People I Want to Punch in the Throat (7 page)

Dennis:
Sorry. Didn’t you see the rock when you pulled up to her house?

Jen:
What rock? What are you talking about?

Dennis:
The white rock in the flower beds by her front door.

I looked up, and sure enough, there was a large white boulder nestled into her flowers.

Jen:
I see it now. So what?

Dennis:
Wow. You have a lot to learn about this town. Didn’t your Realtor tell you? They all know that a white rock like that means you’re a swinger. It lets other swingers know they’re welcome. It’s also a warning to those who don’t swing. It lets them know to steer clear.

Jen:
Oh shit.

Dennis:
Well, now you’re stuck.

Jen:
No I’m not. I’m in the car. We’re leaving.

Dennis:
You can’t leave.

Jen:
What do you mean?

Dennis:
Her neighborhood is shut down. The cops put up barricades to control the crowds for the fireworks. The barricades are up. You can’t leave until the fireworks are over. You might as well go have a Jell-O shot and enjoy the display.

Jen:
How do you know so much?

Dennis:
Who do you think the sucker was when I was a newbie? Tell Elliot I said hello and that I would still like to buy him a swimsuit whenever he’s ready. Happy Fourth of July! At least this will be one you’ll never forget!

The Hubs joined me on the curb with a plate of food he’d made for me. He was right—the pasta salad
was
delicious. I showed him the text messages from Dennis. “We’re trapped,” I told him.

“Sounds like it.”

“Where’s the platter my eggs were on?” I asked him.

“I forgot it. I really don’t want to go back in there. It’s starting to get a little strange. I’ll get you a new one.”

“Okay.”

We watched the fireworks alone from the street and then headed home.

On Monday my deviled egg platter was on my desk. It was sparkling clean and a Post-it was attached:
JOSLYN
.

The Hubs and I have always had trouble making friends with our neighbors. We’re not total curmudgeons who yell at the kids to keep off our lawn, but we do let it be known that we’re never happy to find someone else’s dog shit on our grass, and we rarely walk over someone’s junk mail that was accidentally placed in our mailbox. I actually think that last one is very neighborly of us. Who really wants that mailer with the practically worthless coupons from the expensive dry cleaner? My neighbor should thank me for recycling it for him and then we can avoid the awkward chitchat about how I saw him watch his dog take a dump in my bushes last week.

We’re not very good at the niceties and the small talk that are required to be a good neighbor, so block parties and barbecues tend to be awkward. Our politics rarely jibe (we’re a couple of mouthy liberals living in the heart of red country), and we don’t give a shit about sports, especially college basketball and hypercompetitive soccer for young children, which are the favorites around here.

When we first moved to Kansas City, we bought a house that
was a huge compromise. The Hubs wanted a house with lots of mature trees, but this was Kansas. Our neighborhood was a cornfield two years ago. Trees are expensive, and homes with trees weren’t in our price range. We could afford bushes. I wanted something with character but not a fixer-upper. In the end we got a well-built beige cookie-cutter house without a tree in sight. It was in an area we liked and was close to my parents but not
too
close, it had a finished basement for the Hubs and his video games, and it had tons of beautiful landscaping for me to kill. It was in our price range and neither one of us hated it.

We met our next-door neighbors, Nicole and Matthew, right after we moved in. They seemed like people we could be friends with. Like us, they were young professionals and childless, which was rare in that neighborhood. We were surrounded by stay-at-home moms whose children kept multiplying. As much as I hoped we could be friends with Nicole and Matthew, it didn’t take us long to piss them off. Although theirs was a child-free home, they did have a dog. A big, friendly yellow Lab named Daisy. About a month had gone by when we ran into Matthew and Daisy at the mailbox one evening. I noticed right away that the fur on Daisy’s back leg had been shaved and she had an enormous scar running the length of her hindquarter.

“What happened to Daisy?” I asked.

“Oh, it was terrible,” Matthew said. “She was chasing a rabbit and jumped off our deck and fractured her leg in several places.”

“Oh wow. That
is
terrible,” I said. “Looks like she had to have surgery.”

“Yes, she did,” Matthew said.

“Your dog had to have surgery?” the Hubs asked. “That doesn’t sound cheap.”

“It’s actually a sore subject with Nicole. We had to pay thirteen thousand dollars for her surgery.”

“You paid thirteen grand for a
dog
to have surgery?” the Hubs sputtered.

Matthew looked irritated. “Don’t you guys have a dog?” he asked.

“No,” the Hubs replied. “We’re going to have kids.”

“Well, you can have a dog
and
kids, you know. And if you don’t have kids, your dog can be
like
your kid. No one would question this surgery if Daisy was our child. The Bonds—the family who lives behind us—they paid ten grand for braces for their kid, and that’s just cosmetic. Daisy was never going to walk again without this surgery.”

“Yeah, but she’s a
dog
. The Bonds’ kid is … y’know, a
kid
,” the Hubs challenged.

I could tell that Matthew was getting pissed off at the Hubs. I didn’t know what else to do, except dig our hole deeper. “So, Nicole wasn’t happy about how much it cost?” I asked.

“No, she wanted to put Daisy down.”

“Smart woman,” the Hubs said.

“Look, man, I’ve had this dog longer than I’ve even
known
Nicole, okay? This dog is far more loyal and loving to me than my wife. If she needs surgery, I’ll do whatever I have to do to get her what she needs.”

“A few months ago Nicole was telling Jen that you guys are thinking of moving in a year or so and she wanted Jen to list the house. She told Jen you were saving for a kitchen remodel,” the Hubs said.

“Yeah. We
were
. We had to use that money on Daisy. That’s why Nicole is so pissed. She’s so caught up in
stuff
. She doesn’t give a damn about Daisy.”

Never one to sugarcoat, the Hubs said, “Well, when you guys call Jen in to sell your house, I’m sure Nicole will be happy to remind you that your house would be worth about thirty thousand dollars more if you’d done the kitchen remodel instead of the surgery. Also? Daisy might be dead by then. She’s pretty old.” And there it was. The sentence that ruined any chance at friendship with these people.

When Matthew and Nicole put their house on the market a year later, I didn’t get that listing—and Daisy was still alive.

After a few years and the birth of our first child, we decided it was time to find a house we loved. After our experience with Matthew and Nicole, I’d accepted the fact that the Hubs and I were never going to become besties with the family next door. We were never going to get together with our neighbors on nice evenings to drink cold beverages or while away the afternoon together at the neighborhood pool. It just wasn’t going to happen for us. We’re offensive and we know it and we can’t help it. So we focused more on the house than the neighborhood. After a few weeks of hunting, we found it: unique (no cookie-cutter suburban house for us this time around), lots of trees and character, an open floor plan with four bedrooms and an eat-in kitchen on a cul-de-sac within a mile of a highly ranked elementary school and less than three miles from SuperTarget. Our own little slice of heaven!

We had just moved in when one of our new neighbors came over to welcome us to the ’hood. They brought their young children with them as well as a loaf of homemade banana bread. After exchanging pleasantries about the house (“Yes, we love it. Yes, we painted it, put in new flooring, and upgraded some of the light fixtures. You’ll need to come in for a tour sometime once we’re not living out of boxes anymore.”), I was beginning to
think maybe we’d put our bad-neighbor karma behind us. Maybe Matthew and Nicole were a fluke. Maybe the banana bread people would be different. I found myself imagining what it would be like to borrow a cup of sugar from these people or carpool to school someday. I let myself dream of a friendship that might be.

And then the wife asked, “Do you have children?”

“Yes. We have a baby boy. His name is Gomer. He’s seven weeks old,” I replied.

“Oh. How wonderful. You’re just getting started!” the husband exclaimed.

“How old are your kids?” I asked.

“I’m four!” the little girl said loudly. Her parents smiled adoringly at her. (She
was
pretty darn cute.)

“Four is so big! Do you go to school?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m in preschool.” Her parents beamed.

“Wow, that’s impressive. You must be learning a lot,” I said.

“Yes. I know all of my colors,” she said proudly. Her parents swooned.

Don’t get me wrong, I was—and still am—very much in love with Gomer, but this was too much.

“And what about you?” I asked her younger brother.

“I’m four, too!” he cried, holding up three fingers. The preciousness of it all was almost too much for his parents, who practically keeled over.

“Hmm … are you sure?” I teased him. “You’re four, too?”

“Yup!” he said, overjoyed. Dad’s chest just about burst open with pride.

“Well … if you say so,” I said.

“Oh, buddy, you’re so funny,” his dad said. “Tell them how old you really are.”

“I did! I’m four!” he said, stomping his little foot.

“Nooo,” his mother said. “You’re …” She waited for him to fill in the blank.

He just glared at her.

“I’m four! I’m four! I’m four!” he screamed.

My visions of carpooling dimmed. I wasn’t so sure I wanted this kid in my car. He was becoming a bit obnoxious, and frankly, I was bored with him. I didn’t give a shit how old he was. I wanted to go back inside and try the delicious-smelling banana bread without this kid ruining it.

“I said I’m four!”

“Okay, okay. If you say so, buddy,” his dad said. He smiled knowingly at us. “Just you two wait until you get one like this. ‘High-spirited’ is the word his teachers at Moms’ Day Out use. He’s such a blessing, though. Oh, and he’s really two.”

“Ohhh,” the Hubs said, crouching down to the boy’s level. “I get it. You’re not four. You’re … a
liar
.” The Hubs spat the word “liar” with so much vitriol and disdain, it was like he was a lawyer in a murder case accusing the defendant instead of a grown man talking to a two-year-old fibber.

Everyone was silent for a good thirty seconds while the little liar’s parents stared in horror at the Hubs.
Maybe they’ll laugh
, I thought.
Maybe they’re really witty and they can see that the Hubs isn’t an asshole, he’s just a guy without a filter and the best way to shut him up is to laugh when he says stupid things
.

“He’s not a liar. He’s
two
,” the dad hissed. “He doesn’t know
how
to lie.”

Nope. Not gonna happen
. I kissed driveway happy hours and barbecues goodbye and realized I would need to make that banana bread last, because I was never going to get another loaf.

I was a work-at-home mom when my son, Gomer, was born. I had left my job selling office equipment to start my own real estate team. This decision was thanks partially to the Fourth of July swinger party fiasco. I just couldn’t stop seeing Maryanne’s itty-bitty bikini every time we passed each other in the hallway. I’d been working hard to build my own team for a few solid years before Gomer came along. So within weeks of his birth, I strapped on my BabyBjörn and hit the listings.