A few nights ago, I went out to put out the trash, and I ran into the probably “in for homicide” rather than “in homicide” neighbor out front where he was talking to someone in a strange car. (See post about my hard-of-hearing mother and what had to be her miscontruing a conversation with this guy).
“HI Karin!” I heard from the dark.
“Uh, hi…” I responded with reluctance, a roll of my eyes and a silent prayer of thanks that Daniel was inside.
“How’s your little boy Daniel?” Oh. No. He. Did. Not.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Really creepy-dude? I know you’re not currently listed on the Megan’s Law registry, cause I check it twice a week just for you, but just the sound of my child’s name on your lips is enough to make me want to call a cop. I bite my tongue so as not to ask, “What is your DSM IV code, pal? Or how many of those little numbers are there after your name?”
“Fine.” I figure the shorter the better.
“And how’s your kitty?” he responds, like we’re frigging friends who talk about pets?
WTF? How’s my cat? Obnoxious. Surly. Demanding. Disdainful. Sleepy. Generally speaking, totally and unfortunately cat-like. I cannot remember the last time anyone I am close to, or even know beyond handing cash to at the WAWA, has asked me about my CAT.
“He’s awful. I’m getting him declawed.” My bad, folks, my bad. I should have kept on walking.
“WHAT? NO! You can’t do that. You’ll take away his cathood.” The guy is shrieking. The lights in the upstairs condo go on. I am all “really?” with the shoulders and the hips and the eyes.
I had started walking back to my door, but I stopped then, and turned.
“His what?” (I know I heard this wrong. I’d had a couple glasses of wine. But is cathood even a word?)
“His cathood. The thing that makes him a cat. You can’t have him declawed. You’ll take away hisessence.”
Hunh. And here I had been thinking that what made him a cat was like feline DNA, and fur and a tail and a desire to sleep all day and then awaken with a bad attitude and demands for attention followed by noisily playing and knocking crap over all night.
“Yeah, the claws are going. He’s destroying my furniture, drapes and rugs. He’ll have to learn how to be a cat with the talons.” I head back to my door. This one is soooo not up for discussion.
“Noooo.” The yelling erupts from the guy who owns NOT ONE SHIRT WITH SLEEVES. Even the sweatshirts and t-shirts have had the sleeves cut off. OMG. I went to private school to live this life?
“Let him come to live with me. Give him to me. I’ll take him. He can scratch everything in my house and destroy it all and live to his full cat potential. You’ll be denying that. I’ve had cats since the 1950s and…” he’s shouting at me.
I could talk about Finn’s full cat potential, which I am almost sure he reached when he supposedly joined the burglary ring that stole my jewelry with Lee Ann Sharkey and Kathy the Landlord at the last place we lived (see my previous Notes, which I think are public if you’re not up to speed). Or how I don’t think he really has all that much potential – cat or otherwise – given his predilection for obsessively chasing his own tail and leaping around at imaginary bugs.
But I was too busy to do that because I was trying to figure out what furniture to move in front of my door because he completely creeped me out. AGAIN.
And no, this is not fiction. It fucking happened. Word for word. Including cathood and full cat potential.
Fast forward to Saturday, where, when Daniel ran outside to greet his friend Cameron who’d arrived for a visit, the guy grabbed him by the shoulders until some guy who seemed sentient and aware of both the law and the protective homicidal urges of mothers (like me and Tanika) and was clearly employed by corrections or social services, told the guy to unhand my child and hold onto his dog (which he keeps on a leash he NEVER holds, so the mean English Springer Spaniel runs amok and it’s kind of a nasty spaniel IYKWIM). Displaying no interest in the 3 Big Macs, bananas and grapes delivered by the nameless, faceless (probably) social worker with a driver’s license and vehicle (unlike the “homicide” neighbor who seems to have neither mode of transportation nor license to drive such), he cornered Tanika at her Explorer and told her she was pretty. While she is…can we all say”CREEPY” together?
Today, I watched him have a fight in the parking lot with the food delivery woman – she was in the car with the window open, he was arguing with her, flailing his arms, the dog was running around free with its leash dragging behind it…I was pulling the sofa in front of the door….
This bodes so freaking well…and I live in a high-rent area now. “In for homicide for 30 years” guy must have some wealthy relatives cause this is so not Section 8 or “group home for the criminally insane” territory. I am paying big bucks to have HIM not live HERE.
I’ve been alerted to be on the lookout for duck tape, rope, shovels, lime, etc. But seriously? After the Haddonfield crackhead neighbor who, quite literally, vanished into Camden and left her 8 yo and her 5 month old home alone because all her social services were not enough to keep her from the siren song of Camden Crack, and the joy of Joy double-fisting beers at 8AM while her two year-old wandered out near the pool, pond and creek and her husband made out with her father’s assistant at Mistwood, I need Mr. Crazy McCuckoopants Homicide dude in the condo next door?
Maybe it’s time for a real visit (not a stalker op to follow him home) to Officer Spirito. In the meantime, PA Megan’s List is now on my Firefox toolbar. And if I suddenly vanish, he’s in the condo behind me, and you can call the T/E police here in PA.
I’m gonna try to snap a photo of him and post it…so you’ll all know who to tell Officer Spirito to look for in case he gets to me before I get to the police to get to him.