Things haven't been the same in my neighborhood since I bought my X-Box 360.
It might have something to do with that deadly-cold December night my neighbor's wife kicked him out and his three sons out of the house. His youngest, assuming some sort of unspoken bond had figured when I handed him and extra fiver after raking my leaves in the fall, told his father he was sure we'd take him in. Neighbor Gus arrived, youngest in tow and begged me, as an aquaintance, as a neighbor, as the guy who refused to pay him one grand for taking a few dead oaks out of my yard, if I'd please take his son in just until he got back on to his feet. When we not only refused, but said we'd rather spend our spare time and money on an X-Box 360 rather than a child, he wasn't amused.
When we not only purchased the 360, but put it in the bay window, atop a plaster pedastal wrapped in christmas lights, the neighbors weren't either. Neighbor Gus won't speak to me. Neighboor Shirtless Dan was so disgusted he won't let his troglodyte brood play within sight of the Xbox. It's been nearly a month now, and I haven't had to tolerate a single redneck stopping by to discuss Nascar or Toby Keith. In short, it's been the best turn of events to come about since we bought this house in June. That was all until we were burgled.
Well, sort of.
It was early morning the Friday before Christmas, and Gus's oldest son Davis watched our car pull out of the driveway. He had his revenge all charted out out. He must have been watching our routine for the pask weeks, and knew we carpooled to work in the morning. Having spoken to his youngest brother, he also knew about the broken latch on our rear garage window. Knowing I was crazy about the security cameras, he even wore a ski-mask. Five minutes was all it would take him to crawl in through the window, load a few power tools into his backpack, and make off before the police showed up. What he didn't know was that I had the day off.
It was about ten AM when Cindy Lauper blared from my den computer speakers. Something had been caught on the garage cam. Now as I was taking a late breakfast, and mice had a habit of setting the camera off by crawling over the lens, I wasn't that concerned. When it went off the second time, I finally got in and jostled the mouse. The screen sprang to life, and in the center of a red halo was a green-tinted view of my garage. Three alarms, the counter warned, and I could see why. Someone was shuffling around by the workbench. At first I thought it might have been Belinda, but it only took me a second to notice that it was a bit taller and stockier. And wearing a black ski mask. By the fetal alcohol gait and the mohawk bulging under the cap, I knew it had to be Gus's oldest.
This was perfect.
I grabbed my coat down on my way down to the landing, where I locked and deadbolted the door. I pressed my ear to the door and knew I was good; I could still hear the idiot kid rustling in a drawer. The little fucker was oblivious. I dug into my coat pocket and pressed the kiddy-safe lock thing on the garage door opener. Best two hundred dollars the previous owner ever spent. Now the could only come out the way he came in - and that would be easy to take care of.
I slipped on my hiking boots, grabbed my cell phone and laptop, and slipped out the back door; careful to slide it shut without slamming it. I took my time, dusting a wooden chair from my patio set free of snow. Through the open window, I could hear screws falling as he dug around for tools. Chair and laptop pack in tow, I climbed down the deck stairs and walked down into the pond garden. The snow was the perfect depth to mask my footsteps. I paused to listen under the garage window, and could hear him loading stuff into his backpack. Perfect. I grabbed a landscaping timber from under the deck and propped it up against the window - one of the type that swings outward. What followed would be perfect fodder for one of those "America's Stupid Criminals" shows. I've obviously edited out the part where they ask my name and address.
9-11 Operator: 9-11 emergency
Me: Uh, yeah, I just caught some idiot neighbor kid trying to steal stuff in my garage.
Operator: Is he still on the premises, Sir?
Me: Yeah, he is.
Operator: Alright, and are you in a safe place?
Me: As safe as can be, I guess. I've locked all the doors and windows. He's stuck in the garage until the police arrive.
Operator: Alright. I want you to know that no matter how much he's in the wrong, it would be unlawful to hurt the child.
Me: That's why I called you instead of shooting him or selling him off to the Malaysian sex trade.
Operator: We do appreciate that, Sir. A sherrif's officer is on the way. Do you want me to stay on the line?
Me: No, that's not really necessary. I think he wants to talk.
Operator: Okay, but remember that it's very importabt you not let things get out of control. Wait until the sherrif's officer shows up.
Me: I understand. Have a merry christmas.
Operator: You too, Sir.
I set the laptop down on the wooden chair and logged into the wireless network. There was the kid, banging against the windowframe with a dry piece of firewood. I switched on the intercom.
"Hey, kid." I spoke into the D800's mic.
He dropped the log and looked up. His eyes looked like silver rings under the night vision lamps. He ran over to the garage door opener and rattled it like an elevator call button. No results. His chest heaved twice, then he threw himself against the door, banging on it.
"MUTHAFUCKALEMMEOUT!" Was the closest I can come to transcribing what came out of his mouth.
"Relax, you moron." I said. "That's an aluminum fire door. You're not getting out of there."
First came anger. For five solid minutes, the boy leveled every threat his troglodyte imagination could conjure up - most involving his foot and my ass. He threw gardening tools, jars of bolts, even a tape measure against the door. When I stopped talking to him, the bargaining phase set in.
"I'm leaving the tools." He said in his nasal, breathy voice, laying the pack down like it had a bomb. "Okay? You can see me putting them down. You can even keep the bag. And I'll pay for the stuff I just broke. I'll clean your garage, and I'll do your driveway, just please Jesus let me out!"
"The police are already on their way." I said, "and I wouldn't want to miss this opportunity to make your family's Christmas even worse."
"Jesus, dude, what can I do?" He asked. "Just tell me what to do."
"Take off the mask for starters." I said. He did, and his fat, oily face popped out, mohawk bent to the side like cattails bent in a storm.
"Good. Now dry-hump the snowblower."
"What??"
"You heard me. Make sweet beautiful love to the snowblower. Just leave your parka and shit on. Nobody wants to see that."
He shuffled slowly over to my Toro snowblower.
"Hurry it up, tubby." I said.
He grabbed the throttle and rammed the crotch of his snowmobile suit into the cold steel.
"You're never going to get a girlfriend that way," I said. "You have to be gentle. Carress the snowblower. Kiss its shiny auger control."
"If I do this, you'll let me go?"
"No." I confessed. "I just want something to put on next year's Christmas card."
He looked up. "Then what are you going to do to me?"
"Relax, shithead. I'm not some Michael Jackson freak. Cops are on the way."
He fell down on his knees. "No, dude, Jesus Christ, please no! My dad'll kill me! The sherrif's officer here, he hates me! Dad'll take away my snowmobile! They said I go to a foster home next time!"
"Good," I said, "if you're looking for Michael Jackson types, I've heard foster homes are a great way to go!"
"Dude, PLEASE! I'm sorry we bother you so much, but I think it's cause my dad is jealous!"
"Jealous, huh?"
"Yeah, you know, you've gone to college and have a good job, and he's just a construction worker. He don't even have a job since he got his last DWI! The house we're in is ten times worse than your house, and it's the best he can do."
Through the fence, I saw a sherrif's car round the corner. "Keep talking," I said.
"C'mon dude, it's Christmas. This whole fight is stupid! If you let the cops get me, then this thing between you an my dad just goes on, right? If I go back, you're cool in his eyes. Maybe he tries to be more like you, stops drinking, gets a tech degree. My life could be so much better, and that's the best Christmas gift I could ask for."
I could hear a car idling out front.
"Come on dude," he said, "it's Christmas."
"Alright." I said, fumbling in my pocket, "I'm going to open the garage door."
"Thank you!" He said. His tears looked like drops of solder in the green light. "Dude, thank you!"
I heard a car door slam. "Take the bag, " I said, "Get yourself an X-Box 360 of your own."
He didn't think to question it as the garage door swung open. He just grabbed his bags and dashed out. Right into the open arms of a sherrif's deputy, who had his kneecap between the kid's shoulderblades by the time I walked around.
"He must have figured out how to take the lock off." I said.
"This is a tricky little bastard." The deputy, not two years older than me, said. "He's even trying to tell me you told him to take the tools."
"He did!" Davis cried, "you two-faced motherfucker!"
"What a crock." I said.
"I'll say," the deputy said, slipping cuffs on him like it was instinct. "I hope you want to press charges."
"Of course." I said.
The Deputy smiled. "Glad to hear it. The little fucker usually spins a real yarn, tries to pluck at your heart strings by sayin' he's just a kid. Most people let him go. He's almost as bad as his old man-"
"Wait!" Gus said, dashing across the street in a hunting jacket and boxer shorts. "Jesus, what are ya doing?? Pete, let him go."
"I can't do that, Sir." The Deputy said. "We talked about this before. I've warned you. This is serious this time."
"But man," he said, "I gave you a serious break on your gutters."
"And I appreciate that." Davis said, "but your son broke into your neighbor's garage and stole a number of his tools, putting them in his backpack on the ground there. Then he tried to run, which is evading arrest."
Gus laughed. "Pete, he wasn't STEALIN'. It's just a misunderstanding. Damien here SAID he could take 'em. 'N fact, he borrowed 'em from me." He gave me a knowing wink.
"No I didn't." I said. "I have all the reciepts if you want to see them."
"Don't think that will be necessary." The Deputy said, helping Davis into the back seat.
"C'mon," Gus said, holding on to the door. "It's all good. We're a neighborhood here an' boys will be boys, you know. No harm no foul. Damien's a good man, he isn't pressing charges."
"Yes I am." I said. "How else is he going to learn?"
"I'll teach him." Gus said. "He's my responsibility."
"You don't seem to have done too well so far."
"What are you saying?" Gus asked, stepping closer and puffing out his chest.
"The father can't keep a job because he likes to drive drunk, and the kid's being double-charged two days before Christmas. You need me to get you an English to redneck dictionary?" I dodged the swing, and the officer was on top of him. In five minutes, two more squad cars were in my driveway, Chuck's wife and other kids were in tears, and it looks like, after I testify against just under half his family, he'll lose his kids and his home.
I hope Gus and his family have a great holiday season from their respective holding cell/juvenile detention center/welfare line. Without their snowmobiles and four-wheelers donutting up and down the block, I know I will.
_______________
Banzai Harakiri
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