Fu*k!ng George
By S.E. Schaible
In the summer of 1995 with an FHA loan in hand, I purchased one of the last $99,000.00 homes in Denver, Colorado. It was a classic red brick 1920s bungalow on Tennyson Street, situated a few blocks from Sloan’s Lake. I got a good vibe from the neighborhood – beyond affordability, it was hip and old school. Many of the neighbors were long-time residents, some living in homes in which they'd grown up and later inherited or purchased from their parents. Two doors down, my neighbor George and his wife lived in a blonde brick home, which appeared to be more of a late 1940s vintage compared to mine. I recall hearing the story of him purchasing the home soon after returning from the Korean War. He was a decent enough neighbor for the 23 months I lived there, at least I initially thought so. George always sported a reminder of his service atop his regularly barbered head: a blue trucker cap with the number of his Navy ship emblazoned on the crown. His hat was as constant as the Clubman aftershave he splashed on each day, and the walrus-like moustache that he must have instructed the barber never to touch-up, wiry black and silver whiskers protruding from the wooly mass above his lip.
George was a curmudgeon of the highest order, the Wilford Brimley character in the screenplay of my block, but for all his occasional bluster he seemed harmless. Nearby was a family services organization that spanned most of a square city block, completing construction of a new building and parking lot in the months following my moving in. Here's the difference between George and me: He would busy himself haranguing any poor soul who might park for 30 minutes on the street near his home, where his white 1982 Crown Victoria got washed and Turtle Waxed most Saturday mornings. When he drove his boat to church, George would place a couple of mismatched orange traffic cones at the end of his driveway to do the barking in absentia, warning any deranged fool against parking with their bumper an inch into his personal curb cut. He would harass anyone who parked on the block, even my friends or teammates who might come by my place for dinner or to have a few beers following a soccer game. Because I respected his service and his station as an elder, I never got into it with him, always holding my tongue. If I happened to be on my porch and spotted him shuffling his bad hip up the driveway to confront a friend parking on the street in front of my own home, I would simply interject, "They're with me, George. Easy does it." He’d give a disappointed wave and turn away, thwarted by my preemptive strike. This was in fact a courtesy on my part, because the kind of people I hang out with wouldn’t think twice about calling bullshit on anyone of any age who tried to suggest that they cannot park where they clearly have every legal right to do so. George wouldn’t last a minute with a guy like my friend Ben Johnson, who would likely respond to any such parking inquest with a demented crescendo of “Get off my lawn!” It would have been like Invasion of the Body Snatchers; Poor guy wouldn’t have known what hit him.
While George played his mildly annoying brand of small ball, and while I may have convinced myself that he’d somehow earned it as a veteran of the Forgotten War, I took notice of a genuine issue affecting several homes adjacent to the recently completed facility across the street. The light towers erected in the new parking lot were showering our homes with so much light pollution that the city inspector who finally tested the lumens (after repeated requests) confirmed that the amount of light flooding our respective properties was double what code allowed. When I’d get up to use the bathroom late at night the blaze coming through my windows was like someone left the lights on. It hadn’t been this way when I purchased the place. I believe any former neighbor of mine would tell you that, on balance, I was a good one. I kept my porch nice, mowed the lawn every week, kept an eye on things and advocated for what’s right. In this case I spearheaded meetings to discuss our displeasure with being lit up like Mile High Stadium on Monday Night Football. The staff explained that while they empathized with the situation, there was no simple solution to reduce the amount and angle of light due to the specific type of lights that were installed. They were somehow not dimmable. When I reminded them that the city found them in violation of residential guidelines, they tried to claim that the cost to replace the lights was prohibitive – as if that was an answer anyone would accept. I even suggested cutting the power on the perimeter lights and leaving the interior ones alone, but that was never seriously considered. Each time the community relations person repeated their tired excuse, I kept my cool. But I know a corporate blow-off when I smell one. Following months of lip service, on a crisp fall morning at 3:00am, several shots from an air rifle took out the lights on the outer edge. A variation on Occam’s Razor, the simplest solution was the right one.
In 1997 I put my bungalow on the market, planning to move in with my future ex-wife. The Highlands neighborhood, as it is known, had tipped from sleepy afterthought where your grandparents lived to one of the hottest Zip codes in the city. In the months since I’d moved in, Chipotle opened a location down the street – one of the first five stores in the country – a harbinger of real estate upside if ever there was one. I hadn’t made any improvements to the place, and my broker thought I could expect to sell it for $175,000.00 and she was correct; I received a full price offer the day it went on the market. A week later the inspection was scheduled. While waiting to receive word that the house was clear, my broker called to inform me that the buyer had cancelled the contract. Curiously, no reason was provided. What began as a highly motivated buyer – they had requested an expedited closing schedule – suddenly ghosted out of the deal via fax. I implored my broker to call the other realtor and inquire what happened. It just didn't make sense, and no inspection concerns were cited. The whole thing seemed…fishy. She was not comfortable calling back, but I insisted she try. An hour later she called. I was still at the Pub on Pearl with Ben, who was visiting from Orange County, and I was still in a reasonably good mood.
"She wouldn't go into detail, and she's as upset as we are. Apparently, some prickly neighbor accosted the buyer and told him there was a serious problem with people from the charity parking on the block," she said. Fucking George. I was livid. I paid for lunch, drove home, walked up his steps and knocked and rang the doorbell. George clearly wasn't a poker player, because he opened the screen door already mumbling, "I didn't say nothing to anybody."
"Really George? Funny, it seems like you were expecting me. Remember I told you yesterday that I was under contract and the inspection was today? I asked you to please not say anything when the van or truck pulled up, the way you normally do. How about we cut the bullshit, and you tell me what was said." My anger was palpable as he stepped onto the landing.
"Well, when the guy with the truck loaded his ladder and left, I might have mentioned to the other guy still walking around the house that those annoying people from the charity park over here."
“Okay, well it sounds like you said more than that. It was the buyer you were speaking with, and you said enough to scare him off. He canceled the damn contract!” I was shaking as the full extent of his actions hit me like a line drive baseball to my chest. I was teetering on a meltdown. “You just cost me $75,000, George. This so-called parking situation exists solely in your imagination,” I said, a tear falling from my cheek. “Here's the deal. You are not to say one word to anyone you see parking on the block until after you see me pulling away in a U-Haul. Cease and desist with this nonsense." I turned and stormed down the stairs, before saying anything I might regret.
I hated speaking those words to a veteran in his late 60s, but I’ve known plenty of veterans and none of them acted like recalcitrant toddlers. I knew there would be another buyer soon enough, but I was stunned by this completely avoidable betrayal. This parking fantasy was a non-issue; a molehill made into Mt. Evans by a manchild with nothing better to do but invent reasons to act pissed off. Fucking George was an OG Karen.
Just because someone once wore the uniform doesn't mean they can’t be an asshole, a bigot, or a motormouth. These things are not mutually exclusive. The way I see it, he got off easily with just a scolding. Ben handed me a beer as I walked into the house. I took a long drink and allowed myself to consider for the moment whether I would take any other action. On the drive from the pub I had thought of duct taping an M-80 onto a round landscaping stone and tossing it from my backyard into his above ground pool while George was at church. M-80 fuses burn underwater and there would be no evidence to speak of. The force generated would be magnified by the water, transmitting a shockwave more efficiently than open air. It would be declared a catastrophic structural failure by the insurance company – perhaps caused by a freak lightning strike. 9,000 gallons of chlorinated water would be released instantly, a tsunami of sod, lawn furniture, garden gnomes and potted plants cascading down the staircase into the driveway and down the block. But that would only have become actionable if the markets suddenly tanked, interest rates spiked, and the housing market crashed in the coming days. I received another full price offer 72 hours later, and my neighbor seemed to abide my last message. Like his time overseas, George dodged a bullet, and I moved into a new home without incident later that summer. Visualizing retribution can be just as hedonically satisfying as actually going through with it, just as journaling or drafting emails you’ll never send can improve well-being and reduce stress.