[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.
