The New Neighbor

I mentioned in a recent post about my dog that I have a new neighbor. While I’ve already given away his dogs actual name, I’d really rather not mention him by name just out of (at least this much) respect.

To catch you up… the previous owner was the son of the people who had the house built. He was born in the house and actually died in the house, fifty-some-odd years later. His name was Tom, and he knew me my entire life, as I’ve known him. Sadly, just a couple of years ago, he passed away due to complications from surgery.

His house sat empty for a couple years until recently it sold and our new neighbor moved in. Since I’m going to keep his name secret, for whatever reason, I’ll just call him Dave.

Dave is a mid-twenties, single, tow truck operator. He was adopted in to his family, I believe, and he has some sort of mental condition where he believes about himself things he’s heard from others. In other words, his older brother was a Navy Seal, so now Dave was too.

At first I just listened to his stories and went along with them, because I know he can’t help it. I went through a lot with him.

He told me my previous neighbor’s son is the one who sold him the house. My previous neighbor, Tom, was never married and never had any kids. I know this because I’ve known the man my entire life. My grandfather built the house I live in now, so my family has been friends with Tom and his family since the dawn of man.

When I would say “But Tom didn’t have any kids…” Dave would respond with “He had one from his first marriage back when he was 17.”

It turns out the real estate agent who sold him the house is a Tom, so apparently they have to be related because they have the same name.

Dave also informed me that the son found his dad dead in the living room, having made himself dinner, put it on a tray, carried it into the living room, sat down on the couch and flop, over he went. Dave said that the son then said to him, “Well, you’ve died while eating, fat ass!”

Again, Tom had no kids. Second, he only ate at his kitchen table. For every meal. He would set up the table with the knives and forks and spoons all placed where they should be, for every meal, whether he needed those things or not. So, he wouldn’t have been found on the couch with his dinner on a tray. Instead, he died in his bed, upstairs. Lastly, he was never, ever, a large man.

Dave is full of it. Completely. He didn’t even buy the house, which he will say he did. His brother did, for him, so that he might be able to get his life going. All of the work taking place in and around the house is being done by the brother, although Dave will say he’s having it all done.

He leaves his lights on 24/7. All of them.

The day I decided I was done forgiving his “condition” and just wasn’t going to put up with his crap anymore was about a week ago. For whatever reason, he stays up all night long. I’m usually up most nights, so when I let Redd out to do his thing, I have to make sure Dave doesn’t have Xiba out, or I’m going to have to talk to him for a half hour while the dogs play, and I just can’t handle a half hour of his BS.

I had a long weekend at work. Friday night I had sliced the tip of my finger really good and it was bleeding hard. Because of where I had cut myself, I was banging it on everything. That night I had stayed at work until 3 AM, which I wasn’t happy about. I got no sleep because I had to pick Jen up from work at 7. As luck would have it, I nodded off just around 6:30 and woke up ten minutes later. I was late.

I jumped up from the couch, got my jacket on, and went out the door. Redd decided he was going to go into Dave’s yard to find the holy grail of Xiba pee and swim in it. I reached in my pocket for my keys and banged my finger on my cell phone.

Finger throbbing, running late, no sleep, and Redd in the neighbor’s yard. I wasn’t happy AT ALL.

I got to my car and started it, then turned around to get Redd. That’s when I noticed Dave standing on his porch. “So, you uh… warming your car up?”

This was a “here’s your sign” moment if there ever was one, but I was too pissed to think of one. I responded with “I’m in a hurry, I have to go.”

This confused him somehow, so he started talking to Redd, and then went to get Xiba from in the house to let her play with Redd.

That was it. That was when all the sympathy I had for him left my body. Even in his condition, he should have been able to understand that I didn’t have time for all that bullshit. What he should realize is that I don’t want to talk to him, ever, but I doubt he’ll get that message.

This is yet another reason why I want to live in the middle of a bunch of land with no neighbors in sight. Don’t bother me, and I damn sure won’t ever bother you.

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About Matt Roberts

I am an author of horror and things near it. I enjoy nightmares and bad B horror flicks.
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2 Responses to The New Neighbor

  1. joey says:

    You may remember I had a schizophrenic neighbor for years? He was a kindly man, and I was compassionate about his delusions, but there were times when I really struggled to play pretend, particularly when I was alone.
    I wish him well in his new group home, sometimes I even miss him and wonder about him — but I am freakin happy that he never rings my bell in the middle of the day to bring me worm-ridden apples or uncooked casseroles or any of the strange ideas that filled his head. I am freakin happy that I can walk my dog and not be exposed to his indecent exposure. I am happy he’s not around to confuse and scare my kids. I’m happy I don’t have to guess which side of reality I’ll meet when I exit the house.
    It’s important to be kind, but OMG it’s hard sometimes.
    I feel for you, man. I really do. For all you know, this guy’s just a jerk.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Matt Roberts says:

      Well no, he actually has some sort of mental disability. My mom spoke with his adoptive parents and they told her all about it. I’m glad your neighbor is getting the help he needs, hopefully. My neighbor is a far way off from getting any help.

      Like

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