What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story?

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by Penny Fruth

Penny Fruth

Quincy was a Spider Monkey that lived in a cage in the South Texas backyard of my neighbor. He was not happy in the cage. He was not happy when he was in a cage inside the neighbor's house either and one day when the woman came outside and opened the door of his cage to feed him, Quincy ran away and came over to my family's house and started trying to have sex with the Crepe Myrtle bush by the kitchen door. Sometimes he tried to have sex with the cats too but mostly Quincy sat in the Crepe Myrtle bush and looked at us as we lived our regular lives in the house. My mother would give him food but she never tried to re-capture him even though the neighbor insisted that she do so.

Even in South Texas, the winters could be harsh, at least for Spider Monkeys, so my mother cashed in on Quincy's trust and captured him and, with a rancher's permission, took him to a ranch and let him go. The rancher said that Quincy stayed close to the cattle while they grazed and at night, when they bedded down, he positioned himself between their bodies to stay warm. We all missed Quincy. I don't know about the cats.

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by Ms.B

Ms.B

When I was small, maybe four, an elderly black woman lived next door to me. I spent a lot of time talking to her on the street, or over the fence, and we would always share stories and laugh. I loved talking to her, and enjoyed her company very much.

I remember her wide, gleaming smile, with sporadic holes where teeth should be, her rolled down stockings and long skirts in dingy muted jewel tones and well worn garish patterns and her drooping black sweater that seemed almost as if it was part of her. I specifically recall her always-perfect hair.

One afternoon, we baked cookies, and I asked to bring her some. I nervously set out on my journey to deliver my gift of childhood admiration and friendship in cookie form, and arrived at her doorstep. I climbed the steps and rang the bell. I did not wait long.

She answered the door and what I saw shocked me. Her head was covered in short little tentacles! I screamed and ran down the steps, cookies still in hand. I could hear her hearty laugh behind me. I ran home terrified and told my mother what I had seen - that she looked like she had been attacked by "aliums" - and she chuckled as she explained to me that our neighbor wore a wig. I had no idea up to that point that ethnic hair was any different from my own. I had black hair, and naively thought hers was the same. I then returned and apologized for my earlier less than gracious escape. She told me that she wore her hair in "pickaninnys" and that she always wore a wig. I had been terrified, and then had felt very silly, but she did finally receive her cookies. :)

On a sad note, we only lived there for about a year. I found out later that the state had bought her property for use as a park, and had vacated her from the home she had lived in for decades. She ended up homeless until her death at least 8 years later, and from time to time I would see her pushing a shopping cart filled with her belongings around the city. It was very sad to see, but I always smiled when I remembered the "pickaninny" incident.

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by villaves56

villaves56

Cartagena - Murcia. Miles de años contemplan estos restos arqueológicos de tan bella factura. En estas vetustas piedras se han desarrollado excelentes historias hechas teatro vivo. Miles de espectadores han aplaudido los dramas representados en el profundo escenario. Las épicas batallas entre cartagineses y romanos continúan rememorándose alrededor de estas piedras. Todo un pueblo se echa a la calle con sus vestidos de gala para representar la batalla ancestral.

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by squiggles

squiggles

Every day he looks out of the curtains at me. I drive in or out and there are his peering eyes, watching me. Late at night, I put the garbage out and there he is again. I go and sit in the back yard and he goes and sits in his. He is always, always watching.

At first I thought I was paranoid. He just happens to be there when I come in.

But then, as days go by – he is still there.

I can always count on his searching, questioning eyes through the curtains.

Why is he watching me?

Do I have toilet paper attached to my shoe, did I make lots of noise, did my dog pee in his flowers...why is he watching me!?!

For a year I watch him, watch me.

I ask my family, they say I am blowing it out of proportion. He is just an old man with nothing better to do with his time. They say there is no way he is always watching me. I persist. They shut me down.

I slam the front door behind me, and storm out. Get in my car to drive away, why does no one believe me. It’s true! He is always there, his eyes following me across the drive way – yet no one believes me. And just as I pull out of the driveway I look up and...there he is again! I scream, “See!” yet no one is there to see, and no one would believe me either.

I just want to go up and tell him that I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m a good girl. I don’t break curfew, I don’t lie, I help around the house...I AM A GOOD GIRL! I want to storm up his steps and bang on his door and ask why he watches only me. Yet I don’t.

I feel like he knows me...he looks into my soul.
I go away to university. Yet everywhere I walk I feel eyes watching me – knowing me. University seems scary, have no friends, yet I am not alone.

It’s the most annoying thing. I never feel alone. Maybe that’s a good thing. I went home for the summer,

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by Cheryl Z

Cheryl Z

I sleep in the living room on my Moroccan couch (ahem – futon). Next to the wall. Well, of course, next to the wall. Where else do you put a bed?

Dead asleep. 3 A.M.
“WTF!”

More thuds on the wall. The floor shakes again.
“Oh, shit – Do I call the cops?”
“No! Of course not. What the hell time is it?”

“It sounds like someone's getting beat up.”
“Someone could get really hurt. What if I'm the only one who hears this?”
“No. No one's getting beat up.”

“What do you think?”
I want to ask to he who is dead asleep and not actually present, on the empty side of my bed. I often want to ask him questions. “Hey, what's that?” “Do I need to do something about this?” “Has the milk gone bad?” Stuff like that.

Everything gets quiet.
I'm relieved in the same way I was relieve when that stray dog moved along. To someone else's Welcome Mat.

The low rumble of techno music – no, an action film – pulses through our wall, keeping me awake. “Damn it – I need to sleep. It's only Thursday.”

It's always a Thursday night. The same night the cigarette butts end up in the exact same spot on my porch. The same night the silence of Next Door slides into the sounds of... Spousal Abuse – or Sex.
.
.
.
The sounds of sex - or so I speculate.

I met him once. Great abs.
And, I know a thing or two now: I've been watching Queer As Folk.
These sounds would, of course, be the Wrestling that precedes the Sex.

I smile from my liver.
They are bonding, connecting, warming up. How sweet is that.
I'm so wise in the ways of men.

It'll stop eventually -- and I'll get some sleep. Or, that's what I thought the first time. Now I know:

Bars close. (This part I don't hear.)
Door slams.
Bodies slam – and wrestling commences.
Some time passes.
Then, the low rumble of subwoofers indicates the fun is over and relaxation has begun. War movies, Action films.

There's no sleeping through the floorplay. The subwoofers, though, those I'm learning to sleep through. Glad he's getting something out of all those crunches.

Or so I speculate.

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by nomom

nomom

The husband left his wife, 2 year old son and 3 month old daughter, suddenly, in the middle of the night. Poof, he is just gone. Wife has to find a job, doesn't speak English very well, is struggling to pay mortgage that is in her sister's name. She puts the house on the market, asking more than the market value is at this time, trying to cover loans made to furnish home and deadbeat husband with a nice lexus.

She has nobody here to watch her children, she sends them to mexico to live with her parents so she can work and pay for the house.

She moves out and into her sister's home because she is lonely and heartbroken with out her children and that poor excuse for a man. Her brother in law maintains the house while it is vacant.

A few months go by, and the husband starts coming around again, but only when the house is empty. In and out he goes day by day, sneaking around in different cars each time.

Suddenly the brother in law catches on, and hides out. Waiting for hubby dear to return.

Husband shows up a few days later, arm in a cast. He is attempting to push a lawn mower over the lawn, while brother in law sits on the porch, beer in hand, watching. Casted hubby is trying to edge, rake, mow. The garage is cleaned out and organized by the one handed wonder. All while brother in law glares from the shade of the porch.

Days go by just like that. Casted fool being eyeballed by big badass brother in law. Then nothing. For weeks again, nothing.

Last week the family returned. Children are laughing, playing, the house is alive. The wife is home, smile on her face as children play at her feet. Her husband is home, still with a cast on his arm, but now the brother in law is gone. The yard is beautiful.

I smile every time I see the scum bag. I know what happened. I know what made him come back to his wife. I hope my brothers would do the same for me.

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by Kappy

Kappy

There are vodka bottles hidden under the bushes. Under ALL of the bushes. There's a gallon jug of vodka under every single shrub on the property.

I figure, it's deer-deterrent. I mean, when I caught him pissing on the fence, he said it was deer-deterrent. And when there was a strange smell coming from the back lot, it was deer-deterrent. And when there were suddenly little bits of tinfoil on sticks for as far as the eye could see, it was deer deterrent.

I went around back; I really wanted to know how this one worked.

"Hey, John! How's the vodka bottles gonna scare off the deer? Some sort of reflection thing, or are they going to leap onto the bottles, break their little hoofs and decide to go munch someone else's leaves?"

"Huh?"

"the vodka bottles. How do they work?"

"Oh. That's not for the deer. That's for me. It's Earthquake Emergency preparedness week. Gotta have your earthquake kits together".

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by Dian Cramer

Dian Cramer

It was one of those sweltering summer nights, windows flung open and the curtains barely touched by a breeze. The homes on the street of our little town are close so you can hardly "not know" your neighbors and sometimes you get to know them more than you would have ever imagined. Pixie, Ed and their children lived across the street from us, maybe a kid's stone throw away. There were lots of good times as our kids gathered in the different yards every summer day and played into the evening until the fire flies were all captured in jars with holes punched in the lids so none would succumb until we let them go before retiring for the night. The adults gathered, most likely, because of all the kid interaction. Kids tend to draw a crowd especially during riotous fun or a downright brawl. We gathered on the back patio or along the curbside and talked about the weather, about our jobs, about our gardens, about our parents along with all the usual town gossip. After ending the evening with the dreaded "time to come in" call, we all headed to our homes with the disgruntled children making every excuse why it was not time to come home.
As I mentioned earlier, it was one of those hot summer nights and after cooling down with baths and the ice cream routine, we put our two kids to bed. Ahhhh, time to unwind . . .sometimes the best part of the day. Needless to say, unwinding meant 15 minutes before we both fell dead asleep in our all too comfy chair and sofa. Twenty years later with the children grown and gone, the routine hasn't changed! Well, having had a decent nights sleep we greeted Pixie and Ed the next morning, Pixie having a good ole laugh as she crossed the street. Jim Cramer, she said. "I awoke last night to what I thought was the sound of an air conditioner humming away. Feeling quite annoyed, I got up out of bed and went to the window to decide which neighbor had this monstrosity keeping me awake! I listened intently as the sound echoed off the asphalt and into our window. It was you, Cramer, blissfully snoring!

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by Marti

Marti

I grew up in Maryland. Let’s say 1990. A cute Pakistani guy and his New Yorker wife lived across the street. T came to America in his 20s with nothing, but got a job pumping gas. When the station owner died, T was surprised to find that he had inherited the whole shebang.
T’s basement had a dance floor with flashing lights and a disco ball, and he liked to dance to New Edition while light hit him in the face and he snapped his fingers. He and his wife were younger and hipper than my parents, so it was surprising they became best friends. Case in point: A birthday party for my mom, and they hired her a stripper. Luckily, I had my copy of Wuthering Heights on hand. My mom: Not so lucky.
When M and T went out, I babysat their three kids. We’d turn on the stereo and the disco ball and jump up and down. I sometimes thought of K, their fourth and eldest child who had died from SIDS before I met them. He didn’t even make it to his first birthday.
For my fifteenth birthday, they gave me $50 cash in a card that said, “For the girl who has everything.” It made me sad, I didn’t feel like I had everything. I was kinda depressed but too ashamed to say anything to anyone. Piles of Cure cassettes and Sylvia Plath books were piling up on my bedroom floor—it was a bad scene.
But through M’s eyes, I learned to see myself as graceful, smart, rebellious—not awkward, nerdy, misunderstood. Maybe my dad got mad at me for dying my hair magenta, but M got me.
She and T owned a light-heartedness that I wanted too. Once when I was nervous about a school dance, T dropped me off in his cherry-red Corvette convertible. His confidence made you feel invincible.
We moved away when I was 17, and I never saw them again. Once when I was back in Maryland visiting friends, I knocked on their door. But no one answered.

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by Suzanne Clores

Suzanne Clores

I was two, my mother tells me, when she got a chain lock on her front door because of our next door neighbor. Or rather, because of our next door neighbor's mistake. My mother saw the vaccuum cleaner salesman making his way down our quiet suburban street, and knew in advance she wouldn't let him in, not because she didn't need a vaccuum cleaner, but because door-to-door salesmen were creepy.

Our next door neighbor Mrs. Whitman--friendly, confident, jewish--did not feel the same way. She opened her front door and stood in the foyer and politely listened to the salesman's shpiel before declining the sale. My mother watched through the window as the dark suited man in the hat walked out, backwards, still talking, gesturing, even as Mrs. Whitman closed the door. She noticed that even for a rejected salesman, he did not have a particularly friendly face.

When he came to our door, she pretended she wasn't home.

When the salesman visited people down the street, just four blocks away, this time with his father, the residents were equally friendly as Mrs. Whitman but were punished for it. Their bodies were found tied to chairs in the basement, the rope and the knives left beside them. They had not wanted a vaccuum cleaner either.

My mother had a chain lock installed within days.

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by Hawk

Hawk

I was 6. An old man lived next door. He had an isolated backyard filled with plants and ivy; I always played there.

It was my birthday, my seventh. He gave me a present wrapped in star covered paper. There was a bear inside. I hugged it, and wasps flew out and stung me.

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by Hawk

Hawk

I was 6. An old man lived next door. He had an isolated backyard filled with plants and ivy; I always played there. I shudder when I think about it now.

It was my birthday, my seventh. He gave me a present wrapped in star covered paper. I ran home to show it to mommy. I tore open the papr, and there was a bear inside. I hugged it, and wasps flew out and stung me.

The fucked up people aren't always the ones in alleyways, drunk, asking for coins. Sometimes, they're the ones in the nice brick house next door, with a pretty garden.

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by Pamela Vissing

Pamela Vissing

Remember when you were a kid and there was a house in your neighborhood that you avoided at all cost? It was the creepy house that never had porch lights for trick or treaters. It was the dark abyss that swallowed the baseballs that were accidentally hit in its direction. In my neighborhood, it was the house where the witch lived -- and it was right next door. We KNEW that the woman who lived there was a witch. Occasionally we'd see her face peering out behind old lace curtains, but we'd run away screaming before we were captured by her -- or her evil cats, who could turn us into toads as easily as the witch could. A man lived there, too. We figured he was a prisoner, captured, tortured, and probably, a zombie. The moms in the neighborhood, young and friendly, also avoided the witch. She did have a name, that witch, and it was Hilda -- I swear. We called her Hideous Hilda, voiced with trembling , low pitched tones. One day, we realized that we hadn't seen The Man -- that was HIS name -- for a long time. We knew Hilda killed him, and she'd kill us, too, if she ever captured us. I can't remember exactly how the real story all came out, but the bottom line is that the man WAS dead, died of natural causes, but WAS STILL IN HER HOUSE! Shades of Faukner's Emily Grierson! The coroner, I guess, came to get the body, and this made Hideous Hilda even scarier -- a long black car in her driveway, 2 men coming out with a body --- she was a killing witch! Poor Hilda. My mom told me later that the man was her husband, and he had been dead for a few weeks before anyone found out. A dead man! Living right next door! Hilda's house became scarier than ever. She "left" soon after, I think, and was sent to the local mental hospital. Her house was eventually torn down, replaced by a standard, middle class, four bedroom colonial. But every time I have to drive down that street, I see Hideous Hilda peeking out a window, broomstick in hand, black cat at her side, cackling madly. I'm still traumatized!

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by Anna Bellamy Lucas

Anna Bellamy Lucas

From the kitchen window I hear voices coming from the neighbors’ back yard. Through the gaps in the fence I see two men, heads bent, looking down at a huge snapping turtle moving through the grass. It hunkers down when the older man bends over and begins to wack its head with a small hammer. Wack. Wack, wack, wack– now the sickening sound of metal hitting turtle shell. The turtle must weigh over 50 pounds– I’ve never seen such a monster. I’ve got to DO SOMETHING– but what?
Two children wander out in the yard. I see the girl (about 12) pull her hands up around her ears. She spreads her fingers across her eyes but stands there transfixed. The boy hovers in the periphery, also watching. Then the man with the hammer disappears in the house and returns with a hand saw. He hooks the turtle’s mouth with pliers, yanks at its head and starts hacking away at the neck. After a few moments the hacker straightens up and lets go. The turtle’s head, still attached, lifts in reflex. The mouth, wide enough to swallow a man’s fist, gapes open. When the man leans over to resume his sawing, I slam the window down.
I decide to do some quick research– I can’t save the turtle but I can report what I saw to the Department of Natural Resources. To my great dismay I discover that Indiana has an open season on turtles. And the bag limit is 25.
Later I see the two men standing over a table, heads lowered, elbows slicing through the air. I know they’re digging the meat out of the shell though, thank God, one man’s back is blocking my view. Though I’ve never met him, I’m sure the older man is Judy’s husband. Judy, the animal advocate, who feeds table scraps to the neighborhood possums. All day she’s been absent from the scene. And I think I know why.

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by marc tannenhaus

marc tannenhaus

Last year when a family moved in next door, I wanted to give them a welcoming gift, sort of a house warming present. So I went out and bought a bread basket and went to my favorite bakery and got a French baguette. With a feeling of brotherly love and in anticipation of meeting my new neighbors, I rushed over to meet the new people on the block. I rang the bell and a young boy about the age of 10 answered the door.
''Hi, I am your new neighbor''. No answer.
''Are your parents home?''
''Dad, he yelled, someone's here".
''Who is it?''
''Our new neighbor''.
''What does he want?''
''I just have a little gift for your family'', I volunteered.
"He has a gift for us'', shouted the boy. I wasn't sure if the shouting was so that he could be heard or if I had come at an inoppurtune time.
''Well, snapped the father, just take it from him''. The boy grabbed the bread basket and slammed the door on my face.

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by KittenAidan

KittenAidan

We lived next door to a couple and their teen kids. For their anniversary, husband gave wife a negligee shop. Sarah had the body of young twenties, the face of fifties. Great couple. The husband once ran out with a shotgun when we came home to find someone had broken in and was still there. I used to skip school with friends to go check out Sarah's store, dragging boys through the short aisles and trying on things I could never afford to buy. We were under eighteen, but the sales girls never minded. We were a great excuse to take a break. They would lock us in and go out for a cigarette while I tried things on. I guess they figured Sarah's Neighbor's Kid would never steal from them. I, for all my shocking behaviour, was too naiive to realize it was a possibility. When Sarah & Family moved away, I was caring for a small child with special needs. I never got a chance to thank them..
My experiences in Sarah's shop brought me to realizations and later affirmations of who and what I am. My experiences with Sarah's husband - so quick to protect and defend a single mother and her child - shaped who I would become. My "star crossed lovers" crush on their long-haired rocker son and heartbreak on seeing he had a girlfriend and no interest in the neighbor kid three years younger than him taught me the bitter sting of disappointment and the stunning realization that life continues.
I think about them occasionally, but for the most part they are as forgotten for me as I am for them. And yet, their mark is on me, like the mark of every other person whose lives and lines have crossed with mine.

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by Sarah smith

Sarah smith

I was sitting out side with several of my girlfriends watching my daughters play in the yard when my male neighbor, who wears a mullet, you know, business in the front and party in the back hair cut, short, cut off jean shorts and no shirt comes out side. He is talking on the telephone and walks to the mailbox. He appears to be having a very interesting comical conversation when his phone starts ringing!!!! He stopped dead in his tracks, looked at us and said "Hold on man. I have another call." and then walked very quickly back in the house! We laughed so hard! Seriously, who pretends to talk on the phone (he was at least 35 years old) and if you're going to fake being on the phone at least turn it on so the dang thing doesn't ring!!!!

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by AllieSummner

AllieSummner

I was nine, when my dad came home one night with the keys to a trailer on six acres of land. It was a good thirty minutes on out skirts of Belfair, nothing but woods and water for miles. We didn't even have electricity. The whole trailer ran on a generator in the back yard. The only thing within miles was the neighbor on the other side of the lake. He was a tall man, I remember his hairy hands most, probably because they were eye level with me, and he always wore this fake ruby ring. I only saw him twice. My brother and I spent the summer exploring our many acres, until we found a trailer just like ours, still completely full. Everything everyone who lived there had loved, just strewn about. The roof had caved in from snow or rain, and we did not think too much of it. it became a place to explore. Then we found another one, their where five in total. The flowers bloomed out of season around the trailers, and I heard my mother say it was because of bodies buried in the earth. Then came the leaches, our fresh water lake became horribly infested with leaches, we couldn’t even go in the water. I still have a scar on my toe from one of them. Soon people stopped coming out to see us; they would end up with flat tires, and broken headlights. Then came the nights the generator would cut out, and someone would come pound on the trailer walls. My father left for a few days and it got worse, we woke up to dead deer’s on the roof of our trailer, the dogs were poisoned. He put an empty car seat down by the lake in the middle of the night, with a tape player of a screaming baby tucked inside. The last night, the worst night, he put the dead body of a kitten under the fridge and while we searched for the meowing of an injured baby we found the body, he then threw a kitten head through the window. It was still warm. The man was a monster but we survived, although if we had stayed any longer I’m not sure we would have. We left everything behind, when we went back to get it, half the trailer was burned to

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by Joana

Joana

Living in a students residence. Got the room right next to his. Falled in love immediately. Heard you having sex in the room above mine. Still with the crush. Finally broke up with her. You started to say how much I smelled well, I much I looked good with glasses. Even went to your house and slept there. I knew it was my chance, but I was too afraid to take it. You gave up and found an easier girl, I told you my feelings. You got laid with her, dumped her, and waited for me to go after you. Sorry buddy, too late for that. My love was big, my proud bigger. Back to my home country now, seeing you online, seeing your pictures, wondering if you still remember me. Never regreted anything though...

What's Your Next-Door Neighbor Story? by niesgirl

niesgirl

Wow...I never thought that there'd be a forum for me to vent about my real-life neighbor.

My sweaty and hirsute, next door neighbor lives in a ramshackle, falling-down house. I hear that only one room of his abode is habitable. Every night, he comes home from work, carrying a 12-pack of Keystone Ice beer and a styrofoam container of fried take-out food and he sits on his porch - which faces into our LIVING ROOM - and proceeds to eat, drink and smoke for hours. He burps, he coughs from the chain smoking, and then, the icing on the cake, he waddles down from his porch and PEES, yes, PEES upon the side of his house...nightly, in full view of our windows.

As a fun side note, he also leaves his condiments outside on a little table. Food poisoning, anyone? We have seen him take bites of his food and then spray the bottled butter directly into his mouth!!!

His neighbor on his other side, gets so disgusted with the state of his lawn and house that he has often times cleaned up this guy's mess!

My friends driving by on Main Street often email me and say, "Saw your neighbor on the porch last night..." Yeah, wow, that IS surprising!

Oh, and the neighbor on the other side of me, is my ex-husband. It doesn't get any better than this!