Like Rockwell

Since moving last August, my seemingly quiet little neighborhood has grown increasingly strange. I am constantly stunned at the unnatural occurrences springing up all around me. I can’t even raise any concerns to my neighbors. They are not exactly the talkative type. When I try to express some basic neighborly pleasantry - saying hello for instance – suspicion clouds their eyes. Behind their eyes I can see them sizing me up, trying to figure my grift. Usually the only interaction occurs when I assure them I am not a college student, and I have a perfect right to park in the street because I live there. This is usually followed by them following me with their eyes all the way back to my apartment practically muttering “Damn uppity college kids” under their breath.

So, my neighborhood is strange. First, it was the invasion of children which I covered in an earlier post. Then there was the invasion of kittens. Yeah, you heard me. Kittens. Everywhere. It was terrible. It was adorable. It was terribly adorable. It was like that tribble episode of Star Trek. Of course, I can’t exactly say I didn’t see it coming. It is a natural progression from the loud, freaky cat sex that was happening on the street a few months ago. Now, that was terrible and in no way, shape, or form adorable. What’s the difference between cat sex and cat fighting? Nothing as far as I can tell. They’re both loud, piercing, and violent. I can’t tell you how many times I could only get to sleep after assuring myself that “It’s ok. She likes it.”

Now, I’m being watched. I returned from work to my ever so humble abode the other day and noticed some strange little stickers on the crappy little house next to mine. These stickers claimed that this house was being protected by Homeland Closed Circuit Security or some such nonsense. At first I thought this was just a clever ploy. You know, how I used to have an NRA sticker on my car even though I’m not a member: Just to keep the bastards from trying. Yet, when I scanned the house sure enough, my neighbor – who lives in the crappiest little house around – has security cameras all over his house. And the worse part: One of them is trained right on my door. This guy is watching me.

Now, I’m a simple, honest guy. I’ve nothing to hide. Still, I don’t like the idea of being watched by some stranger who won’t even return a simple hey-wassup head nod. I can just picture him, sitting in ragged underwear in his command center, watching me come and go. I know this is what it’s like. I just do. Whenever I picture someone spying on me they’re in their underwear, and no, I don’t think that reflects more on me than the other guy. Of course, there is the even more unsettling question of what this guy in this rundown house is hiding, but I prefer not even to consider this for fear of actually finding out.

I don’t know what to do. I’ve already begun recognizing the cameras. I wave. I give a big thumbs up. I pull up the edge of my shirt just a tad to tease him with my body. You know, innocent stuff. I think I want to move onto bigger stunts. I want this guy to see me bringing in and out of my home the strangest stuff imaginable. I want to get inside this guys head. I want him to think I’m the odd one. I want to bring increasingly large objects out of my apartment. I want to be constantly unloading couches. I want to pull out couch after couch. The trick being that – somehow – I make it so he can never see me bring the couches into my apartment. I want my apartment to be a magical wonderland to him, a bottomless well of over sized furniture. After, I am done with the furniture, I shall move on to odder objects: Most likely animals. At first, I’ll be seen carrying out mice and gerbils. Eventually, I’ll be leading out horses. Finally, a herd of American Buffalo will emerge from my apartment. That should freak out my neighbor sufficiently.

So, if anyone knows where a man can acquire a herd of buffalo, give me a call.

Shalom