5.3 – The Too-Friendly Neighbor

For Marty and his sisters, every day was like a tactical military operation just to get to and from school. Most of the families they knew had a hectic morning, but theirs was beyond the norm. Waking up in a walk-in freezer was the first challenge, followed by a bowl of cereal under your blankets, but the worst part was trying to go poo on a frozen toilet seat while somebody else was taking a quick shower to save hot water for the next person. Then they had to shower while someone else pooed, until everyone had a turn. The intricate bathroom square dance required exquisite timing to maintain privacy for the participants. They had a very short time to get ready because their daily journeys took them so far from home, and many people needed to use the facilities. Their dirty laundry was stored in the back of Marge’s pickup, and she sometimes remembered to use the laundromat after work. Julie worked evenings after high school, and Marge usually picked her up on the way home. Marty and Susie were left to fend for themselves most of the time, which gave them plenty of time to explore on the long walk home.

They stopped often at the Lagunitas Store, but the beatnik oracle behind the counter uttered no more cryptic warnings. He seemed even more stoned than usual, and could barely count the change. He just held out some coins in the palm of his hand, and implored Marty with his eyes to make it easy on him and take the right amount. He and Susie liked to get deli sandwiches when they had a few dollars, because they brought only a few snacks to school and ate mostly the apples and carrot sticks their friends didn’t want.

One gorgeous spring day, they were enjoying some sandwiches on their park-like property, at the picnic table by the campfire ring. The sun slanted down through dark columns and made the pretty little oval leaves on the undergrowth shudder with gratitude. A Steller’s blue jay was sassing them for having the audacity to eat in his territory without bringing anything for him. The ubiquitous cars rolled by, thump-thump, thump-thump, on their way out to the beaches. A cool breeze rustled down the canyon, and was funneled by the tall trees into the open spaces between the majestic redwood trunks where they sat. Marty went back to the house to get his jacket, and when he returned Susie was down by the creek, poking at something with a stick.

“What is it?” he asked, trying to see into the water.

“I thought I saw a salamander… oh, no!” she pointed past her brother.

Marty turned around, and that rascal blue jay was flying away with the rest of his sandwich! He could barely get it off the table, but fluttered up to the lower branches of a young redwood and sat there, panting and holding on to the bread with one claw. By the time Marty picked up a rock and turned, the little thief flew off into the grove. They could hear him laughing as he labored under the weight of their lunch. Marty remembered reading that those birds were called “camp robber jays” in the mountains, and now he knew why!

From then on, it was war. Marty carried rocks with him in a pouch he hung from his belt like Little Hiawatha. He had no bow and arrow, or tomahawk. His only weapon was his right arm and the rocks. He had always been uncannily accurate throwing rocks, and could spend a whole afternoon amusing himself by hitting random targets. Every time a camp robber jay came within range, he let one fly. The missiles were usually close enough to startle the birds more than they anticipated. Soon they squawked at him in recognition wherever he went on the property. It seemed the more he threw rocks, the more of them gathered to scold him. They were getting quite audacious with their outrage, and Marty was getting more frustrated.

One especially bold bird began following him, squawking noisily and hopping from branch to branch in a feisty way. He got braver as a few of his friends joined in the chorus, and darted right in front of Marty as he had his arm cocked. In an instant, the boy’s brain, eyes, and arm focused on a spot about 20 feet away where he knew it would land, and a perfect throw knocked the bird off the branch, even before it alighted. Like a Polaroid snapshot, Marty could see the moment when its little claws were outstretched in anticipation of landing, and the astonished look on its face as the rock crushed its skull. The poor jay was dead before it hit the ground, and his buddies went crazy! Several very angry and loudly squawking blue jays closed in accusingly on where Marty stood, transfixed by the awe of such a miraculous throw, and the horror of what he had done. Stunned, he picked up the dead bird’s warm, floppy body, and its incensed companions became louder and more threatening, until he got worried that they might attack him, like that crazy Hitchcock movie. He chased them off and looked mournfully at the ruined creature in his hands for a long time. He solemnly swore he would never throw rocks at animals again (varmints and buzzards didn’t count).

By this time of year, the creek was getting quite low, and became fascinating for many reasons. Now the kids could cross on stepping stones, and a couple of gravel beaches were exposed. They found lots of artifacts, bits of glass, porcelain, and such, and tried to catch the crawdads that hid in the dark crevices during the lengthening afternoons. The hungry critters couldn’t resist chunks of hot dog tied on a string, and would grab on greedily and not let go until they came close to shore and then – whoosh! – zoomed backwards to safety with rapid flips of their tail. It became a game to see how much they could eat before being pulled close enough to catch them, or if they could let go in time. Marty learned to put a bucket behind them as they got close, and sometimes trapped one that way. Their little beady eyes glared up balefully from the bottom of the bucket as they splayed their clays out menacingly. Otter showed them how to pick one up without getting pinched – which was no mean feat, with their diabolical, double-jointed, pointy little claws that hurt when they got you!

By May, the creek was low enough for some serious crawdad hunting. In the process, they met their neighbor across the creek, an alternately sad and jolly British man who acted as though he was hiding from somebody. Marty got the impression he was jolly because he had such good-natured pep and a wacky sense of humor like one of the guys from Monty Python’s Flying Circus. At the same time, he seemed very sad because of a gnawing, haunted look in his eyes, and a starving melancholy that bowed his skinny bones. “Hello, I’m Barry, but you can call me Reginald. Actually, you can’t call me at all because I have no phone. But I daresay you can yell across the creek.”

They looked up to see a thin face framed by long, dangling blonde hair and a wispy mustache. “Hi, I’m Marty, and this is Susie. We’re catching crawdads, and the rock on your side is the best place.”

“I say, that would put the little beasties under my jurisdiction.” He was doing his best not to crack a smile.

“Actually, they’re under a rock,” Marty replied dryly.

“Oh, bravo,” Barry replied graciously, then looked quickly from side to side as if he realized for the first time he could be seen. His head popped back into his house quicker than a crawdad into a crack. He didn’t say anything or show himself for a while, so they resumed their catch-and-release games. They took a few specimens up on the small deck that Jimbo had built on the front of the house, with a set of sturdy stairs. On the flat platform they held crawdad races by putting strips of cardboard between the boards to make lanes. Most of the time, the obstinate creatures twisted around and scuttled back towards the water, as if they could sense where it was. Marty got an idea and painted numbers on their backs, then let them race back to the creek from the deck. Susie built a little slide, and as soon as the buggers hit the ground they were desperately trying to reach the water as quickly as possible. Number 3 won, and they all made it back, but wore their numbers for life. All summer long, they could see a small 5, or 2, or 4 moving through the dark shadows of the deepest part of the creek.

The back door of the cabin eventually dried out enough to open it, and Marty loved sitting on the sill with his legs dangling over the creek, or leaning against the jamb with a mug of coffee on Saturday mornings. Barry (or Reginald?) could be seen from time to time moving around inside of his house, and once he waved from the window. His top half was naked at the time, and Marty didn’t care to know about the bottom half. He and Marge started exchanging pleasantries between his window and her back door, until she went out the front door and crossed the creek while Barry disappeared. He reappeared on the porch wearing a bathrobe, and let her inside. That was last anyone saw of her for the morning. At lunch, she reappeared like nothing ever happened, except that she was really stoned or something. She distractedly spread peanut butter on some sandwiches until the bread was falling apart, and fed her kids lunch before going back to bed.

After that, they saw a lot more of Barry and less of Jimbo. Marge never gave any explanation, and her kids had already learned not to ask any questions. Marty figured it was just one of those switches that grown-ups made with their lovers the way some people change clothes. Except with clothes, you can wash and wear them over and over for a long time. Dirty relationship laundry just gets tossed away. Barry was a funny guy, but only came over to their house once, when he was really drunk. He was feigning as if he had walked into the wrong house by mistake, but his boots were wet from just crossing the creek, which surely would have alerted him he was off course. What he really wanted was to grope on Marge, and so the two of them disappeared into her cave, muddy boots and all. Marty retired to his room and turned up the stereo to drown out any suggestive noises.

The bedroom that he and Susie shared was fascinating from a kid’s perspective, although the country club moms they once knew would have fainted in horror. The walls were paneled with redwood, and over the years had been covered with many coats of paint. The top layer was yellowed and blotched with black specks that wouldn’t wash off, like some exotic type of fungus. Posters and magazine pictures were strategically placed to cover the worst spots, but the cold and humidity made them wrinkle and sag like tattered handbills posted in a deserted subway. Now that it was almost summer, they had dried up in their wrinkled shapes. There were no curtains on the windows, and the cracks and crevices of the frames were filthy. Two slanted window-type skylights filled the room with light, and made a cozy place where spiders liked to spin their webs. Their mom’s attitude was: “If you don’t clean it, you live in a dirty room.” As a result, the floor was littered with the apathetic detritus of childhood. Shoes and clothes lay everywhere. Random junk was piled in the musty closets. Cobwebs hung like Spanish moss from the ceiling. Except for those organic details, it was a typical kid’s room, but without modern comforts like carpeting, window coverings, sheet rock, or heating.

One day Marty joined his mom to visit Barry as she brought him some food. The Brit’s house was even messier than his own room, if that was possible. He took mental pictures to add to his slovenly repertoire. The floor was carpeted with old clothes, trash, blankets, magazines, shoes, liquor bottles, and pillows. There was no furniture except a large wooden packing crate on its side in the middle of the small front room. It had a candle and three ashtrays on it, which were overflowing with ashes and cigarette butts. The dirty crate was full of records, which were also scattered all over, but mostly near the turntable in the corner on top of an overturned bucket. The house smelled of incense, nicotine, urine, and weird chemicals. Barry was lying on his side next to the crate, partially covered by a blanket with his back to them. “Is he sick?” Marty asked, suddenly concerned.

“Um yeah, you could say that,” Marge drawled ironically, brushing aside the cigarette butts to put the plate of food on the crate. Barry stirred but didn’t roll over. There was a leather, zippered case lying open next to him similar to a doctor’s bag. In it was a spoon, a lighter, a rubber tourniquet, and a hypodermic needle. Marty gasped. It was a scene from one of those anti-drug movies they showed in school! Poor Barry must have been addicted to heroin, and was going through withdrawals or something! Marty looked around the rest of the house while his mom fed the afflicted junkie. There was nothing but more clothes and trash, covering every available surface. He started to thumb through the records, and didn’t recognize any of them except Pink Floyd. There were none of the albums that were popular at that time, like Journey, the Eagles, or Led Zeppelin. One LP was by some old guy named Uncle Charlie.

Barry was sitting up now, rubbing his arms and looking quite out of sorts. “You like that one? You can ha-have it. Best fucking record in this dump!” He coughed in a fit for half a minute, and Marge gave him some water.

“Thanks,” Marty replied in a non-committal tone. Who wanted to listen to an old man sing? But he didn’t want to hurt Barry’s feelings, so he held on to it. He started straightening up the place – first the records, then the shoes, until he started picking up trash. Barry somehow regained his manners and stood up from sheer embarrassment, and made a show of emptying the ashtrays into a paper sack, but mostly dumped them on the blanket. “This guy is out of it,” Marty thought to himself with genuine sympathy, for he liked the Brit. He was funny, and spoke to him as if he was an equal. Marge tucked him in as best she could, put a plastic milk jug full of water next to him, and they left. That was the last anyone saw of Barry. He either died, took off somewhere in a hurry, or got arrested. The White family never had a neighbor like that before!

When Marty asked his mom what happened to him, she just shrugged. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He deduced it must have been a falling out between them. Her expression gave no indication Barry was actually dead, but the conversation certainly was. By that time, Marty had listened to the album Uncle Charlie and His Dog Teddy many times. It was by an eclectic group of talented musicians called the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, and it changed his outlook on music for a lifetime. It was a landmark album in the tradition of bluegrass, rock & roll, country swing, and even some classical – all fused into one cohesive blend of musical genius. Barry had melted a spot in the middle of the classical banjo track with his cigarette, but Marty didn’t care. It was nothing like the songs that played on the radio, with the notable exception of “Mr. Bojangles,” which was a big hit. There was something about that type of music that stimulated his developing intellect, and he’d always appreciate a broad spectrum of musical styles because of that one album.

“He looked to me to be the eyes of age, as he spoke right out…
He talked of life, talked of life… he laughed, clicked his heels and stepped…”