Tag Archives: neighbor

2087. Loud car

(Warning: This story contains swearing).

Archie worked the night shift. He would arrive home, and after messing about a while would go to bed. He would almost always instantly fall asleep. At least he used to instantly fall asleep. These days the neighbour’s nineteen year old son had a souped-up car, complete with removed muffle.

Just at Archie’s point of sleep every morning the car would start up. The youth didn’t simply start the car and drive off. He would rev it up and rev it up and rev it up. Then he’d go for a quick spin around the block, leave the engine running, and wouldn’t depart for another five minutes or so. By this time Archie was livid.

 Archie had had enough. He leapt out of bed, got dressed, and went over to confront the nineteen year old neighbour.

“I’m trying to get some sleep,” said Archie, “and you have that ****ing noisy old bomb with no ****ing muffler. I work during the night, and honestly it’s driving me ****ing nuts.”

Well, Dear Reader, you know jolly well what modern youth are like. His response is not going to be recorded here. It could be given, there’s no rule about it, but you can imagine it for yourself, and I dare say you won’t have any trouble imagining it. In fact, your imagination is possibly more vivid than what the youth responded with.

Oh blow it! What the heck! I shall say it anyway! That typical nineteen year old youth responded to Archie’s complaint with: “Oh I’m terribly sorry, sir. I had no idea. If it’s alright I’ll fix it when I get home from work this evening. Once again, I apologize.” He shook hands with Archie. Archie thanked him and went back to bed.

Modern youth.

2071. Chuff chuff

Reginald was a model railway enthusiast. He had joined together two large tables in his attic and had thus far laid out a rail system for his three model trains. Over time he would add buildings and landscapes. Perhaps he would purchase them, or perhaps he might even learn to make some of them himself.

He loved to show off his trains and Humphrey, the new next door neighbour, was coming over. Would you believe? Humphrey had done a course on making model landscapes. He had trained as a garden designer. He’d gladly make Reginald buildings and landscape to complete things.

“It’s something I really enjoy doing,” said Humphrey. “Just tell me the things you want and I’ll have them all ready for you by Christmas.”

Reginald could hardly wait for Christmas. It was to be a surprise. No peeking! By now Humphrey was fast becoming a model train enthusiast himself. He would frequently be found in Reginald’s attic “taking measurements”, but really he was there to play with the trains.

Christmas came. Humphrey proudly produced the buildings and landscapes. They were horrible. Utterly horrible! And now Humphrey was coming over every day to enthusiastically play. Awful! Just awful! Awful awful awful!

Reginald couldn’t tell Humphrey to go suck eggs. He quickly lost all interest in model railways.

2067. Scout’s honour

I said to the neighbour, look I said your pumpkin plants are growing over the top of our tall wooden boundary fence and have reached my garden and are putting their big leaves and tendrils all over my flowers. I can’t see my flowers because of your wayward pumpkins that’ve gone berserk.

You’ll just have to live with it, he said. He said for me to grow up and realize that’s what pumpkins do. He was very proud of his pumpkins and of his sunflowers. His sunflowers were about eight feet high, each with a gigantic flower head at the top.

And, he added, if my pumpkin plants produce any pumpkins on your side I expect them to be handed over. After all, I’m the one who digs the garden on my side and weeds around the base of the plants and feeds them with expensive nutrients.

To be honest I saw red. I waited until he went out – the neighbour – and I took my hedge cutters and went over to his place and cut down his sunflowers at the base. I didn’t cut the pumpkins because then he’d know it was me. So now I’m having a coffee back at my place and waiting for him to scream blue murder. I’ve parked my car in my driveway because I’ve been out all morning. Haven’t I?

Haven’t I? I know you’ll support me in this unless you’re one of those pumpkin freaks. Yeah, I’ve been out all morning at the mall. Scout’s honour.

1971. Oh sugar!

Pamela was a sound sleeper. She lived alone. She locked the house thoroughly each night before she went to bed. The neighbours were a bit strange – especially the wife. She was a bit of a recluse. Pamela had met her just the once. Word had it that she had been in and out of psychiatric care centres throughout her life.

It may have been because of this that Pamela was nervously suspicious. She had suspected for quite some time that strange things happened in the night. She was always meticulous about things, and sometimes she noticed that some household items had been moved ever so slightly, or even that she ran out of tea bags faster than she should. In fact she counted the tea bags. She used two tea bags a day. The seventy-eight tea bags in the box should last for thirty-nine days. She marked the date on her wall calendar.

Ashley, the neighbour, was a bit strange, but not as strange as his wife. He would come over once a week to Pamela’s for a cup of coffee. Pamela had never warmed to him. But a neighbour is a neighbour and it was after all only about thirty minutes in her week that his visits lasted. His wife never came with him.

Now the doctor had told Pamela to go easy on the sugar, so she filled the sugar bowl (in case visitors came and took sugar) and put the sugar bowl high in the cupboard. That was the last time she used it. It was a lot easier to give up sugar than she had expected.

When Ashley came over next she filled the conversation with the usual small talk. She had given up sugar. Did he still want sugar in his coffee? Perhaps he would prefer a cup of tea?

“Oh,” said Ashley, “I think you’re out of tea bags.”

1965. Just down the corridor

(This is the fourth of seven days of Science Faction).

Bevan lived in a single bedroom apartment block. It’s not the living arrangement he would have preferred, but it would do for the time being. He was saving to buy a proper home, with a small garden and lawn, and proper neighbours over the fence – not neighbours who could be described as “a couple of doors down the corridor”.

It wasn’t long before he noticed Magdalene. Her apartment was on the same floor. She was always very pleasant when they passed. In fact, she was straight-out lovely. They seemed to be roughly the same age. Her clothes and makeup were always done to perfection. Her personality was bubbly. Her speech was music. In fact, Bevan used to keep his door slightly ajar so he wouldn’t miss her when she came home. He didn’t want to not accidentally have the pleasure of bumping into her.

There was only one thing for it: he would have to ask her out on a date. It should be nothing too formal like a meal at a fancy restaurant. Maybe a movie followed by a coffee in a café. Twice he walked passed her door but was too afraid to knock.

“Blow it!” he thought one late Sunday afternoon. “It’s now or never.” He strode along the corridor before he had time to chicken out. He knocked. The door opened.

Oh my God! Great Scot! It was disgusting! She had forgotten to put on her artificial face. Her head was a squirming ball of worms and maggots. This intergalactic alien wasn’t one person; she was a thousand.

“Hold it! I’ll just put on my face.” She disappeared for no more than thirty seconds. When she reappeared it was the lovely Magdalene once again. “Just don’t tell anyone,” she said.

And that is how Bevan was silenced into owning his own home with a small garden and lawn, and proper neighbours over the fence. His delightful spouse wears her artificial face all the time these days.

Except when she takes a shower.

1098. Neighbourhood watch

My neighbour works as a prostitute. Well, that’s a bit harsh; she’s a “call girl”. She must be all of thirty if you want to know, and she drives quite an expensive motor vehicle. So she must be doing quite well.

In between times, and goodness knows she seems to sleep in quite late, she sells marijuana to all the people who constantly visit. I can see them out my window. They’re all eager for the weed. They knock on her door with four taps, with a brief pause after the third. From my window I see things handed over, and then they’re back in their cars and off like a shot.

I know it is marijuana because she grows it just over the fence on her property at the bottom of the garden. I see it when I mow my lawn. I have no idea where she dries the stuff. Maybe in her garage or in her roof somewhere.

So both these activities keep her pretty busy, and no doubt rich: entertaining guests and selling dope. I know it keeps her busy because every time I’ve knocked four taps on her door she’s been too busy to see me.