My neighbor sucks. He’s the top dog of the HOA, a syndicate of retirees obsessed with my house. When he’s not gardening, he’s patrolling the sidewalks, studying the HOA handbook, or up my ass about it. My windows are wrong. My trees are wrong. My mailbox is stuffed with fines.
Days after bringing home another screaming baby, there’s a knock on the door. It’s my neighbor. Maybe he brought a care package. I love free stuff, but I want to get this over with.
“The new sprinkler system doesn’t cover that patch of grass by your driveway. The HOA needs it watered so it doesn’t become an eyesore. Twice a day, please.”
Dude. I have a fresh-out-the-oven newborn and another kid to keep alive. I don’t even water myself. Why am I paying HOA fees if I’m still doing the landscaping? You’re already out there with the hose all day—just spray a little to the left.
***
Deep in the clutter of my red JanSport diaper bag, the vinegar stink of a rotting banana reminds me that I left it there a month ago. Black mold has colonized the leather bottom. I try dish soap. Laundry detergent. I can’t let the banana win. I fill a Home Depot bucket with concentrated bleach and soak it overnight on my back porch.
The next morning, I fish out my backpack with grill tongs. The mold is gone.
Now I have five gallons of toxic chemicals to dispose of. I do most of my virtue signaling around the environment. I can’t just dump it after watching it annihilate the mold. And it’s heavy. I’m not carrying it more than five feet.
I could let it evaporate. Does bleach even do that? I could dilute it, but that’s a lot of work.
Then I saw the bush—my neighbor’s perfectly manicured bush. What a shame if it became an eyesore?
I pour the bucket over the fence. Direct hit.
I want to watch his plants die. I want to watch him watch his plants die.
***
I hate to report that the bush is perfectly fine.
At the time, I was too pissed off to think straight. Pollution and plant murder felt justified. I did other stupid stuff I’m not proud of.
A better man would ask if my neighbor is struggling, if he hates living next to a punk-ass anarchist, if he has a secret nice side. Not me.
Have I had coffee? Is my kindness deserved? What do I get in return?
Some days, the sun’s out, the kids are merciful, and that’s enough to stay on the line for a brief survey and drop five stars. Other days, everything sucks, some idiot transfers me to the wrong department for the fifth time, and I tell him I can’t wait til AI replaces him.
I’m less interested in being “good” than honest. If I’m too nice, I feel like a sucker. If I’m too mean, I get this annoying conscience. So I can manage being one percent less of an asshole to my neighbor—a tiny start that makes me better while honoring the petty man-child within.
Here’s my one percent: when his package landed on my doorstep, I handed it to him.
I didn’t pee on it first.
