo a run for his money. Yes, we've become jaded. It's a sad state of affairs when you turn the corner of your street to find police cars parked in front of your house, and your heart doesn't miss a beat.

Adding to the serenity of our household is the hollow plywood skateboard ramp the lads hobbled together to grace the middle of the street. Of course, the best way to approach the ramp is by starting in front of our house and kicking their boards along like mad flamingos. Ad nauseum. The faster you go, the louder you land, as they say. Want to finally sit down on your front patio with a cold one and enjoy the plants you spent your entire Saturday bedding? Krrr-Krrr-Krrr-THUNK-BAM! Want to sip coffee and read the Times quietly with your sweetie on a Sunday morning? Krrr-Krrr-Krrr-THUNK-BAM! Want to have your parents over for hors d'oeuvres so they can enjoy your peaceful fountain after facing life-threatening illness? Krrr-Krrr-Krrr-THUNK-BAM!

Other snippets from the must-see Suburban Terrorist highlight reel would have to include the lively game of hit-the-power-lines-with-the-football, the indoor pyrotechnic display, and the long day they converted their gate into a Disneyland ride, swinging wildly on it until the fence post we shared headed south and our gate became unusable.

On the bright side, ne'er-do-well-son and his ex-wife provide such good entertainment, we cancelled cable for a while there. She routinely drives up to the front of Amityville West where he stomps out to meet her and they proceed to act out refrains from the worst country songs one can imagine while her junker idles. She must have a thing for idle junkers. Their marital travails are broadcast for the neighborhood audience at large to enjoy, and sometimes, as a parting gift, we all get free tickets to their wee hours encore performance, too.

But, to be honest, the Darwin Refuters are in good company in our little corner of the world. Also in our vicinity is a man who insists on parking his truck on his front lawn and has elevated yelling-as-the-primary-form-of-communication to an art form; the stucco contractor who chains his cement mixers to a phone pole in front of his house; and a family who has converted their front yard and the street in front of it into an outdoor showroom for hollow, rusted automobiles from the Eisenhower era.

And let's not forget the tribal-tattooed, belly-shirted, twenty-something couple who live behind us. Bless their hearts, they have embarked on a solitary campaign to prove that disco is, in fact, not dead. Mandatory music appreciation hours usually start at midnight, and don't fret if you live a few blocks away, believe in the awesome power of woofers and tweeters, pagans. Up until now, we've done our Buddhist best to resist cuing up our Steve and Eydie CD and firing a volley of This-Could-Be-The-Start-Of-Something-Bigs over the back fence during these sessions, but the day is nigh.

There are also anonymous benefactors to our community beautification effort whose selfless contributions cannot go unheralded. One angel docked their fishing boat on our street for weeks, finally marking their departure with a flourish by dumping a large pail of ripe chum at the curb. Then there was the stealthy soul who heaved an expired hot water heater into our rented construction dumpster in the middle of the night. And how about that tall, dark stranger I surprised while he was smearing his wandering dog's manure into our trash can with a philodendron leaf.

Friends who lived in the house across the street from Amityville West grew so weary of having the Munster aesthetic force-fed to them day in and day out, they sold their house and headed to the promised land, Anywhere But Here. Chris and I have engaged in many a wistful conversation about the logistics of divorcing our beloved house from its slab, and wide-loading it over to Eden, but we love a few of our neighbors and like a few more than that. And we would miss out on the characters such as the elderly lady who steals fruit from people's trees and uses it in her baked goods, which she tries to sell to the unsuspecting raped-tree owners. Or another enterprising woman who surreptitiously steals plants from front yards then sells them on the sidewalk for 10 bucks a pop. Then there's the gentleman who has Beatles CDs hanging from his trees, the woman who strolls the avenue with a toothbrush dangling from her mouth, and the peacenik gardener who creates political statements out of junk and hand-painted signs. And last, but certainly not least, the intriguing/terrifying duo who cruise the streets side-by-side on motorized Rascal scooters, dressed in full clown regalia.

Maybe we belong with our tribe. Sleepless nights are a small price to pay for this kind of camaraderie. Five years from now we just might still be gritting our teeth in this very living room. As for the Darwin Refuters, last week as I was investigating the piercing screeches of the youngest seed's new electric guitar, I found the cap to a can of turpentine lying in our side yard. Hey, maybe they're going to finish painting!

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