Neighborhood, Scene 2: The Borrowers

My neighborhood has never disappointed in the entertainment department.  And even after the drug dealers left for jail, we manage.  Take our latest addition to the block, for example.  I call them The Borrowers.  They moved into the dealers’ vacant apartment.  Their license plates say Ohio (adding a little northern color to the neighborhood milieu) and their family consists of a scraggly stepfather, and equally scraggly mother, a seventeen-year-old daughter (belonging to the mother), and a gangly-legged son (I have yet to peg his origins).

            I first encountered the son.  No, not true, first I encountered the dog.  He was a little terrier mix, friendly, and an instant favorite with Pippin, who adored him.  I, on the other hand, hated his guts.  Of course, I supported my dog’s hopelessly misguided love, but I made my sentiments known to the general atmosphere.  You see, the son’s idea of animal husbandry was to open the front door and let the dog loose upon the neighborhood, so that he might shit freely anywhere but inside the house itself.  His favorite spots were my herb garden – the oregano was an especial treat – and the leaf pile for my compost bin. 

            When I saw him, I would address him loudly thus: “Well, hello there – shitting anyplace in particular today?”  He ignored me.  I consoled myself by collecting his turds with my shovel and slinging them onto the path leading to the Borrowers’ front porch.  If you have retaliated in similar fashion to a neighbor’s careless pet habits, you know that this is a fruitless gesture.  Eventually, the effort of slinging shit itself becomes tiresome and, without the pleasure of watching your nemeses actually step in it, fails to satisfy.

            Pippin could never have understood my prejudice against her newfound love.  And indeed, it was not his fault.  After all, she had a human servant following her around, surreptitiously scooping up her own shit with a little black claw made for that purpose.  He had no one.  She was Lady; he was the Tramp.

            Well, after the third near-shit experience, in which I almost picked up the terrier’s turd in my bare hand as I reached for a pile of compost leaves, I decided that enough was enough.  Besides, the kid was never around to hear the snarky comments I made to his free-range pet.  So, when I saw the son outside one day, I decided to take some initiative. After all, I was not his dog’s only victim.  Twice, Lil Free-Range planted a steaming pile on my neighbor, Ashley’s, front porch. 

I walked up to him.  “Excuse me,” I said and asked if the dog belonged to him, just to be on the safe side. 

“No,” he replied.

I raised my brows skeptically.  “Really? ‘Cause…I saw him come out of your front door yesterday, and yours is the only yard he never craps in.  He’s made my chives inedible, and the rest of us step in his mess at least once a week.”  The kid would not look at me.

“He’s my sister’s dog," he grumbled at the pavement.  "And I can’t control where he shits."

Oh contrare, kiddo! I had one for him.

“Actually, you can,” I said.  “In fact, it’s the law that you do.  They call them leashes and what you do is, you put it round your dog’s neck and walk him.  Shovels and scoopers are also really handy.”  I waved my miniature scooper at his retreating back as he slouched into the house. 

Shortly thereafter, the little dog disappeared.  I think this was more because Ashley lit into the kid about the poo on her porch, but I can’t be certain.  All I know is, that’s when the borrowing started.

It began with the arrival of the seventeen-year-old sister.  The owner of Lil Free-Range.  She had long, ruddy red hair, a patchwork of tattoos, and the air of a person who’s been high within the last twenty-four hours.  I’d never seen her before in my life when she knocked on my door.  Pippin went absolutely insane with vicious, six-pound-dog barking.  She had never reacted so angrily to a knock before.  I peered out suspiciously and asked the girl what I could do for her.

            “Hey, girrrl," she said, as if this were a friendly commonplace, such as "dear" or "hon", "I locked myself out of the house, and…my stepdad’s not gonna be home for a while, and… I was wondering, could I, like, use your bathroom?”

            Wha? I thought.  Who asks that?  What sane neighbor expects to make urine in the bathroom of a total stranger before so much as an introduction and a “Can I please borrow some sugar”?  Besides, I'm twice her age and she's calling me "girl"??  But it was a hot day and she was a kid, so I swallowed my prejudice against her post-high pupils, pasty complexion, and crappy tattoos.  You’re being a snob, I told myself.  This is what you and all your friends looked like after camping in the woods and drinking shroom tea all weekend when you were seventeen.  It doesn’t mean she’s a felon. Of course, it was the middle of the week.

Pippin was clearly prejudiced, too.  She would not stop barking; in fact, once she caught a glimpse of the Borrower Girl, she barked even harder.  Typically, she melts into a wriggling ball of silky glee the moment the actual visitor is visible.  But not this time.  

The girl noticed my incredulous expression, so she added, “Uhh, I was out somewhere, and my stepdad, like, went to work and locked the door ‘cause he thought I had a key.  But I don’t have my key, and I don’t know when he’s coming back.  I’ll be real quick, I promise!”  But she spoke slowly, as if the connection between thought and speech were patched with second-hand wires.

I started calculating the time between the present hour and her stepfather’s likely return.  Could I live with myself if I left this kid stranded outside for hours with a full bladder?  More importantly, could I stand not knowing whose backyard she might pee in?

I decided to fight against the stench of cigarettes and nefariousness emanating from her, and opened the door wide.  She entered the hall and followed me into the library to the bathroom. I thought, guiltily, that there wasn't anything worth stealing in there.  She would be fine.

Pippin barked at her all the way.  My neck tingled.

            Whatever she was doing, it took longer than the traditional pee; but it gave me time to think.  It was an uncomfortably hot day, I reflected, and if she’s stuck outside she might get dehydrated.  A good person would offer her something to drink.  So, when she emerged, instead of opening the front door and planting my foot in her backside, I offered her some Fresca.  She accepted. 

It was the stupidest thing I could have done because she nursed that Fresca for twenty-five minutes.  There I sat, trying to make small talk, asking her questions and answering hers, without seeming suspicious.  But all I could think when she complimented my house was: Don’t even think about it, bottle-red. I've sized you up; you're not armed; I will kick your ass.

I learned she was sad that her step-father had decided to give away her little pooping dog.  I did not feel guilty.  “Yeah,” I replied, “I remember him.  He pooped in my garden every day.”  I'm not sure what happened after that, but the next thing I knew, she was asking to borrow my phone.

“What?” Maybe I could confuse her out of the idea by pretending not to hear. 

But no, she repeated herself: “Can I borrow your phone to call my friend about a ride?  I’m supposed to meet up with him.”

I gave up and went to the landline phone in the sunroom, but she stopped me.

“It’s a long-distance number,” she explained.  She wanted to use my cell phone.

Fire alarms began to sound inside my brain.  I knew all about this.  My experience with two generations of drug dealers in the neighborhood taught me that they ALWAYS wanted to borrow your cell phone and that you NEVER allow them to do so.  Her request simply branded her as not only a pothead with cheap tattoos, but as a probable criminal as well.  But how screwed up is that??? My conscience countered.  You can’t assume she’s making a deal because she wants to use your cell phone – everyone’s number is long distance now-a-days.  And why wouldn’t she want to have her friend pick her up when she’s stuck in Florida’s outdoor armpit without a toilet for three, maybe five, hours?

I handed over my cell phone with obvious reluctance and listened as she dialed.  The sound of a voicemail recording came on.  She didn’t leave a message.  “He’s not answering,” she said, obviously.  “If that number calls you back, just ignore it.”  Again, obviously.  I decided it was time for Borrower Girl to leave.  My skin was crawling and I couldn’t put my finger on why. 

I told her to keep her still-full glass of Fresca, as I ushered her out the door.  “Just leave it on the porch,” I said, never expecting to see it again. 

As it turns out, I didn’t; but I did see her again, not ten minutes later as I was ready to head out for yoga class.  Pippin was going wild at the door.  Borrower Girl looked sheepish.  “Uhhh, can I borrow some toilet paper?” she asked after my terse, “Yes?”

Toilet Paper.  You want to borrow some… toilet paper.  I think I said it out loud.  “Just in case,” she said. 

“Why don’t you just come in and use the bathroom again?”

“Oh, uh, I didn’t wanna bother you.”  Like stopping what I’m doing and rolling you a wad of my toilet paper is LESS annoying that your sitting on my pot all by yourself.  

Stoned stupid. Definitely.

Or: a sickeningly clever kid, running a little reconnaissance.  Thieves do it all the time.  Unfortunately, my parents had just bought me a nice new flat-screen as a gift - probably because they were tired of watching shows on my old tube.  Borrower Girl had also seen that I had a decent Mac, and who knows what else looks valuable to burglars?  

            The moment she left, I grabbed my stuff and left the house, lest she return for pee number three.  I dialed my neighbor, Don.

            “Can I ask your advice about something?” I asked him.  There was a pause, he was interpreting the sound of my voice.

            “You wanna ask me about your new neighba’s?” he seemed to be smiling.  How did he know?  I grilled him for every detail. 

            According to Don, Borrower Stepfather had been by Don’s place the week before, and asked his son, Derrick, if he could borrow their lawnmower.  Derrick, a genuinely nice guy, had been too shocked at the request from a total stranger to say no.

            “Weeeell,” said Don, “he said he was gonna bring th' mowa’ back in half-an-owa, but he neva brought it back.  Finally, I told Derrick he betta get ova there and get that mowa.  Get this, they had it in the house!”  Clearly, Don took this as a sign that the Borrowers had intended to make the mower their own.  I tried to play devil’s advocate.

            “They did mow that lawn, you know.  I couldn’t believe it.  A renter, mowing?  Thought they must be pretty decent folks, after all.”

            “Oh, they did, huh.”

            “Yup.  So maybe they didn’t get it done in time to get the mower to Derrick before he left home, and just kept it in the house so nothing would happen to it.”

            “Maybe.  But ain’t no folks come ova to a neighba’s house, askin’ to barra all kinds of shit like that.  I don’t even know who the hell they are!  The other day, that girl cam ova and asked Derrick’s girlfriend if she could barra her phone!”

            I gasped. “But that’s what just happened to me!  She wanted to use the bathroom, borrow my toilet paper, and use my cell phone!”

            Don acted as if this was no surprise to him.  “Emly,” he said, not pronouncing the ‘I’, “you don’t let that girl barra your phone.” 

            Of course, it was too late for that, but Don and I talked a while about the Borrowers.  We could not decide whether they were “just plain weeeud” (as Don called it), “stupid” (as I called it), or cunning.  Either way, I determined there would be no pee number three.

Then, a few weeks ago, as I sat in my car in front of the apartment, Borrower Girl approached me once more.

            “Hey, girrrl,” she said again.  I wanted to ask her if she had any idea how much I hated being addressed by that word, but I didn't.

            “Mmmhm?” I tried to look really busy with my car stereo.
            "Hey, uh, can you drive me somewhere?”

I looked her right in the eye like she was three years old, making water on my rug.

She didn't give up.  “I’ll give you ten dollars if you’ll take me to [someplace I have no wish to recall].  It'll just be a minute. Please?”

My eyebrows rose like a pair of air balloons. Ten dollars?  For a few mile’s ride?  Who pays ten dollars for a ride? Who does any of the shit this girl does??  There was something very wrong about such an offer, about everything.  I apologized and told her I didn’t have time.  She walked away in typical teenage fashion.  I shook my head.  What is she going to ask for next?

Last week, I got my answer.  Borrower Girl took borrowing to the next level.  It went down like this: Ashley (victim of Borrower Girl's Free-Range terrier) had ordered an expensive dress, and one day while she was at work, FedEx brought it to her door.  Never very interested in placing orders into the hands of their recipients, the FedEx man (like most of his ilk) deposited the box on the porch and drove away.

            A moment later, Borrower Girl and her boyfriend mosied over.  They had seen the truck come and go.  They saw that neither Ashley, nor her brother, Javon, were parked out front.  They assumed that the house must be empty.  Apparently, this meant that the FedEx delivery was technically theirs.  Well, sweet! (I imagine them thinking) Let’s see what we got!  They mounted the porch steps like it was their job, took the box, and went back home.

            Here’s where it gets interesting.  Ashley’s house wasn’t empty.  In the front room, just behind the window, sat Jovan’s girlfriend.  Who knows why she was there; she certainly wasn’t supposed to be.  Ashley hates her with a passion, and has oft forbade her brother to bring his girlfriend into the house.  Perhaps this is why the girlfriend did nothing while Ashley’s package walked off the porch, but she did tell Ashley what had happened later on that evening.

            If Borrower Girl had any intentions for that package, they were squashed the moment Ashley and Jovan burst into the Borrower Abode.  Ashley will do anything for a friend, but she takes shit from no one, and if you are a lousy excuse for a human being on her time, she will mess you up.  Fortunately for Borrower Girl, she was not home when Ashley descended upon her family.  Unfortunately for the family, neither the box nor the dress were anywhere in sight.  The scene ended with the Sheriff’s Department trying to calm Ashley down, pull her away from Borrower-Mom (who staunchly defended her daughter's honor), and promising to take care of the situation.

            Days later, they returned.  This time, I was home – just leaving for work.  Two plainclothes officers pulled up and parked in front of my building, bright and early.  They entered the Borrower House.  This time, they found Borrower Girl at home, and they found a lot more than that.

            On my way to work, Ashley called to fill me in.  As it happens, Pippin wasn’t too far off when she decided to loath Borrower Girl.  And yes, the girl was a felon.  Besides tampering with the mail, she was wanted for armed robbery.  Two counts.  The police had been searching for her some time, but until Ashley’s dress, they didn’t know where she lived.  Now they had her.

            When they found her at home, they noticed she had dyed her hair black to avoid detection.  Real clever.  Also "clever" was her handling of the evidence.  She’d stuffed Ashley’s $200 dress into a vacuum cleaner – also stolen – hoping no one would find it.  The house was full of stolen goods, so off to jail she went.

I wonder how many of my neighbors will be arrested before I finally move?  It’s strange.  All that time, I’d had several boxes delivered to my house and left on my porch.  Nothing was taken.  Don swears the Borrowers stole his ladder and his chainsaw from his backyard.  Maybe they did.  And maybe it was just thanks to dumb inconvenience that Borrower Girl never took anything of mine, and never got around to robbing my house.  Or, maybe she decided that one good turn deserved another: She let me use her toilet and, man, I really had to go.

            I doubt that, but my random immunity to these weirdos seems to have given me a false sense of security.  The only thing I truly fear is a neighbor with a shit-happy dog.  My dad thinks I should wise up.  And as yesterday I watched Borrower Girl, free from the slammer, walking to the mailbox with her thieving boyfriend, I thought, “Eh, maaaybe he’s right.  But then again, what else am I going to write about?”