That makes me sad.
It’s not because Kyle and Alicia (not their real names) are great neighbors, fun to be around, always looking out for you, etc. Just about the only time we see them is when they’re arguing. They live in a tiny house, which as Thoreau would tell you, is too small for discourse, too small to let ideas bounce around and grow. In their case, however, the house is too small for arguments – too small for flinging verbiage about. Maybe other things as well. Because of that, most of their fights are carried out on the front lawn, which happens to be about a foot and a half from our bedroom window.
They argue about everything. They argue about nothing. To be fair, she seems to have the heavy end of the load. He’s often an ass, often irrational, often unstable. Mostly, she’s sometimes fed up. Fucking fed up, I believe is the technical term. I wish her the best. I wish him detox and therapy, followed by the best.
We have gotten lots of little stories from their travails. My favorite story is about Gus, their dog.
I’m a light sleeper, so it doesn’t take much to wake me at 3am.
The night goes from quiet to rife with wall-muffled yells. Kyle bursts out their front door. The door stays open, but the storm door closes. I know this because I can hear muted tv sounds from inside, and because he occasionally bangs on the storm door for dramatic effect during the upcoming monologue.
He’s angry – about something – and pretty damn intoxicated.
He rants for a while, with the door still open – I can hear it creaking back and forth – about how she doesn’t give a shit about him, she’s never given a shit about him, how she’s poisoning all their friends against him, how they are turning away from him, and how there’s nobody he can trust any more. Except Gus. He decides that Gus is the one anchor in his life, the one soul that cares about him, that will stick with him through thick and thin, who will provide him with warmth and companionship, with a steady and reliable presence. Really – he goes on like this easily for several minutes, though not as articulately as I’ve just presented it. Mostly, it’s a lot of repetition about how Gus loves him and how he can’t count on anyone but Gus. He slips in a few “You’re my buddy, ain’t you, Gus? You and me buds! We don’t need her.”
He realizes that he’s perfectly summarized in oral form where their relationships stand – his and hers, his and their friends, his and Gus’, and that the time has come for a grand exit.
He pops the storm door open, and as it’s shuddering on its frame, calls out “Come on, Gus – come on, buddy, come with me, come on buddy …”
Gus runs out of the house onto the front porch.
“Hey, buddy, yeah, you love me, don’t you? Fuck them, it’s you and me buddy.”
Gus runs off the front porch and into the yard.
“I love ya, Gus, let’s get outta ~”
Gus runs out of the front yard, heading east down the sidewalk at what sounds like a pretty good clip. His nails go clackity-clack in the dry night air.
“ ~ here … heyGus ….” That last bit comes out as one word, as if "hey" and "Gus" were two guys who got distracted by what was going on and crashed into each other.
He’s silent for a moment. The world is silent. So silent we could hear Gus’ nails going down the sidewalk … if Gus weren’t already so damn far away from all the insanity.
“GUUUUuuuusssss …!”
“GUUUUuuuusssss …?”
“… hey …” That part was sad. I may be a horrible person, but everything up to that reedy, aspirated “… hey …” is great comic theater, worthy of Jackie Gleason and the Honeymooners.
But that “… hey …” yeah, that’s rough. When your life is so messed up that the creature who loves you the most books the next flight on the Concorde right in front of you, it’s time to review some hard options.
I am, in fact, a horrible person, because everything that comes after is dark and sad and lyrically comical. My wife sleeps through everything, not because I don’t want to disturb her, but because I’m afraid of breaking the spell. I lay in our bed and listen to his opera draw to a close.
“GUUUUUUUUUUUUuuuuu-uuu-uuu-uuuu-uuuuuussssssss … come baaaaa-aaaa-aaaa-aaaack …..
“GUUUuuu-uuuu-uuuu-uuuussss …” he wails into the dark, hoping for a wind that would connect him and Gus.
“Kyle …?” She has to be at the door to sound so clear to me, but she’s on the inward side, still keeping a membrane between them. She can’t muster warmer words, but now and then, she lets go a softly hopeful “Kyle …?”
For easily five minutes, he drains himself, seated on the porch at that point, calling out steadily but diminishingly, “GUuuuuuu-uuuuu-uuuuuuuuuuuuuussssss …. come back, Gus …..”
Then like any figure in a tragedy, when the story’s not yet over, he drives off, while Alicia calls a couple of friends nearby to let them know that Kyle is out in search of Gus.
Kyle comes back and mutters something, and he and Alicia stand in the yard not saying much. A friend drives up in a few minutes. Said friend isn’t privy to all the drama of the evening yet, and is simply delighted to have triumphed. He has Gus.
He pops the back car door open and Gus jumps out.
Kyle calls out “Come on, Gus!”
And Gus takes off down the street.
It gets fuzzier at this point. He’s evidently drained and the friend is nonplussed. There’s a muttered conversation, which I assume is Kyle bringing the friend up to speed. Alicia evidently is in the house now, door closed.
The friend leaves.
Kyle opens his car door, then closes it. He opens it again … then closes it. He does this a few more times over a span of minutes. I don’t know if he’s just standing there or if he’s getting in and out. All I hear is the door.
The opera is done; the house lights come up; my lights go out. I’m back asleep. They’re done and I’m done.
We never see Gus again.
I like to imagine him on a sandy beach somewhere, nibbling kibble and drinking water from a crystal toilet.
Godspeed, Gus.
Oh yeah – and Godspeed Kyle and Alicia, while we’re at it.
The new neighbors might be interesting. Maybe they’re book lovers with a passion for good food and beverage. That would be cool. Maybe they’re Albanian fire dancers playing host to a company of itinerant strippers, all of them dedicated to outdoor performance art.
One can only hope.
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