My Neighbor Jerry

[Blogger's note: The piece below originally appeared in the December 26, 2018 issue of The Fort Worth Weekly. Since I was never quite happy with it, I kept reworking  it. This is, I hope, a final version.]

    After I texted a woman down the street that my next-door neighbor, had died, she wrote back, “The grumpy guy?” Yes, the grumpy guy.

      My neighbor Jerry was the quintessential Trump-loving, angry, old, white, working class male – profanely belligerent, proudly politically incorrect, and decidedly racist. And without a doubt, he was the worst neighbor I've ever had. That said, in the past few years, as his health began to fail, we became friends of sorts.

      About 14 years ago when he first moved in, he came over to introduce himself. He told me he was moving from Meadowbrook because it was getting a little too dark over there, “if you know what I mean.” Then if that wasn't enough, he went on to explain that he wanted to be a good neighbor, so I needed to tell him if he did anything wrong. All that left me scratching my head, but, in retrospect, I should've smelled trouble coming.

      It didn't take long. After a few months of relative peace, it became clear that Jerry was a week-end drunk and not a nice one. Because he was spying on some neighborhood teens who were partaking of drugs, he asked me to turn my porch light off. I complied, but one time I forgot and did he tear into me. I explained to him that neighbors don't talk to each other that way,. His response was to double down, dropping f-bombs like a rap star. After that I made damn sure to leave my porch light on.

      Of course, it wasn't much later when his demeanor shifted again. Suddenly, he was all smiles and good cheer. Turned out, Bell Helicopter had laid him off, so he needed to borrow my computer to file for unemployment. I was glad to help, but, as my Daddy used to say, no good deed ever goes unpunished. While hunting and pecking, he noticed the “No War in Iraq” stickers on my file cabinet. It was now confirmed. I was one those anti-American subversives Fox News had warned him about. And from then on, living next door to him became a living hell.

      One of his favorite modes of harassment was to wait till almost midnight then rev up his Dodge Ram truck, his twin glass packs hardly muffling its 318 cubic inch engine, and make our south bedroom windows vibrate like his dual chrome tailpipes. I often had to call the police on him. But one Jim Beam drunk night, he called the police on himself. I'm serious. Cops came over, asked me, what the hell? “Man, that dude's just a few fries short of a Happy Meal, ain't he?” shared one of Fort Worth's finest.

      But the years of belligerence and drinking finally took their toll. About five years ago, Jerry's health began to fail. One day Smoky his German Shepherd got out. Since Jerry was in no shape to chase it, another neighbor and I corralled it. After we returned his much beloved dog, Jerry shook my hand and thanked me enthusiastically. It'd been years since we'd had a civil conversation.

      At the time, my late wife thought our rapprochement a God-send. I wasn't sold it on it myself. But after she died, and Jerry's health continued to decline, I tried to help him, rationalizing that she'd have wanted it that way. I did all matter of things I thought I'd never do. I called ambulances for him. During his frequent hospitalizations, I mowed his yard and picked up his mail. I even lifted him off the ground a couple of times. No easy task, since Jerry was, even in ill-health, a big guy.

      Yet as much as I'd like to wrap this up in a pretty bow and make it a feel-good story of our politically polarized times, I can't quite do it. With his health in decline, Jerry surely mellowed, but he was never an angel. Not many months ago, he bragged how he'd cussed out a young pharmacy tech because of some perceived misstep, while at the same ragging on one of drinking buddies for getting his panties all in a knot over something Jerry'd said.

      But I can't stop thinking how during the past few years, he'd call me “bud” when we talked. I don't know if I really was much of a friend to him. One thing I do know is Jerry wasn't just the grumpy old drunk on our street. He was more than the angry white man people saw from the outside. Like all of us, he had some good in him. I hope he now gets the peace he never quite got in life.